The weekly telegraph. (Macon, Ga.) 1885-1899, September 16, 1891, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text..-alatU; th. BUld (M* W> bordered pMb adorning, on w«bi open the lerer’e ero * viilon hirer then morning. nnhet Upped illghtly up or down, Lj, to hor elr e piquant awtemeail viiUlor'a art contrlred her gown, jnTtia the vary pink of nentneaa. K bai oo frill. or lurholowa, Bat It la In laahlon a order, lad dainty patent leather toee hep 1“ and out beneath Ita border. v.kn her cheer the eouth wind blowa, ind hand to her the fragrant graaaeat Un fragrant honeyanckle throwe 1. perfume on her « ahepaaaea. r.sTABi.iaiii'.n :s2fi. TheTelegraph Printing Co. Publishers. I A CAPE COD BELLE. From the Cape Cod Item. The chorus of the feathered throng When she is near is louder, sweeter; The robin sings his gladdest song. The oriole's richest carols greet hex. The garden’s heart with J07 is stirred, She’s welcomed by a myriad voices. And grass and tree and flower and bird Her footstep's melody rejoices. Her smile the morning beautifies, And eyery look a charm discloses! Bht carries sunshine in her eyes. And in her cheeks the red Jane rows. So fair she looks, so sweet, so cool. She's worthy ol all admiration; No art has made hor beautiful; She’s mother nature’s own creation. The Street of Death. Jftrrrase without love, if jou will, ) talons and claws nnd strange twistings net love without respect," said tho of form, that Giovanni Bologna caught lussa to me, as we turned the corner 1 one morning aa he waa flitting over hia tbs Via Ricaaoh and saw before us tho favorite haunts, and fixed for ever hard .t shadowy pile of the Duomo, half- by there at the corner of the wall, just ihsd bare and there by some brilliant ere you come to the Palazzo Strozzl; you |b of moonlight. know it all, I am aure, and have often Is cent**** is beautiful, and aa charm* lingered there on some crisp winter’s lush* *• beautiful—dark eyes and morning and been swayad hither and ' white teeth, and a face that ripples thither by the busv moving crowd, and ir with every passing emotion. Her lived with their life and shared for the d Well, you might oall her 20, but I; moment in their hurrying eager paae- rcct that 30 years may be nearer to j ions. Yet, perhaps, though you know all iDark—tha age, at any rats, when a this, you do not yet know the little am such as her has the fullest power • church of Sant’ Andrea, the quaintest, .’traction, when she has penetrated , quietest little shrine of departed mem** tbs pleasure of life, aud yet has j ories. that stands hack, apart from all :c ked something of its inscrutable mye- 1 the busy marketing of the Piazza, and 7 tad pain. seems to have dreamed on, undisturbed, Wt had been together to the Teatro since those far-off days of the Trecento, •to, to see la Duze in her creation of | "And here, without doubt, Uinevra aore senza Stima," and when we left had often knelt—here beside the little t»x my fried had sent her SJgnore j dim altar where the fresh lilies of the jUoiT to supper with some of his ac- 1 spring-time enshrined some quaint By- iiintsnce, Imd dismbeed liar carriage , znntine portrait of Our Lady, the had •waited her at the entrance, and j heard tho solemn intoning of the morn- d availed herself of my escort to walk 1$ across the Ponte Vocchio to her C iltce in Oltr’ Arno, trriage seems to me in itself to im- ccntrad lotion,” I had answered, re- more to the first part of her re- iik than to the second; "it ia like vok- winged Pegasus to some heavy lum*- rug plough, or seeking to turn that Bfhmg Faup of the Campidaglio into •rebad and respectable member of MtJ. To come to a more prosaic setting, tho • of marriage, as we conceive it in m dart, implies two conceptions, •ich are' often very far from identical: t idea of lova—a heavenly ^ dream, a Dtimental folly, a desire of the sense*, union of the soul—call it aa you will, twbich it in my case a reality, since mkind have never ceased to acknowl- {•itspower; and then, tied up with ii Ttgui, this unfathomable, this over- wring passion—a social contract- sane- Sid and impressed by tho force of gon* ii opinion, by which* two individuals rw to unite their future under certain legal conditions, which are to be for the - rest of their natural “la some countries, indeed, the one side tk* picture may be more in the fore- ::od than in others; in France, for lUnce, they look moro at the side of • Isgal contract, and arrange society so it, ibis once admitted, both parties •ysnjoy their liberty afterward within c: without— these limits. Chez nous, my dear England, wo aim more loftily the ideal of a marriage of affection, our law courts have too often to an- joce a dismal awakening to realities, ifch you may bo euro in twenty casee to 1 had been moro wisely kept from »rd.” We had turned the corner of the piazza I ipok* these words, and had passed (0 the full view of the newly finished ids of the cathedral In the clear onlight it shone out like a polished *el in its brilliant marble radiance, i the figures of eainta and angels crowd its portal* Ha-mad to Stoop • *ard in lovo and blessing into the Bi ll night. Before ue rote the Campanile of Giotto, filling toward the stars like a fair lute lily, with a beauty pure and per- ct that is all ita own; a few lamps cos flickering down the Via Calzaioli, >4 far off in the diatanoe we heard the 1 of voices and the touch of a litir. My companion was silent for a xno- tnt, leaning on my arm aa she looked to the beautiful night; then she said: “You speak like a sceptic, caro mto. >d a sceptic as 10 love, tho coldest and sit cmel of all scepticisms. To pun you for these your sine l have mind you of an old story of my city, the <ne of whose tragedy was this groat dte cathedral and the little street that oouches there, dark and mysterious— 1 *" lr#e t °f Death/ it has been called, ‘ 'Via della Morto/ that runs cloao be- . the church of the Hisericordia.” *>* had paused for a moment while • •poke, and then, moving along tho ue 1 asiage that separates Campanile "~ l the cathedral, lean againat the rail- uat pass ulong its side. At midday • piazza ia bright with ■unlight and owded with flocks of nestling pigeons, •t often sweep round the pinqaeloe the cathedral and fill the lole space with the rustle and glimmer their moving wings. But now it was ‘•dent, full of darkness and myatery, •ming to envelop us with the great •rble walls of the cathedral, where we fcd. looking across to the entrance of • •twet that she had named. oho lent her jeweled hand on my wrist, in her rich passionate voice, with •ccent of purest Tuican, she began at ®t moment the old Florentine story, long ago, in these dim days of the fecenio, when Florence rang with tho a j°! Warr ing faction*, when the Jundelmonti and Uberti reddened that irble pavement with their blood, yet t,a the forces of the future were al- •ay striving within the strict limits of miaant Catholicism, when the verse of mte and the prose of Hoccarcio gave Impulse to Italian thought, as QMtttO or Simone Memmi first awakening to Italian art, Ginevra f}> Amieri lived with her parents in •if old palazzo behind the little church • wt Andrea in the Mercato Vecchio. know our Mercato Vecchio, without ubi, Q y friend? M **y * time you ir< .