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[For The Sunny South.]
LOVE A.\D AI THIV.
BY E. S. W.
Love, the summer now is fading—
Long ago the harvest passed:
Soon the wing of brooding autumn
On the earth its gloom will cast.
Soon the leaves now green above us
Will be changed to sombre hue,
And the flowers now blooming near us
In the earth will hide from view.
Will your love fade with the flowers?
Or will autumn find you true?
Can love only live in summer,
Nourished by the sun and dew?
Think of all you fondly promised
When the sky was bright above—
When my cheek and eyes were glowing
With the light of youth and love.
When my life grows pale and sombre
With the shades of time and care,
Will your love fade like my roses
You are wont to call so fair ?
[Written for The Sunny South.]
EDITHA;
—oe,—
The Woman Fiend.
BY AW OI.D CONTRIBUTOR.
CHAPTER XL
In the meantime, how had Paulo succeeded
in his mission? He had been unable to find
the friend of Theodoric, the Englishman, Percy
Teynham, disguised as the peasant. The clue
was too vague. Besides, Percy Teynham had
other aliases, and strolled through city and
country now with a violin and a tattered cloak,
as an itinerant musician and mendicant. He
was perfecting his plans; he was visiting the
suburbs and surrounding country; he was send
ing his secret messengers into the neighboring
provinces. The leaders of the revolt had their
place of rendezvous in the under-ground hall
or cellar of a ruined palace. Great caution was
used ; nevertheless, suspicion was excited.
Nothing definite was known, or even suspected;
but the spies of the Duchess had their eyes
upon Percy, and had received orders to assas
sinate him secretly whenever it could he safely
done.
One night, as he was coming from a meeting
at the ruined palace, his steps were dogged by
two men with stilettoes concealed beneath their
filthy cloaks. They slipped past him in the
darkness, and waylaid him at the entrance of
an obscure alley. Swiftly springing out upon
him as they were passing, one caught him by
the throat to stifle his cries, while the other
attempted to stab him in the breast. But Percy
Teynham was active as well as strong. He jerked
his throat from the clutch of the villain for an
instant, and gave the alarm in a ringing cry for
help. Then he grappled with his assailants,
and struggled desperately for life. But the odds
were against him, and he was on the point of
being overpowered when help came to him in
the shape of an agile youth, who sprung eagerly
into the midst of the encounter, with a drawn
dagger in his hand, and dealt rapid and dexter
ous thrusts at the two assassins, wounding one
of them in the neck and another in the shoul
der. Seeing they were about to get the worst of
the affray, the villains ran off, leaving Percy and
his gallant young deliverer together.
“Are you hurt?” asked Paulo, for it was he
who had come to the assistance of the English
man.
“Nothing to speak of—a slight flesh-wound
in the arm. But they would have murdered me,
without doubt, but for your brave assistance.
Thanks, gallant youth; I owe my life to those
timely strokes of your good blade. Is there any
way I can serve you, to show my gratitude ?”
“You owe me no gratitude for an act of com
mon humanity, and as far as a service, there is
but one thing I desire, and that I have despaired
of finding. It is not probable you could help
me in this, and yet your tongue is English, and
he I seek is an Englishman. ”
“What is his name?” asked the pretended
musical mendicant.
“Percy Teynham.”
The other gave a start, but prudence warned
him to be cautious.
“What would you with Percy Teynham ?” he
asked.
“I have a message for him from his friend
Theodoric, the artist, at Tivoli. He is in prison;
he has been tortured on the rack; he is starving
to death.”
“ Merciful Father ! Adrielo in prison, tortured,
starving ! I must go to him at once—this very
night.”
“Are you Percy Teynham?”
“I am. I thank you for this message more
for than saving my life, brave boy. Now, help me
to carry assistance to my friend. I must have a.
few of my most trusty adherents, and we must
leave the city one by one at different points, to
avoid suspicion. I must go at once and sum
mon them. We were to have opened the ball
here in two days, with the cry of ‘Justice and
Adrielo.’ We will open it in Tivoli, and gather
strength from the in-flocking people as we
march upon the palace of the Archduke.”
