| | 1 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Count Julian, or, The last days of the Goth  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “It is in the mouths of many that Julian left his daughter, Cava, at the court of
king Roderick, as he well knew the surpassing beauty of her charms, and as well
the fierce passion of the king for such loveliness as hers. That he hath not erred
in his expectations, is no less the rumor of the court. Cava, it is said, hath been
distinguished by the king's eye; and the bruit is, that, though she hath lost in virtue,
yet will the gain of Julian in high station be proportionate to her loss and great
beyond his desire. Yet, though this be the speech of many who have integrity and
speak not often idly, there are some who remember of the noble blood and proper
pride of the Julian family, who, though they cannot gainsay the tidings of king
Roderick's favor and of the frailty of the lady Cava, are yet unwilling to yield faith
so readily to that which reports the willing pliance of Julian to his own dishonor.
One of these, in his sorrow and his doubt, hath written these presents. He asks
not for reply, since the deeds of the father, hereafter to be shown, will testify how
far he hath been a party to the ruin of his child.” “Egiza—my lord, that should have been, had our hopes been blessed—farewell,
farewell for ever. Hold me as one dead to thee, even if I be not dead to life. There
is an impassable gulf between us. I cannot love thee, last I should debase thee
by affections which can never more be hallowed. I cannot keep thy love, since such
cannot belong or be given to those who are degraded. I cannot look upon thee, even
if I live, since I feel my shame, and should dread to meet with favor in thy eyes.
Yet, for the love which thou didst bear me, give me thy pity now; let thy prayers
go up for one who has not so much sinned as suffered sin—whose weakness of body,
not whose willingness of mind, has given her up—a most unhappy woman—to the
brutal rage of a tyrant. I can speak no more. My cheeks, which have been cold
and pale, like the unfeeling marble, now burn me as I write thee. I dare not say
what I have suffered—thou wilt scarce dare to conceive it. Yet, think only that I
I am lost to thee, to hope, to life, to myself, for ever, for ever, and thou wilt know
cannot tell thee. Once more, my lord—my noble lord—once more I implore thy
pity and thy prayers for the wretched | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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