-’.hare wandered ’ ‘kIi it, |>erh«ip# ( ,n ;j.rke*. roorn- t sod have paueod m watch in the ,T ® ,r /tresis the Betsy, chattering ! °»d, the dark-eyeU, «w*rthy peasants. • women with their o . /red kerchief* • their oval faoe- ».nd their cleur ing mas*, the rustling of the priest'* heavy golden robes, and the rush of the censers through the air as they filled the whole building with their fragrance, rich, overpowering, carrying away the •enees Into some faint myaterioua rap port with the unseen. "Perhaps, ia that moment, another dream came to her of a nearer, more earthly sweetness; perhaps the first rotes of the summer mingled their crimson in her wandering thoughts with the pure paleness of the lilies that wero before her? and lent something of their color to the blush that came, ouick and softly, into the golden olive of her rounded cheek? p "Or wae it tke memory of that etraa- gar who but yesternight had met her uo- observed in the riot and merriment of the masque, whose dark eyes had looked with such passionate pleading into her own, whoso voice, had apokeuto her the first, the coveted words of love? "Yet what folly to let ber thoughts thus wauder to that unhoped-for and yet hopeless dream! What wero hie beauty, his strength, Lis pjmpion to her, clasped in tho relentless arms of a narrow caeta? "Too well she knew the fierce pride of her kinemen, the narrow oligarchy of blood that would exclude every foreign element from its presence, that would stamp out all life and liberty beneath its brutal heel; and then—as the hot, bitta*, passionate tears rose into her eyes—with a sob of despair she knew that Antonio Boudfnelli could never hold her for hie "Her thought! are broken bv the dang of the great bell outelde, by the peal of the organ that announces the closing service; she ri-es from her knees, and, beckoning her trusted maid, ihe wraps her cloak cloeely round her, aud prepares to leave tho church, "Yet, as she rises, what is the thrill that passes through her ns she sees that form, closely muffled and masked, watch ing her intently from a pillar near? The mask is moved, and she sees— ye«, it is her lover of the last night, his ayes bent on her own with a deep and questioning gaze. "That was a short and hurried inter view, yet how full of aweet memories to them both! A few broken, whispered words of love or reproof, of pleading, a meeting, perchance, implored for that evening beneath the safe shadows of the great cathedral, a promise half given and half retracted, a passionate glance of farewell, aud they were parted; yet with in two hearts there lived that day r golden memory, making all life seem richer and more radiant for its presence, a golden hope that merged all the preen ent into the earnest of future sweetness. "Ah! sceptic that you are, wae this then such folly? "Ia this, then, naught but vanity that makes a heaven when the dear one ia in your presence, a weary, cold existence wK*n ahe is withdrawn—that gives to these mere triflu, the glove that ahe has worn, the.note that has been perfnmed by iior halt !, n. mutt.ing that in real aa 1 living, that touches your heart with an exquisite melody, like the musio that men once heard angels make, tinging into the still night of ©‘Southern winter? ••Nay! I know y*>u then belter than younelf, and when you would any such words it ia not you 1 seem to hear, the dear poet and dreamer that I have loved, bat some echo of this flat and emptv century, of its vain philosophies and nausea of reatteeaseeking after gain.” "Who could resist such a pleader, corn tenia," I answered, looking into her beau tiful eager face, that even In the dim half-light seemed illumined by the pas> sion of her words, "or who could inter* pose the cold fiat of reason besido your rich living images of passion and ro- in mice '‘Yet spare me for a while, ere you drive me to terms, and lot me but hear the conclusion of your story. "I eeein to see already the secret meet ing beneath the shadows that cloas u« round, the paesionate words of love and longing, the masked figures of the Amieri in midnight ambuscade behind yon projecting^ornice, the clash of steel or the gleaming dagger that is Klealthily raised, and then—the lover lying here in tnat bright patch of moon light, a yet warm and bleeding corpee, tho girl hurried away, thrust into seme chilly convent, her rich life and love crushed into a cold blank of formal de votion, 11 tint something of iu< you have waiting me in this Florentine tale of your*/’ "Not so, my friend," she answered, "you have wrongly guested my riddle; the sketch you gave me liar many at tractions. but this weak point only, that 11 is noi my itoiy. "And yet, 1 shall not linger over that eting. If it ever took place, hk-white teeth, and l/hind, in the the others, which certainly w square, the line of »*npty deserted I trived; 1 shall not linger ever the long uses, their walls dgube-* with rich, months of weary waiting, 0/ hoj>«less “Ullo plgmanta, from which the in- longing, at least ot horrible despair. For lus have been ere this expelled. You between them ro*e sv inai-r arable bar the all that, without doubt, as well as difference of their/Auk, a bar winch in u *aow the little demon of brouze, ell these days of democracy has loat, jwr* haps, something of ita force, but then waa overpowering anu merciless—a bar which the girl's obedience to her parents, the long habitude of touts of deference to the clore ties of family, made her loth to break. 