“I do not understand you,” exclaimed Paulo.
“Come in; I will explain to you as we go.
No time must be lost.”
By day-break next morning a small party of
well-armed and well-mounted men met together,
as agreed upon, in a secret spot outside the city
walls, and proceeded rapidly to Tivoli. At the
head rode the tall, lithe, soldierly figure of Lord
Percy Teynham, and at his side the slender,
graceful form of the youthful Paulo.
When they were scarcely ten miles from the
city, they were met by a horseman whose steed
was covered with foam, and who. though richly
dressed, rode bare-headed, and in a wild, dis
ordered manner. Paulo recognized him as Count
Civitelli. and called to him to halt and tell him
of Theodoric and Amalia.
In rapid, excited utterances the Count told
his story, relating the Duke’s marriage with
Editha, and the almost dying condition of The
odoric.
“Editha Beaumont in Tivoli ? Adrielo in the
power of that woman fiend. Haste, haste, my
friends, to the rescue ! Mercy and pity are un
known to Editha Beaumont. Revenge and am
bition will both prompt her to feed her fiendish
cruelty on the life-blood of Adrielo, the lawful
Archduke of Sforza.
CHAPTER XII.
Anselm was an expert at deception, and pos
sessed unlimited assurance. He told his story
so well, that the Duke did not once suspect it to
be false. He said that when he entered the art
ist's cell he had found the Count bleeding from
many wounds and breathing his last. He had
taken the body away, and thrown it into the river.
The Duke commended him for so doing, and, des
titute of shame, immediately dispatched a guard
of honor to the castle for the Countess. She,
even more shameless and dishonorable than him
self, immediately responded to his invitation.
The Duke received her most cordially, called
for the vile minister who disgraced the garb he
wore by his unholy life, and regardless of the
blood of the husband that, so far as they were
concerned, did really lie between them, they
were united in an unholy mockery of marri
age. The Duke placed the heavy coronet of the
Duchess, his late pure and lovely wife, npon the
brow of the remorseless and guilty woman. For
a few short hours she exulted in the possession of
the bauble that sue had risked so much to gain,
and then, to her astonishment, she found its
weight bearing uncomfortably on her brow.
She had thought she could bear any weight
upon her head, if it were only in the form of a
crown ! As night came on she grew tired of the
sickening folly and disgusting adulation of the
Duke, and already longed for some other amuse
ment.
“I bear this crown upon my head,” she said
to the Duke, “but I have exercised no power
yet. Do you know that I am ambitious, my
lord? I love power, oh ! so dearly !”
“Ah ! I suspected that, my goddess of beauty,”
said the Duke; “and be sure no wish of yours
shall remain ungratifled. You wish to exercise
the power that pertains to that crown ? You shall
do so this very night. But while I think of it,
let me tell you that the coronet on your head
possesses a power you little dream of. Let me
have it a moment. See here. Suppose you let
some one examine it—a mortal enemy, we will
I say, or one who stands in your way; you point
out beauties to him; you turn it in his hands
until you have it thus (move your hand, my
angel); you touch this spring. Ah! you .start.
If you had kept your hand where you had it,
this tiny blade, tipped with poison, would have
sprung into your arm as quick as thought! By
this time you would have been dead ! Are you
afraid of it now, my beautiful Duchess?”
No, she was not; but he would have been could
he have known the wicked satisfaction that glowed
within her heart as she recognized in this an easy
way to rid herself of this encumbrance to her
crown whenever he became tiresome.
She calmly settled the coronet on her head
again; she could not bear to part with this em
blem of power—nay,- this power, as it was now
proven to be.
“You have promised that I shall exercise my
power to-night; in what way?” she asked.
“To its utmost extent!” he replied. “You |
shall decide the fate of a prisoner now in his I
cell; you shall say whether he shall live or not. !
He will tell me nothing of himself; there is a
mystery surrounding him which I cannot pene- ;
trate.”
“Let me see him,” said Editha. “What is
his name ?”
