Tazewell Republican. [volume] (Tazewell, Va.) 1892-1919, 1901-09-12

had given herself without reserve
and suffered all the fortunes of @
love disdained. I alone OWNED heI
struggles; nor a word nor look be-
trayed her when strangers were near
so great is the power Of an aristo-
cratic education over those who have
been confined in its narrow limits
from infancy.
I wished that she might open her
heart to me, being persuaded that a
grief loses intensity as it is told to
another; but she seemed to divine my
| thought, with that rare intuition
with which women are endowed She
was, perhaps, grateful to me, but, had
I even stretched out my hand in sym
pathy, the sensitive one would have
enclosed herself more firmly in her
reserve.
We arrived at Naples, where we re-
manned Is days. My lord and his
young wife accompanied me in all my
excursions. A book in his hand, my
lord commenced everything and
looked at nothing; the young Eng
lishwoman was attentive, but indif-
ferent. One day, the last that we
passed in Naples, our promenade led
us before a statue of Sapho, ready to
precipitate herself in the waves. My
lord read in his book;
"Sapho (author unknown marble.
C.. .,f. 10 fo1 ~
the moment when she is prepared to pre-
cipitate herself into the sea. in despair at
not being loved by Ph9on, whom she
adored. Her left hand throws her Tyre be-
hind her, as If to abandon all which made
her glory and her life. Very beautiful
marble, found at Syracuse in an eXcava-
ton. Attributed to the sculptor Agri-
genie"
every beautiful" said my lord, and
passed on.
The young wife paused before it,,
while her husban was reading the
description in the book, and her eyes
were fixed upon the marble with an
expression of terrible grief. The
woman who knew the despair of not
being loved spoke to her descendant.
/ watched an instant the two statues
face to face, the marble statue and
the statue of flesh, animated by the
same grief. Artist, and almost cruel,
contemplated art and nature to-
gether, but only for an instant.
took step forward, my lady saw me,
recovered herself, and continued her
way in the museum with a sad smile
on her pale lips.
The following morning we were on
shipboard returning to England. 1t
was the second day of our voyage. 1t
was midnight, and was seated upon
deck dreaming, my spirit Graded de-
liciously in the mildness of the night,
night of Italy, peaceful and lumin-
Gus, crowned with a chaplet OF
trembling stars. The melody that an
Italian maestro had put to some
Arab verses of winged flowers came
to my memory, and almost without
thought, sung that oriental poetry,
dazzling and pensive at the same
time.
The young wife had joined me un-
perceived. Suddenly I noticed her
white form, and, interrupting myself,
rose,
Continue" said she, sweetly, con
tinue, I pray you" and she leaned
upon the railing. I can see her there
all in white, with Scotch plaid half
thrown over her shoulders, leaning
like reed upon the balustrade. Her
voice seemed to me so sweet and i'm
perious, her large green eyes, always
lowered, were raised, and sparkled so
brilliantly that the night seemed
brighter. l commenced my song
She listened attentively, standing in
the food of pale light which fell
from the stars, and seemed to mingle
and lose herself in the milky trans
parency Of the air. l had dream OF
the white lady of Walter Scott, of the
fay of Lochleven astray that evening
long ago on the banks of the CUmes
/ sang with a strange sentiment, as
one who made an invocation; then
at the moment I had finished the last
verse, I saw her bend quickly to the
movement of the vessel. a voice muir
mured: "Adieu-Sapho," and body
fell into the water.
sprang up-the boats were
launched, but the waves quickly
closed over her, and the sea jealousy
guarded its fancee.
They wrote to her father; "YouI
daughter was drowned by accident
in going from Naples to Civita-Nec
ehia," but the next day 1 heard an
old italian sailor say, in low voice
shaking his head: can accident. \
fine. story! She had eyes green like
the sea; all such end their lives so;
the wind always carries them away
And I thought of the story of the
Arab and of the three sisters who
iourneyed far, Perhaps the daughter
of Albion, herself, became flower Of
the sea, and travels also upon the
waves in an eternal search for the
lover far away.