'And then—some mistake of her careless servant, some spying eye upon their meetings—1 know not what—but the secret of their love is discovered. HI10 h kepi within tha j»alnoe a cicely watched prisoner, and he, without, left with no message or knowledge, lives aa men iivo wlieu ih»> h«?o lost what is dearest 10 them, when the springs of life and action have boon removed. Then, too, the family took counsel on her fate; she must be married, and that ipeodily, lost these foolish, girlish senti ments lead her back to her folly. "Is there not Francesco Agolanti, a man of blood and liocage worthy to share in that of the Amieri, advanced a ittle, perhaps, in years and somewhat tiern ot temper, yet all tho better indeed for that to guide and govern this wild, wandering dove of theirs? "Ah, how she struggled, poor dove, caught within that cruel cage, against the fate they planned for her; how she vainly begged and implored for pity, for delay, how, when all was useless, she vainly wept through the long, bitter nights in her eiieni chamber, as the pressing reality came nearer and more near. ■ Ah! dear mother ot God/ she bad cried, kneeling before the little image where the night lamp dimly burned, clad only iu her silken vest of white, with her loose hair all tumbled about her beautiful tear-stained eyes; 'dear mother hast thou no pity, thou who has loved and suffered, through whose aw h?art tho cruel sword has paned? " 'To loto my loved Antonio—never to see him more, to hear hia voice, to feel his kisses on my che.k, to long for him vainly, vainly, day and night, i* not that to? But spare me this more horrible torment, to give myself to this man. whose touch, whose very presence has become hatefnl to me—to yield all that should be my dearest’*, and his alone, to one whom I detest, 'Ah, how may I live through this sacrilege, this profanation of all that ii moat sacred in my being? How can I believe the counsel of my parent*, the reproof of even my mother, the injunc tions of the hojy priest himself, that obadience is full of blessing and of peace? "But 4 4s not full of blessing, but full of loathsome profaoity, of foul and hide ous thoughts. Horrid forme pre*s around me; my life ia seized by doubt and mis ery; justice and right seem to Inn Into but mockery and made "Ah, men? men! men! within your nar row system of right and wrong all items raise and iickie and foul, 7** »u»tr!y my heart whispers to me that somotvhere beyond the far clonds there ia a God of justice and of trutb/hst somewhere even here there might bs a Ufa in which res- on and religion were at one with the deepest cravings of my being? 1 "Shall 1 detain you longer over this horrible spectacle—the frightful analysis of a soul and body thus outraged aud abandoned by man and his church? "For it is by the church with its for mal ministratione,i’tuiockory of bl* .-sing that this vile compact is to be accom plished. "See the stately procession, the retafn- ers of the two great families assembled, U.ft soifiiin niu>.i<\ the richly robed priests, all the gorgeous ceremonial of religion. "And society will coldly turn ita back on the woman'who In some moment of passion has listened to the voice of lore, and does not see that such a union as this was yal the deeper profanity. "For -Ginevra had yielded, wearied out with suffering, with physical ex haustion, with the pressing reiterated commands of her parents; the wedding waa hastily accomplished — and then, month after month, year after year, she lived on liko one whose deepost source of being had been snapped, dying as it were by Inches every day, "And 10 it happened that, at length, somo four years after her wedding, she fell into what seemed a deep sieep, but a •feep so sound that no wakening waa possible, that her pulse ceasod to beat or her breath to come again, and that she wae laid out in her coffin, with white flowers about her hair, looking herself most like some fair, pure lily, so white, so cold, so still was she. "Then her body was taken in great state, aa became a lady of the Agdanti and a daughter of Bernards degli Amieri. to the Duomo for its burial, and there, wiih weeping and prayers, was laid in the vault of her family and among those who followed were maov who had known her in happy youth, and perchance some who blamed her cruel marriage. But not among these, we may believe, were her husband or her father, hard men and steru, whose love and pity lay locked with the stern laws of their caste." PART IL "And it came to pass at midnight, when all waa still within that horrid vault, that Ginevra awoke to life; for this waa uot death that had seized her, but a deep trance, caueed by the weak ness of her body and the Buffering of her mind; and behold, ahe was wrapped all about liar face and body with loose white grave cloth, and pressed into a coffin, whose lid was closed upon her face." "Half dazed and scare* knowing what ahe did, she obeyed her flrht impulse to free herself from this strange reitraint, and, as she pressed upward with her hands, the lid, which was not fastened, fell to the ground and she stepped forth, /Then the found heraelf in a deep vault, lightad only by a grating in the roof, and ail scattered with coffins, and here and there with bones lying in the duet,the relice of men and women.of her race; and among these hideous women toes of humanity a faw flowers that had dropped from her coffin aa sho moved, lay. white and odorous, flowars of the early spring, a strange contrast to the death and decay around her. "Slowly she sought her way, ahudder- fng, up the steps at the side, grouping with her hand against the damp walls, till she could push aeide the door and enter the vast shadowy Basilica that lay, mysterious, wrapped in gloom; with sortie Hint gleams of light from the outer win dows, and, at‘H f ao still that no noun>l met her ear save the erz-.h cf the heavy door that slammed behind her aud woke some strange, confuted echo that tered hoarsely round th« bail ding and then sank again into a dead eilcr "Somet..nee I have wandered in there at aven—into this old Duomo of ours juat at the Min bad eet and the shade were dvrkeom^, and then I hare *e«tned most to feel the beauty and the mj of the place; for then the growing * ness m2:*- tho great spAces of th* and the vaultings of the dome aeem nd thi buried th< t< and be and who 1 ton i had bs ■ lined Ih. fill the great building with their pres- 1 •nee, impalpable, indefinable, yet felt by { the Boeing spirit, "For indeed, between the dead and the | living perhaps no such barrier exists ns • in our coarse, common life of dally nerds \ as we might suppose; and there, kneel- j ing before the altar ot Madonna, u little space of wondrous light and color in the I encircling gloom, I have felt their pres- j once near, aud have seen their shadowy j forms hover around me, pitying, sorrow- j ing, end with some rtrange. incuncum<*.