“He is called Theodoric, the artist,” replied
the Duke; then, turning to a young page who at
that moment entered the room, he ordered him
to call Anselm.
“Lead the way to the cell of Theodoric; mad-
ame the Duchess wishes to see him,” said the
Duke, when Anselm had come.
‘ ‘ I fear me this visit bodes no good to the young
man,” thought Anselm as he led the way silently,
after having first procured a light.
“Why, this is a terrible place,” said Editha,
gathering her silken robes around her with her ;
heavily-jeweled fingers.
“True, we don’t pick out the pleasantest apart
ments for our prisoners,” laughed the Duke.
Anselm threw open the door, and the Duke
entered the cell, while Editha lingered near the
door.
“Well, sir artist, are you alive yet?” asked the
Duke, rudely.
There was no answer from Theodoric, who lay
upon the miserable bed of leaves at the far end
of the dungeon.
“Sulky, eh? Give him a kick, Anselm, and
rouse him up,” said the Duke, harshly.
“Perhaps he’s dead, my lord,” said Anselm,
timidly.
“No !” said a low, sepulchral voice; “I am not
dead; but even if I were, my name still lives,
and you shall not go unpunished !’*
Editha started as the voice reached her ear,—
changed, but still recognizable. She leaned for
ward ; the light fell upon the prisoner’s face, re
vealing the pale, wasted features of her once ad
mirer, Adrielo, the young friend of Percy Teyn
ham, and (more than all) heir to a dukedom, as
she knew him to be.
She opened the door and called the Duke.
“I have found out who he is, my lord.” she
whispered. “If he escapes your hands, your
life is not worth an hour's purchase ! He must
die ! He is a most dangerous person !”
“ Who, then, is he?” asked the Duke, some
what alarmed.
“I will tell you that afterward. But he must
die!”
“As you say. my lovely wife,” answered the
Duke carelessly. “Shall I tell Anselm to kill
him ?”
“No; have you a torture-chamber?”
“Ask Theodoric; he can tell you!” laughed
the Duke.
“ Have him taken there, then !’’
“Anselm,” ordered the Duke. “have this fel
low taken to the torture-chamber!”
“He has a wife?” asked Editha.
“ Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“ Here—in the palace.”
“Have her also taken to the torture-chamber !”
said Editha. firmly.
“My love, it is nearly midnight,” objected
the Dnke; “ had you not better retire ?”
“No: I am not tired!” answered Editha im
patiently.
“What do you want with his wife?”asked the
Duke.
“You promised that I should have my will
this night, ” replied Editha.
“Yes—over him.”
“But not over her,’’interrupted Editha. “Then
listen to me ! This young artist is Adrielo, the
true Archduke Sforza—his wife is the Archduch
ess ! Let either of them escape, and what is
your life worth ?”
“ Are-you certain of this ?” gasped the Duke.
“ I am sure of it! I knew him in England.
I have seen all his papers, jewels, signet-ring—
PVPTvfliinnr * W'lion i’nn lnff mo olono urifVi liim
everything! When you left me alone with him
just now, I recognized him. He tried to bribe
me to assist him to escape. He uttered threats
of vengeance against you, not knowing that you
were my dearly-loved lord. Shall he live ?—
shall she?”
“No !” said the Duke, in an agony of terror.
“If they live, we are lost! Anselm, see that
Amalia is also borne to the torture-chamber!
Let there be three attendants beside yourself.
Hasten!”
CHAPTER XIII.
Editha retired to her chamber, attired herself
magnificently, clasped wide golden bands on
her fair arms, twisted strings of pearls around
her neck, and then, leaning on the Duke’s arm,
descended all those many steps, trod all the
long, damp passages, and stood at last in the
gloomy chamber of pain and death. Theodoric
was already there, waiting for the terrible death
he expected to he dealt out to him.
“Hasten!” said he, as she entered.
“Oh, my lord !” exclaimed Editha, mockingly,
“ do you suppose that we intend to stretch yovr
limbs upon the rack? Oh! no; we only want
you to witness the struggles of another. Ah !
here she is!”