| municable sidnes of their lore. "Fcr it i* >0 old—this Duomo—ao changeless and ao old; after all these cen turies of change and sorrow and passion, as beautiful and calm aa when Ginerav entered thnt night into it# darknrse, with a great nnmbiug horror nt her heart. "For all seemed dark bafore her eyes and before bar mind. What were thrso strange wrappings of white about her body, these flowers wreathed round ber hair, the dead bones mouldering at her feet, the vast shadowy expanse on which aha looked? Was this then death that ■be now knew, or some atrange mid-con dition of the souk "Ah! how she had .longed for -’oath, and now that it hsd come, bow strange and terrible it seemed; bow far off she had suddenly become from all those dear familiar thinge of her daily life, from her mother, from her memories of her lover, whom she had not seen for so long, whom ■he would never look on again with liv ing eyes. "And as ahe remembered him, .slowly it all came back to her; the first meeting, the passionate embraces, the long agony of separation, tha weary years of married iife, the last illness, the weeping facet around her, the elow forgetfnines* of all, und now—how far ou it seemed, how sue mourned over the weakness and selfish ness of her life that waa forever passed awarl ’For her husband had been just to her sod kind in his manner and had given her such love ae was left to him to offer; aod she,—ah! ahe Raw it all now it was too late—She had all the while been dead and cold to bit life, her soul locked up in a passionate memory and a pas sionate regret of the past, "If she could go to him, could kneel before him. could tell him all, could |let him aee how it waa that she could not lore him surely now that she was dead he would see it ns she did, and would hear her without the anger she had dreaded. And in her half dazed mind this had became fixed Impulse, to seek him out ami to tell him how she sor rowed for the past "Instinctively she groped her way through the silent church, waking fains cohoes wiih her fain; and feeble steps; she turned slowly the great key that had been left within the side Juor an«l came forth into Ian utuoulight, a tral thing, with staring, lustrious eyas and a pale, cold face crowned with pule lilies, and about her body a whito grave- cloth wrapped. Near whore we stend she passed, looking lee* liko a woman than a spectre of the night, and walked with slow feeble steps across the square, into that little street SlhOSS dark ea* tranoe we aee from here, a mere msec of black shadow, called the "Street of Death" to thi* very day, from the tale 1 t .11 you. "Up the street she went slowly, pa*t where is now the little church of Miseri- cordfs, and then Into the Via detie prho. that runs^at right angles to the Via Cal zaioli, and so, step by stop, scarce know ing what aba did, she reached her hue- band’s palace, where he dwelt in the Corso degli Adimafi, nor in that dead hour of night did she meet any human soul upon her path. The great house lay above her. wrapped in darkness, closely barred and bolted against midnight ma rauders—one of those stern Florentine palaces, we may fancy, such as still sur vive in those of tha Riccardi or Strozzi, more fortresses than dwelling housei, with window* barred with iron and torohreats of solid iron set without. "She raised the great knockor, the lion’e head moulded m Lrouz j, ami smot'» with all the force that remained to !>•> <i|.un tlie solid i>;»k*n doo.. "And thero was silence- for a while, and then light* naif yammering abov* in one of the topmoat windows, and the sound of confused voices, of stepe that drew near from within. "Then a voice cried to her, •Who art thou, whether friend or foe, that contest at this desd of night, to a house of mourning and of death?' "And she answered, 'A friend, and one that knew and loved you well* JJJ"Then ahe haard the bolts withdrawn, the dour was uj-surd nod within »ne could see the old seneschal and tho serv ants in the entrance, half-dreesed and half-armed—a white sea of terrified face* looking at her with horror aod fear. And she cried bitterly: 'I seek not you, but vour master, for ray time Is ahorl, and I would bid him come to me quickly/ And evan ae ahe spoke the servants gave way, and aha saw' him come near, armed from head to loot, with his great sword in hia hand, nod when he saw her he turned deathly pale, and shook with terror within hia plated mail. 'Then she cried: 'Hear me, Francesco, and grant ma thy pity and pardon; lest my soul live ever thus, resile... confined within this earthly priion, unable to soar up into the wider life. ‘"For in my life I never prized thy love, and waa dead aud cold to thy em braces, and it is this thought that tor ments me even now. "Ah! why didst thou force me to wed thee, when I loved another, my first and only love, seeing ray heart wae everSet ou Antonio Itondtnelli, and that tho soul and body are not two, but one subtle essence, which lives with their mutual life, indefinable, strange, touched with the lips of the Divinity. '"Yet, I come now to forgive thee the great wrong thou did*: me, perhapv not knowing, perhaps not seeing all that 1 aee now, and to ask thy pirdon and pity for me. a sinful soul that stands now io the strict presence of thn angels of Gol/ "But as he heard her words, and heard bar lover’s name, m great hardne*-* came over his stern fare, and he cried li**r**ly to h»r: -Fsuh^.s wiIm end ed jlt« toms woman! Thou haU wed in»> with Hit Io\r o! so-.tiier in thv h *rt sn-t ha* dwelt with mo four yett* with that passion in thy soul, and now thou art come to haunt me, a prliid, hateful ghost, as thy pt'*. r*pw*rhml fees was wont to hnuni me in thy lifetintat " 'See, now, how 