At this instant, the door was opened and the
half-fainting Amalia led in. Her eyes fell upon
Theodoric as he was held upon a seat by two
guards. Not that they were guarding him—oh !
no—but he would have fallen had they not held
him up. The attendants of Amalia held her but
lightly, and with a sudden spring she reached
her husband’s side. She clasped him in her
arms; fora moment her tears and kisses were ,
showered upon his pallid brow, then they were 1
rudely separated.
“ Enough !” said Editha. sternly. “ Put some
irons in the fire. Did you bring the brazier as
I ordered ?”
“Yes, my lady, it is here,” answered one of
the men, going to the door and bringing in a
small furnace oLrad-hot coals.
“Put some irons in it! I will blast that fair
beauty of hers that has won the artist’s eye, and
then put her on the rack ! How do you like
that, sir artist?” asked Editha, with a sneer.
Not her ! not her !” moaned Theodoric. “Do
cheeks were hollow, his eyes bright with a con
suming fever. He gazed wildly upon Percy a
moment, then, staggering blindly forward, fell
upon the bosom of his true friend, but both sup
ported by their one-time enemy, the Count of
Civitelli.
“Percy, I am starving!” murmured Adrielo,
looking with his old child-like faith into his
friend’s eyes.
While lie said this, Editha rose to her feet and
stood like a lioness at bay. Her eyes fell upon
Paulc. She guessed rightly who he was, and ad
vanced toward him. He had defeated her tri
umph—on him her vengeance should yet fall!
She took the coronet from her head and* held it
out to him.
“ Here,” said she; “I hoped to wear this. I
have played a desperate game and lost. I ac
knowledge my defeat. I cannot be a Duchess,
as my husband, yonder Count, is alive. This
coronet was your mother’s; take it.”
“No!” said Paulo; “it lias been polluted by
your touch!”
He dashed it back with his hand. It fell vio
lently on her bosom, and she screamed aloud.
The Duke hastened to her side, and she fell in
his arms—dead !
Paulo had unintentionally struck the spring
with his hand, and as the crown fell upon her,
the poisoned dagger was plunged into her
bosom ! The coronet she had sinned so fear-
full}' to gain had been the instrument of her
immediate destruction.
The Duke stood appalled, his face ashy pale,
his eyes distended with horror.
“It is the vengeance of God!” cried Percy. |
“This woman was a criminal of the deepest dye.
She waded through blood to reach the eminence
i she occupied. She was preparing to commit
crimes of even deeper horror,—the murder of
an innocent and high-born lady—the death by
torture of the Archduke and Duchess of Sforza. ”
“Archduke of Sforza !” uttered the Duke, in a
trembling voice.
“Even so. The poor artist, Theodoric—the !
victim of your blood-thirsty cruelty—is Adrielo,
son of the exiled Archduke, heir to the crown of
Sforza. The hour has come for him to assume
liis rights. The people wait impatiently for their
rightful ruler.”
At this instant, a messenger, gaily attired in
livery of gold and purple, was ushered into the
room by two of the Duke’s attendants. He ap-
| proached Percy, deceived hv his proud bearing
and conspicuous attitude into supposing him to
be the Duke, and tendered an elegant missive
bearing the royal seal.
‘ • What is this ?” demanded Percy.
“ The Archduke presents his love to your
Highness, and sends a request that you be pres
ent at his nuptials with the Lady Lolita, daugh
ter of the Count of Pavia.”
“ When is the marriage to take place?” asked
Percy.
“To-morrow at five o’clock, privately, in the
I palace of his Highness.”
“We will not fail to be there. You shall re
main here until we go, my man,” said Percy.
“But my master, the Archduke ”
“Silence! There is your master, the Arch
duke !” exclaimed Percy, pointing to Adrielo.
! “Your former master will have unlooked-for
guests at his ivedding. ”
CHAPTER XIV.
In the royal palace at Sforza, the nuptials of j
Garcia, Archduke of Sforza, and the Lady Lolita
were about to be celebrated in comparative pri
vacy, none being present but the officiating
priest and members of the two noble families
about to be allied, and a few intimate friends. !
The bride had delayed her coming until the last
moment, then she entered, trembling, supported
by her father’s arm and concealing her pale face
and tearful eyes behind the folds of her flowing i
vail. She gazed eagerly around the room, then j
her eyes sank to the floor with an expression of I
despair.
The ceremony was about to begin, when loud
around the palace.
( shouts were heard around the palace. All
“You hear !” said the Duke, in a low voice to j with me as you will, Editha (he was speaking : paused to listen and distinctly caught the cry:
in English now), but oh ! have mercy upon that
poor girl! I will give you the ducal crown that
you covet, and with my wife return to England !
Release her, and let us go hence; I swear you
shall never hear of us again ! Nay, more will I
do: take my life, but let her go, and the crown
shall be yours !”
“ What is he saying?” asked the Duke.
“Threatening us,” said Editha; “sayingwhat
he will do when he is free.”
“It is false, my lord Duke !” cried Theodoric,
faintly. “I was offering my coronet for yonder
maiden’s life. You do not know who I am, my
Editha. “He utters a mysterious threat that
seems like madness, yet he is not mad !”
“My lord,” answered Editha in the same tone;
“if you leave me alone with the prisoner for a
little while, I may be able to induce him to con
fide in me.”
“But he may injure you, my angel!” objected
the Duke.
“You see that it is impossible,” answered
Editha. “ He is almost at death’s door. Leave
us, my lord. I think I can fathom this mys
tery. ”
“Your will is my pleasure,” answered the
Dnke, kissing her hand; then he went out, called
Anselm, and closed the door. Adrielo and Edi
tha were alone.
She placed the light so that the prisoner could
see her face, and bent over him.
“Adrielo,” she murmured, “is it indeed you
that I find here ?”
“Who calls my name?” exclaimed the artist,
opening his eyes. “Ah ! it is Editha Teynham !
Go away; I do not wish to see you.”
“But I have come to save you, Adrielo ! From
the first moment that I heard ’twas yon whom
the Duke held in durance I have planned for
this! I can save you, and restore you to your
friends, who are lamenting your loss.”
“ My life is scarcely worth saving, so nearly is it
spent,” answered Theodoric; “yet for the sake
of those who love me and would be glad to look
upon my face once more, I will accept my life,
even from your hands.”
“ Those last words are most unkind, Adrielo,”
said Editha, hypocritically,
give the past ?”
“I have nothing to do with the past. The fu
ture—the eternity stares me in the face.”
“Not so, my Adrielo; I will save you !” cried
Editha. ‘ ‘ But, Adrielo, I risk my life in so doing;
you must protect me after you have escaped!
Adrielo, you must make me your wife; you must
place me by your side, if I save you.”
“Madame, you are already the wife of the Count
of Civitelli !” answered Theodoric.
“Ah! you have heard that; then you must
know that I am a widow, for he fell by your
hand! Adrielo, consent, I cam and will save
you!”
“ Madame,” answered Adrielo, faintly, “ I see
the ducal coronet of Tivoli resting on your brow;
has not the Countess already become a Duchess?”
“ Ah ! you know that also ? Then I will no lon
ger strive to wear a mask. Adrielo, you know me
for a desperate, ambitious, heartless woman. I
can save your life; one word of mine will doom
you to instant death, or to lingering torture. I
offer you your life and your crown; in return, I
ask you for a share of that coronet that has never
yet pressed your brows ! What say you ?”
“Alas ! I am dying,” murmured the poor art
ist; “I am dying of starvation, Editha. Do not
seek to tempt a man in his last extremity.”
“I but speak the truth,” answered Editha.
lord
“Silence !” thundered the Duke, for he feared
the men might not obey him if they knew the
rank of their prisoner.
“Seize that girl!” commanded Editha; but
the order was useless. With a scream of terror,
a wild cry as if reason had deserted her throne,
Amalia sank back insensible.
“So much the better,” said Editha, grimly;
“your task will be all the easier. Are those
irons hot?”