1 curie th^L end bid thee hence from BIT door! G* then gone to where the hot fires of hell shell Luro out thy unregenerate -oul, ih.u hast lived in unlawful desire within y house and by my side.' "Andes he spoke he eet hit nuild back on it* hin^’-*, and loft I walls, uaeeen ‘n the darkness, e*«med to kindness. Yet p- rhepa hrr father would receive her—won ! trivo her the pardon that she jjotido.i that her weary soul might at length have re-K. "80 ahe turned her way to tho Mercato Vecchio, growing leehier withovery step, stumbling over fBe rou’h pavement and bruising her col i naked feet; and at length sho reached tha old palace that stood behind tt 0 (Lurch of bant 1 Andrea, where her happy {thll^odhad been si ent, and she sank ax'itolled upon the step*, with just etrengiii to raise her hand and beet feeMv on the door. "Then it f.eeme 1 to her that, after long ages of waiting, tl.edoor was opened, and ■he raw faces that she knew within looking at her with terror and alarm— her father and her mother and the old nurse that had loved her so well. And ahe kue'.t at their feet upon the cold stops there, and cried: 'Ob, father and mother mine, 1 come to ask your par don, in that in my married life 1 never loved Francesco, r ut my heart was alto gether set on Antonio Rondinelli, my true and dearest love, and for that my aoul is tormented now, aud wanders rest less, tied to this cruel prison of earth till it gain forgiveness.’ But it a»emo.i that they all drew back from her as iruin some foul, polluted thing, and ber father cried aloud: " 'Begone, faithless, evil, woman, who hest lived in law!*-™ and Tam desires and bait broken the laws of God and man, the revorenc* due to thy parents’ will, and the sacrament of holy church. Be hold, I charge iliee strictly that thy sin ful spectre come no more to haunt tble thy forner Abode.’ "And the great door was closed, and she was left kneeling and sobbing and praying for * mercy, for mercy, lying on ■ And in her niii ery she bethought her of her uncle, who lived hard by, a kindly man and genial, who had loved her much as a child. Perhape he would recJre her and let her rest in warmth and quiet, it but for &n hour, till this cruel fever that she felt to gain on her had paeaod away. "Yet when she sought him and told him her tale he deemed her some spectre, and fled terrified, barring the door againat her. 'Then in her despair ahe saw no hope, indeed, since uien bid cast her from their homes and Goa would uot jot receive her; and. very weak and weary, ahe wan dered, not knowing whoro she went, through the narrow streets that surround tha old market, till the found herself in front of the rathodral, and sat there, nobbing and shivering with the strong fever that was on her, beneath the shel ter of tho little login that is at the corner of the Via r*lzaioli—the login that is sa cred to St. Bartholomew. "And there amid her eobe eh« preyed: " 'Oh, God. who art nailed the God of mercy, hour my prayer in thy great mercy now, and, since all tuen have cast me from their k me, oh! do theu receive me, ami gratif me a quick end to my mis ery in this death ihut is ao long in coming!’ "And even as she prayed a thought came into her mind—the thought of An tonio, how near he usu been to her and how faithful. "For never since she Fail deserted him by that cruel marriage had he sought another head, but had been faithful evel'%* her (lea* usemo >. An' then she thought—strange, confused working of the weary, broken mind— perhaps though the others all turned from hor, he surely would not. And, scarce knowing whether ehe were alive or dead, ehe reasoned that if they dis owned her and rejected ber, their claim in her waa dead;, that if her life wors really past she was free—free to seek him whom she loved. "Ah! was this life or death she folt, this horrible throbbing of her head, this shivering ague that shook her whole weak frame? "She would seek him. ahe said to her self, and toil him all, and beg At )pa*t to know from his lips, whether ehe lived iudeod, <>r was ruiiii foul, sinful spectre, from which all good men turned away. "How she foun t her way ehe never knew; but at length sue h»w hii open door, and Antonio, her dear Antonio, ■iauulug 1b tbs or.trsr.es, older, p*rh?p*. and sadder, bat still tho same loved face; and he looked at her with pity and sym pathy in hia eyes and bado her say what •he sought from him in thiaetrange hour and this strange attire—ahe who** dead body he had wept over the day before. Then ahe told him how she wandered from the tomb, and had sought hnaband and her father and her uncle, and by nil bad been cast forth, shivering and weary, into the cruel night, and how aha knew not rightly if ehe were alive dead, or some horrid spectre that all good men should hat a And it scorned that shews* an immense pity In her lover's face, and a great deep love his eyes; and that instead of kneeling at lilt feet she found herself caught up into his breast, and heard hia dear voice whic- per in her ear: ‘Barling, wnetiuu you bo hated or beloved of others, whether you be alive or deid, through death and life I have loved you ever with ray deep est soul, and I love you—l love you still/ Then a mist came over her eyes and great warmth and peace over her frozen htrui. and. u sank bank fsto^^^H sciouinesa locked in that dear embrace, she knew at length, she knew that eh* lived once more. • • • "That is all my tale, my friend, or at least what remains wilt not take [Hi many words to tell. For with rare and tender watching Ginevra was restored in somo fow days to health of body and mind, and remaiuad there with the inan who hsd saved her life; And it is told that ehe refosed to return to the husband and parent who had desorted her, and that abo petitioned th* tribunate of the church, who decided in euch matters, for a divorce from Francesco Ag ltnii. "An l this petition was granted on the ground—a straog* piece of legal theology —that, having once died and been duly buried, she wm free from hor earthly lira and free to contract any new mar- riaga Then alio married Anionio lb n li ber radiant life tha memory rows became in limo ef* pared only •• giving a the happiness that now of her past faced, or reme draper color ehe knew. “So that no* i* ended—lbu grown so dost* y tale of thi* old c:ty car old city ibat has my heart . recent life aro minglrd all the quaint dear memories of the i^vt, that f,ai>* ungt-r-d <>n i..r>. : .c in tli«s<* old •tainiiiar haunts, nnd reacu no jvrring sense of discord ‘And beneath on the steps county women are soiling flowers—great nv’Mto* of lilies nnd carnation and jessamin*— and children aro playing, and n far- haired girl, porhap* somo pretty ibgl*-v\ Is laughing and sotting the violets ot tue •west season in tho hcs«m 0/ her the.