“Yes, my lady,” answered the man who held
them, trembling, yet fearing to disobey.
‘ ‘ You two hold that fellow !”
Theodoric was struggling with his weakness,
trying to rise from his chair.
Every order that she gave was obeyed with
the silence of extreme fear. The Duke looked on.
“Now, fortlie last time, Adrielo,” said Editha,
turning to him and speaking in English, “listen
to me. That woman has got to die, but I will
“ Can you not for- j.spare your life if you will consent to my terms.”
“Never! never!” cried Theodoric, with a
force they had not thought him capable of.
“Never, vile wretch ! fiend! murderess!”
He had spoken in Italian, and they all under
stood him.
“You fellow called Anselm,” cried Editha,
hoarsely, “take those irons and thrust them
into the eyes of that girl! What! you hesitate !
By heaven! you shall have them in your own
eyes if you don’t move quickly!”
Anselm took the irons, and with trembling
steps approached the girl’s side.
“Touch her not!” cried Theodoric, his agony
and despair lending him momentary strength.
“Touch her not, or you shall surely die !” He
sprang from his seat and stood alone. “Anselm,
all of ye, ye know not what ye do ! I am Adrielo,
the Archduke Sforza—that lady is my wife !”
The iron fell from the hand of Anselm. The
Duke began to look frightened.
At the moment the iron fell from Anselm’s
hand, the outer gate of the palace swung open
to the signet-ring on Percy’s finger. Paulo 1
sprang up the steps to the western turret-cham
ber. It was empty. He rushed down again,
crying aloud:
“He is not there! Oh! let us hasten to the
torture-chamber ere we be too late!”
Percy quickly followed Paulo’s flying foot
thinking he was about to yield. “ Consent, and 1 steps. The Doctor and other gentlemen fol-
you shall be free ! Refuse, and you shall die ! I
do not ask for your love, only for a lawful right
to the crown of Sforza ! Will you give it ?”
“Never!” answered Theodoric. “I cannot
even if I would. I have already given that right
to another, whom I love dearer than life.”
“What?” screamed the baffled woman.
The Duke opened the door, hut she motioned
him hack again.
“What did you say, Adrielo?” she repeated.
“I am already married,” murmured Theodoric.
“ You are married ! You have a wife ! She is
Archduchess of Sforza ! Where is she ? Ah !
you start; now I know where to touch you. Oh,
what a revenge shall be mine ! Not a word; you j
will bless death itself, when it comes!”
lowed close behind. The last words of Theo
doric reached their ears, and they paused, Paulo
with his hand on the door. After he had spo
ken, Theodoric fell back on his seat, nearly
insensible. Editha sprang forward as the iron
fell from Anselm’s grasp, and caught it up.
“Cowards!” she hissed, “ I myself will do it!”
Another moment, and her horrible work would
have been accomplished; but Paulo sprang for
ward and dashed her aside. Percy entered just
behind him.
Theodoric—or Adrielo, as we shall now call
him—rose to his feet slowly, revealing, in the
brilliant light borne by his friends, a most pite
ous spectacle. His limbs were emaciated fear
fully, his clothes hung loosely upon him, his
Long live Adrielo, Archduke of Sforza !’
The Duchess gazed wildly at Garcia and turned
i deadly pale.
“Long live Adrielo, and down with the base-
born usurper and his worthless mother!”
The Duchess shrieked aloud, and Garcia, catch-
1 ing her hand, cried, in a transport of terror:
‘ ‘ Let us save ourselves by flight!”
“Rather let us defy them,” said the Duchess,
gathering courage. “It may he a false alarm.”
But the next moment the door was thrown
open and Percy appeared, with Adrielo upon
his arm, a retinue of armed followers in the rear.
“My lord Count,” said Percy, advancing to
the Count of Pavia, “receive and welcome your
| kinsman, Adrielo, heir to the dukedom of
| Sforza.”
The Count, amazed as he was, instantly came
forward.
“I receive him at once,” he said. “His face
is sufficient guarantee of his his right to the
name he bears. He is the living likeness of my
noble kinsman and master.”