- . Tne contrast of that steru palace of the Trecento, untouched in ail theso yearc— speaking of theetrong. narrow fauh, the intense love* and hatred, tho fletce ven dettas of thedav when it was built—and benea.u it of this our modern life, cos mopolitan, restless, perturbed, aeoking ever some new and fleeiinic form nf ct:F« turo. aonie divorce aspect of /eii jiou, some vaster and greater scope «-f pro gressive humanity—ia what mow touches my inner sentiment—is what ha.- lin gered most in my heart wheu l have been for uway in London or in F.-.rie. "But *ee, the moonlight be^ina 10 pour into the piazza i.nd to touch even the dark entrance of tho Street of Death,and the night wind is growling chilly, and my Paolo will br awaiting me at home. "Let us w dk homewards, and tell me. as we go, what you think of tho old legend of Boccaccio that I have tried to bring back to life for yon in the half hour we have spent beneath the shadows of the Duomo." "I think,” I answered her, as wo turned away and left the shadowy piazza where I had listened for ao long to the music of her rich Southern voice, wak ing old memorie* and dreams that I thought had long since passed out of my life—"I think, contoseina mia, that such lor* ns this that you have tola me was worth all the sorrow and suffering; beau tiful as the dawn of summer’s morn ing, strong and yet stronger than tho cruel prcsonco 01 the grave. Yet not to oil ho* thsteweer vision of mutual trust been given; and there be some who, thinking they had grasped ft, have found it slip away from them in life's com plex currents, or have found—moet cruel mockery of all—that its dear hope was but a cold deceit and its fruition the ashes of a vain regret. It is for them I would reservo my saddest sympathy, and feel for thi m the deepest pity. —London So ciety. The Decline of Oratory, From the 81. ilouit Globe-Democrat It ia a manifest and significant fact that oratory is declining in tble country. Wo have an abundance of fluent and agreeable public speakers, but as for real orators our supply is decidedly limited. The leaders of our political parties are noted for their eloquence, nnd do not cul tivate the art of swaying men by such means. They deliver speeches that are intended to 'nspire enthusiasm anti to influence elejtfoaf, but these efforts t*fe not oratorical In the definite sonsr of the term. That is tf say. they are not re- markablo for fine diolloti. for original thoughts, for lufij «u*l iuip;sss:?> :cali ment*. It seldom happens that one them presents an fsauo or advocates doctrine in n new way or with particular effect. As a rule, they merely rrpvat what has already been said by tho news papers. They secure notice only because they are expressions of men who occupy prominent positions, and net because they are in themselves interesting ~ valuable. There are a few men w! spe*< he* are nlways read. I nc iihn ' Lavs the faculty of makiug repetit attractive by a hippy etc 1 «>/ «* and phrases; but the repetition i» 1 all tha aame, and th' listener is 110% moved by it, having previously road and considered it. The fact is that .t is hardly poeiibie for thosiateiman to make his speech in time to anticipate tho press; he ie alwnya at the mercy of a power that delights to tny all of his beat things before he can get a chance to ntter them. The greatest orators belocged to ih*> ages preceding tho invention of prlnt'ng. In those times the orator had no com petition, and was not in constant danger of being deprived of hie opportunity. He could repeat bia arguments and illustra tions ae often as Lo pleased, since they would be new to each •eparato crowd that heard them; one speech was suf ficed for ot long s period a* a given question was under discussion. It was not necessary for a man to furntih fresh matter ov«ry time ho addressed * J,# ferent audience. There were no papers to take the words out of his mouth end speak them in advance of his ap pointments. The people obtained In formation entirely from the oratoia. It wae through the latter that all issues were first promulgated and all policies flr«t declared and defined. This con tinued to be the case throughout all ot tha last rentury and during tho early part of the present one. There are nr eons now living who can remember whi the press hid not invaded the field of political discussion iu any perceptible der gree. 'Hie orators wero left practically free to control and direct public opinion. A speech by Webster or Calhoun, Ciayor Benton was a national event, and tha people talked of it with profound interest for weeks and months. The newspaper* had not yet s-cerlained their true pro vince, and bad yet »cquired the facilities for performing their proper service. That was a matter of evolution, and it came gradually, but the timo finally arrived when the orators bad to accept a subord in ate place. There is room for regret, perhape, that oratory has apparently become a lost art, since the nation baa certainly derive 1 much pleasure and profit from it; but wo may console our*elv*e with tne reflection that toe buiiueea of government is as well managed as it was when the orators had thing* their own way. The conspicuous statesmen of our time nr quite equal to tlwee ot former periods in point of practical into|llgenc* and famil- iararity with the cunoitione of national safetv and progress. Th*v art* not capa ble, a« A r!a*«, of staling th» fr views in terras of true eloquence, but they ki. how to bring things to p**** and that » tb* main thing alter aiL We are in the habit of disparaging our political leaders by comparison with their prececiMMir*; but this tendency is not ear ran ted by the facts (wrtamtag to the welfare and pros perity of the country in the poet aim .a present. If we have lost in the way of oratory, we have not forfeited aaytuin^ io tb* way ot abi'ity to conduct m:r ; f- fairs with shining succors. It can not («• ■aid that tbe statesmen of any other country ere any nure eflic «nt ihnnour< i , »o far as the general work of carrying « n a government is concerned. Our situa tion U oar sufficient d«f«aa * in that ro- spw. *Y« ££4 sc; bear: c! the !