“These papers,” said Percy, putting the cas
ket into the hands of the Count, “will establish
his claim beyond all cavil. The people are im
patient to see him ascend the throne. Will you
lead him to it, my lord, while I perform that
office for his bride, the lovely Lady Amalia, now
Archduchess of Sforza ? I see there are none to
dispute the honor; the usurping Duchess and
her son have disappeared.”
The Count of Pavia had too much diplomacy
to betray his disappointment or his sympathy
with the Duchess. He saw at once that her long-
tottering rule was completely overthrown. He
advanced with courtly smiles of welcome to
Adrielo and led him to the throne, where he
took his seat, amid the acclamations of the peo
ple. Percy followed with Amalia, Paulo bring
ing up the rear. . There were renewed plaudits
from the people as the beautiful bride took her
place on the throne beside her husband. In the
midst of the joyful tumult, Percy sought the
side of Lolita, the bride who was to have been,
albeit against her will.
“Lady,” he said, in the soft, deep tones that
had haunted her ever since that interview in the
convent garden, “I have redeemed my pledge—
I have come to claim my reward. You remem
ber it, do you not? It was a kiss from that
sweet mouth. Have I not won it fairly ?”
Suffused with blushes, yet radiant with hap
piness, she turned to him, saying softly:
“You have won it fairly. But must it be given
here ? before all these ?”
“ Give me the right to claim it before them
all,” he answered. “You wear the habiliments
of a bride—fulfill the personation; be my bride,
fair Lolita. The Archduke shall vouch" for me
to your father. With you, my sweet, I need no
guarantees; your heart has given me its confi
dence—has it not, Lolita?”
She put her hand into his on the instant, and
looked up at him with eyes full of faith and ten
derness. Taking her hand, he led her to where
the Count, her father, stood apart.
With the Archduke to vouch for Percy’s noble
name and stainless character, the Count could
make no obstacle to the immediate marriage of
his daughter, especially since he knew that
Percy would he the prime favorite at court, and
he able to command royal favor and preferment.
In an hour, the marriage was solemnized, the
people that still thronged the hall, the armed
retainers and soldiery, looking on with delight,
and ringing forth their shouts of gratulation
when their brave young leader bent his princely
head and pressed upon the lips of the bride the
kiss he had claimed as his reward.
[the end.]
[For The Sunny South.]
REFLECTIONS JN THE SHADE.
WO. t.-THE HARP OF GEORGIA.
BY H. D C.
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
There is a gem of real sentiment, a priceless
jewel preserved in a casket worthy of its value,
for the appreciation of those who visit the
library of the Georgia Historical Society, at
Savannah.
It is a modest volume, richly bound, which
preserves the name of Richard Henry Wilde in
the immortal purity of his own soul’s utteran
ces. It is the treasured first note from Georgia's
harp, sweet as the perfume of the flower it sings
of—an incense purer even than the breath of
the rose when its young petals are first kissed
by the sunbeams.
Richard Henry Wilde, as the lawyer, the au
thor, the accomplished gentleman, the ornament
of society, may pass away from the memory of
his associates; with his human faults and hu
man foibles he may he forgotten, but he who
sang of the “Summer Rose ” will live as long as
the language which expressed the music of his
soul shall preserve the thoughts of man. While
his “Life of Tasso ” is only read by the anti
quarian, or encumbers the shelves of book
sellers, this single poem is recognized as a gem,
even in fault-finding England, and promises to
embalm his name in literary immortality.
It was not until after the melancholy death <tf
Wilde, that this note which he had struck upon
our harp fell sweetly and softly upon the heart,
and brought a responsive echo of sympathy over
rivers and across the tempest-tossed sea.
Like the expressions of true genius in every
age, it was not until after he had been bruised
in life’s rough crucible, that the perfume of his
roses filled the air.
Let us stop in this cool shade, away from the
material rush of life, and refresh our better
natures by reading the poem; here by the bab-
ling brook is just the place to take in the music
of our harp and catch the sweet refrain which,
as a gentle echo, comes from the harp of Mary
land, as touched by the fingers of gentle woman.