**««! eloquent pnUic si eiker* in the wcrhl, but we can properly claim that our politF when t sh* ItM 1 mi of tha past Fearful That the Lltile Party Now In Melville Bay Wilt Never Ite- lurn Alive—Tbe Danger* to lie Faced. From the Boston Herald. WAgHOKTOff, D. C„ SepL 8. -John Kenney of the Proteua expedition is out in another card, in which he expresses the opinion that Liaut. Parry's danger is greater than has been thought. The trouble is this: Peary being laid p at this Urns, when the birds are mi grating South, bia men may, in their ig- noranceofthe necessity ot preserving game while still timo to get ft—ho not being on deck to superintend things— becomo slothful and neglect to lay in supplies. Whale sound ie full of "sea unicorns" (white whales), aaya Mr. Ken- nay. We saw schools of them as we left Northumberland Bland in 1883, but to canture them requires harpoons and lance*, and men who understand tboir use. Walrus are very numeroui during this month, bat .if not fust on an iron they will sink on being that. They leave tbe sound and waters nbovo as the ice makes Is tho fall of the year. At Littleton island, 100 miles northweet of McCer- mtek bay, situated on the northwest point of the island, are &0 rations in barrel© On tho southern end of the Island nre six tons of coal, left by Maj. Beebe, in 1882, from the steamship Nep tune. I saw thorn in 1883, Liaat. I'eary can draw from these, ii short, but it will require doga and' sledges. He would have nearly £00 miles to travel there and baek over the ice on foot, as his men do not know how to drive dogs. Only one whits man in twenty is ever successful in managing these doge. They are like big timber wolves, and just as eavaga I expect ho inteuds falling back on the cache at Lit- tloton island, if abort, on hia way back from tho interior. Tha country 40 miles back of Peary’s present position is as liitls known as tbe moon. Ilow a man with a weak leg ex pects to clamber up to the cliffs of rocks and ice to tho ice cap ia to me a puzzle. To reach the tea cap ie his only chance of travelling north. Tha coast line is a fumbled up mass of peaks of (tons and let, rising thousands of fast, like a per pendicular wall. After gening the sum mit. by steering a northeast couno he will be ab!e to ciit of 20(1 mflve of coast line, going entirely east of Prndboeland peninsula, reaching ths southern edge of lhe*Uumboldt glacier SO miles east of Pci body fc-y.. From there AFTZA CROSSIXO THP. GLACIER, sixty miles at its narrowest point, be hi many hundred miles to travel to reach tbe known limit of the northern coast at th* 84th degree, reachod by the Greety party from Lady Franklin bay in 1882, Ho wiH meet immense crevices in the ice cap, Impossible to cross, and requiring day* to go around. Fearful storms sweep over the icecsp, and as they do not know how to build snow igloos they will, if not careful, perish. If.iu* thing should happen to Peary during the trip, who will be competent among his men to guide the others back to McCormick hay? Tboy have no furs to make sleeping bags, aod nothing but furs will keep a man alive during the terrifle storms on the icocap, A but vyon’t stand while you coupt three. Igloos, with floors three feet below !bo surface, are tbe only thingo they can oxist in. It requires skill to build th*m properly. I am afraid retry wiil never get back to McCormick bay if ho mskee any northern journey. But the neighboring country, being unknown, ie rich for sci entific discovery, and if he live* to get back, even if unable to go any farther north, ho will have much worth ebowiug and telling. Darkness beglm October 27 and lost* until February 15, or 115 daya From February 15 to October 27—254 days—it is iigni aii of iu* i»uif. If careful of hie boat, it will be in fair condition next ipring for bie return Sooth to Cape Y'ork. Not having any certainty of a relief party rescuing him. ho will, no doubt, make an early start South. From McCormick bay he will cross Murchison sound to Herbert island, nud fiorn thero to • 'ape I’euy by nnr of Rsdcliffe point, nearly 100 mile* Due bouthweat from Cap© I'eary lie Car j islande, the Southwestern one ot which contains the cache of tho Nares expedi tion. Poary has sixty miles of water to cross in n heavily laden boat—a job we hadn't nerve to undertake In 1888; for, to mias and to go to the leeward of the island* in a gale meant death in the "North water." On Ibis .Southeast Cary island aro a clinker built lifeboat and gear and ration* for several montha for bis men, if In good condition. When we examined them in 1883 previous to tho loss of tho Proteus, we found 75 per cent, •f them in good condition. AVm SEVEN YEARS’ EXPOSURE. It is now fifteen years since they were landed. LlouL Peary will m*ke from thero either Saundere inland or Wolstenhohn island and then Cape Atbot, From Cape Athol until the Itetowik glacier is passed he will be unable to mako a landing for fifty miles. A solid glacier face, many feet Hi height, constantly discharging Leary islands of ice, heavy currents filled with ice, will be met, and with fog and bad weather the outlook will be pelled to leave us to our fate and go to the southward to esespo wreck. Lieut; Peary will have SCO mile* ol sea to cross before getting to Upernavik. Mrs Peary will be for day* in tho . at before getting aehore. You know wiar her mind will be during that tlm*. After leaving the cape, steering by a southeast oourae, ha may touch at eorao of islands. We were eixtv-one hour* bo- fore reaching Thorn’s Wand. It ia ex- tremaly hazardous to enter the floe* too far, although tbe only chance for eafety, u to fll Up TU the ILK in case of heavy weather. Being to lee ward of heavy ice flattens the hp3, and by quick work a boat may live it ou; as we did. If driven nlong the bergs their chants are email. They can, it strong enough, pull out on the floes, but I am afraid they era,too weak to handle a heavy boat with gear and cargo. For hours at a time it is acomlant fight for Ilf© when among the pack ice. For miles around were pieces too small to bear a man’s "•Ulhf. yet big enough to stave in a boat, r ighting to keep it off iu a sea—wet, cold and hungry—it makes me shudder to think of Mrs. Peary having to go through 1. * I had space to tell you all they wi.l have to go through if forcod to cro»* Melville bay noxt spring. ffOBC TICHTI TtflLFB TRASS. Hat Never «*• Ashamed Until Mar Little Sow Caught ll*r. New York Letter in Washington Star. Another interesting talker whs a bur lesque actreei, personally a quite irra- proachable woman, no matter what the public may think of her. "The first time I ever put on tights," ehe said. "I was notgreatly emharrHHsed. bat tuts Weak I uml mu eXpOIiiugv Of utter and absolute shame. You s-e, I have been wearing tfguta now for twelv© years, I was 10 when I first donned them. I had always lupposed it was a proper thing to do, for I had been brought up among theatrical people, and I doubt if* I bed ever heard a word said about the immodosty of it. 1 /«lt awfully awkard and had aorne fear about the thing* holding together on thnt fir*t occasion, but there was uo aharao what ever. Indeed, I was conscious of looking lovely, and was glad of the chance of showing how well I was planned. Well, I married, j Ou know m iitt.0 white after this, and had a child—a fine boy. The boy, eir, was tho pride of my heart, and ie atill. 1 brought him up as wed as a roaming gypsy like myself can bring up 1 lnl.ir.-u. A k-cat part of tho timo im has lived quietly with hia aunt in New Jorsey, and for tho last two yearn he want to a boarding school fa New Hamp shire. Now, in all hia life h'l never saw me on the stage. Ho knew that [win im ni trons, but had an idoa that 1 played in tragedy or something serious. Re cently he came to seo me, and pestered me to lot him go to the theatre and so© mo act. 1 refused, and ho cried a littlo. Ile’e 9 years old» you know, and I cave him 50 cents a week for pocket money. 1 thought no more about his going to the theatre, but when 1 made my entrance on the stags c=s sfteiSOQB ih© fire! face my eyes fell upon waa my boy’s. "There he sat, pale, upright, with hia eyea fixed on me in my burlesque cos tume. 1 had a stage fright, and only re covered my seif by 'a supreme effort For the fir:t time in my life I felt the shame of wearing tights Could 1 have foreseen that moment, could I have an ticipated that sousation in s<y girlhood, I would have never put them on. Dur ing all that performance I woe misera ble. the moro ao because my boy got up and ran out of the theatre ae noon as he ■aw the spectacle I was making of my self. when I went home I found him almoat broken hearted. Now, I've got to give up my old line of business. I’m looking for a chanoa where I can wear skirts. 1 don’t blame the boy a bit Ilow would you feel if you saw your mother skipping round in pale blu* fleshings before a theatre full of people?’ KKMINISCKNCKS OF THK ATACH* AmnelNg Incident* of By«o«e Day* Itrlilnd th* Footllghte. from the Watcrbury American. After the performance of "Mgasy Mad” on Monday night several mem Dora of tbe company were regailing them selves with incidents of the summer vaca tion and rnuinLccacert of amusing hap penings of stage life, among them Harry li. Hudson, who plays the millionaire in the play. Mr. Hudson is a veteran ef the stage and has been ia this world a long time. "I wae a youngster then," eatd he, "thirty year* ago aud a member of a elock company playing at tke old Drury Lane in Pittsburg. G 'W.Couid- ock, who plays here with F.ftie F.llsler next week, was the manager of the com pany aud his word was Jaw, his very look to be remembered with awe. We were playing "Richelieu.” Couldo»,'k in the title role sad I aa tha king, lx»>ii# XIII. Bo anxious was I to raakr an im pression on Couldock, that I became "rattled ’ aud succeeded in making nn impression much different then I had anticipated. "Klcholieu was dying and l, ae the king, entreated him to live, with the fol lowing line*: 'Live, Richelieu, Jive, Live, »Ire.’ Richelieu replies. ‘Live, lire/ and I amwer a* follows: ‘Yes, with power most absolute Live! if not for n.e for France!’ in speaking this lMt sen tence I .lost my head altogether and said: ‘live? If not for France for we!' 'For you?* replied Couldock with p« B *' u P race. ‘For you? Why, who in the blankety-blank blank are you, you blank blanked fool? Tho audience heard every ordcf thin decidedly interesting <Jia- ruug down at to de ad tha frorr the oil shi' how ebe longed for 1 lost—but do not 1 some morning of epring time, "What’s that thero atatue supposed be:” asked su old lady Unking' throi cue of ti e public buiblingj. "That? Why, that Is a reprtccLti. of jnitlo that's it. ’ tU 11 Chugwater, “nut darn me i * to grin, ’—Chicago Tribune, 1 iV“ ; could get uo -r t .ilea of it. Ihe Yantic. hun 1 August of the same yea^i A public, died today. ar.u uau woaiucr • tl /4 ths curtain was ru iBdMd, to h l*ram. howl, of .,pt,u~. It U out . »«*£ “»• » .. Al ,’ alher una,- ..id u>. old Conjr.sl rock, Ijrln. (tirtr bum* on. pl.rlng tbe •Willow Cop..' CO..I, to Cpo York. wbrr. h. -Ill p Couldock hu.klM»dwh.r. h. «P«U to m«t wttk ^ ^ thowhJ.rk 1 y&toi SklbI pi»7»d th, port of Mr Arthur Cipe ^ork if avoided J Analev a wealthy young squire. It wea bound for Jon.i Mud “ lh,r 1 ^’ a nL*rv>l .o i l. .. a c.od.d.ie for ing grounds. Th.r »'don , PP ro»ch.d Couldock for lb. pur- ! nearer to ths ci[* thin tw«nty mil-, on on , l r (, f< a. 1 Jr.n .ceounlof th. h«»»7 Ie. .nd b. «rol»i«i<d I. thond.rlng ion..: nnaten of Icbrn. dUctor»d from | ”SL“‘^rt^Tk<d Don't you III., hundred. «F ] know u„t th. p.n c.il. for kid glor-T ^rgat Mer <ie Glaco. team Imliwtt o»r , . . k e ro#< to crUt h K>lied head, the ice is. »• A rule, solid os mn^red ‘How can I get kid JjK5.rldklr.Mlh.VwJ ««■»«• ‘firen do,Ur. » wmns driring th. b»rgi in tb. high! I j,* cr ied. '>«*«n doll.ri . w..kl the bay. , t-unwinf. Go on naked, my boy, and I won t #ay a We found A record in1I888 belong!nglo , on uu , j Sir John lfou thnt *>«d Ulo undmiurM word, nn Ilrown’i iijan l »inre lMf, th rtr-tiro nan. C»p« York I. kept urtnd o. st.rho.rd bow, .nd wt.lcn f 'fult. 1 ir„ reward, to Induce them to ri.if: -sm* *" **ntiro ship’s company fo mating a close call to tbe cape. The party cannot lire at the csF«.

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The weekly telegraph. (Macon, Ga.) 1885-1899, September 16, 1891, Image 1