“ My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning’s sky;
But e’er the shades of evening close.
Is scattered on the ground to die.
Yet on that rose’s humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall weep a tear for me.
“ My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Restless, and soon to pass away.
Yet e’er that leaf shall fall and fade.
The parent tree shall mourn its shade;
The wind bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me.
“ My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa’s desert strand—
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace shall vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore, loud moans the sea;
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me.”
These three verses have immortalized a name,
for in them there was the spirit of some other
sphere than this poor earth.
Some time after the publication of the poem
(which, as my memory serves me, was found
among the papers of Wilde after his death), there
came from the harp of Maryland, from a Balti
more lady, a response in the following words :
“ The dews of night may fall from heaven
Upon the withered rose’s bed,
And the tears of fond regret be given
To mourn the virtues of the dead.
Yet morning’s sun the dews will dry,
And tears will fade from sorrow’s eye,
Affection’s pangs be lulled to sleep,
And even love forget to weep.
“ The tree may mourn its fallen leaf,
And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
And friends may heave a sigh of grief
O’er those who sleep within the tomb.
Yet soon will spring renew the flowers.
And time will bring more smiling hours—
In friendship’s heart all grief will die,
And even love forget to sigh.
* The sea may on the desert shore
Lament each trace it bears away;
The lonely heart its grief may pour
O’er cherished friendship's fast decay.
Yet when all track is lost and gone,
The waves dance bright and gaily on;
Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
And even love forgets to mouru.”
All that was mortal of Bicharil Henry Wilde
was deposited in the cemetery at Savannah,
where it is proposed to erect a suitable monu
ment to his memory.
If the spirits of the dead commune with the
living (and who doubts it?) there must be to
the soul of Wilde, sick as it was with this buffet
ing, selfish world, an exquisite joy in realizing
the fact that there are those yet living who, in
all sincerity, “weep a tear ” for him.
HENRY E. JACKSON.
From the same place in which Wilde had strung
the harp of Georgia, there came following his
sad, sweet notes, the music of another soul.
The “lied Hills,” the green valleys and busy
marts of Georgia soon became familiar with the
strain as Jackson touched the chord of patriot
ism, or from the mountains and classic haunts
of Europe sent back to his home the softer notes
of his inspiration. He yet lives, and the writer
detests too much the blaze chfiracter of ful
some praise to offend his appreciative nature by
even a candid expression of the estimate in
which his genius is held. We will dwell a mo
ment, however, with the “lied Old Hills” in
sight of us, and give back to them the selection
from his song.
“ The red old hills of Georgia l
So bald and bare and bleak, *
Their memory tills my spirit
With thoughts I cannot speak.
They have no robe of verdure,
Stripped naked to the blast,
And yet of all the varied earth,
I love them best at last.
“ I love them for the pleasure
With which my life was blest,
When, e’er I left in boyhood,
My footprints on their breast.
When in the rain had perished
Those steps on plain and knoll,
Then vanished, with the storm of grief,
Joy’s footprints from my soul.
** I love them for the living.
The generous, kind and gay,
And for the dead who slumber
Within their breasts of clay.
I love them for the beauty
That cheers the social hearth;
I love them for their rosy girls,
The fairest on the earth.
“ The red old hills of Georgia
I never can forget!
Amid life’s joys and sorrows,
My heart is on them yet;
And when my cause is ended—
When life her web has wove—
Oh! may I then beneath those hills,
Live close to them I love !”
We select these verses almost at random from
the poem, which is too long only because these
pencilings must not be too elaborate. There is
real soul music in this poem. Long may the
author live to touch again the chords of the
harp upon which he has so charmingly played.
There are others who have sung and yet sing
sweetly. From Macon, Atlanta, and near where
these reflections are written for you, almost
every chord has been touched. Of these let some
other day and hour prompt an expression.
While "the harp of Georgia remains strung and
continues to give forth such music, well may
we expect the return of a brighter day—a day
which shall return the elevated sentiment of the
past to our people, and check the growth of a
sensual, groveling materialism.