fury of war had only disappeared from the face of the devastated world, to burst out again with new rage and despair. The campaign of Russia began; conscriptions were renewed with unexampled rigour, compelling every youth, capable of bearing arms, to follow the restless conqueror to the field. Frederic was among them. In vain his widowed mother threw herself at the feet of the commanding officer, praying for the release of her only son. "Your eldest son is married," was the answer: in vain Anthony offered to procure two substitutes for his son-in-law. "Your money is no less the property of the Emperor than your son-inlaw," replied the petty tyrant. The short space of eight days saw the lovers united and separated. No pen can describe their despair-their own words could not express it. "For ever, Angela !" was all he said: but Angela uttered not a word; she only looked pale as death, and stood motionless. The deeper feelings of our nature can never be expressed; genius may reflect them, as the natural mirror of mankind, but they themselves belong to an existence beyond this life; and only when we have stepped through the awful gates of death, when a fresher sun shall beam on us, our tongue will find a language to express the emotions of the soul. A few weeks after Frederic's departure, his mother died. Time was now a heavy burden to poor Angela; the letters of her lover were the calendar by which she measured her existence. The army entered Russia:--then followed a dreadful pause.-Moscow was reduced to ashes. Heaven sent its frost to destroy the invaders. The army returned-the war began anew-and still no news of Frederic. This was too much for the poor girl; a dangerous illness brought her to the brink of the grave, but the vigour of a youthful constitution_triumphed over the struggles of her mind, and she gradually recovered. During her illness the news of the death of Frederic arrived, and she reentered life only to depart from all its hopes and enjoyments-in silent resignation, and deep, though unrepining grief, a whole year passed away. It was then that her father, seeing the hopeless condition of his child, entreated her to give her hand to a worthy and affluent young man, who had long and unsuccessfully wooed her. He conjured her, by his grey hairs, to give this comfort to his old age. Angela wept, and remained silent; but the health of her father began visibly to decline, and she trembled at the knowledge of being the cause of his grief, and resolved to sacrifice herself. On a warm summer evening, Angela and her father were seated on the bench under the lind-trees; they were both silent. Anthony fixed his eyes on her, and a tear stole slowly over his cheek.-"Father," said she, "I know your wishes-I will. You may give my consent to the brave Louis. But let it not be now, let the winter pass-when spring comes, I will be his wife."-" God bless thee, my dearest child!" was all the old man could reply. But Angela had already entered the cottage; here her full heart gave way to a torrent of tears. She felt herself in the full strength of her health-there was no flattering voice in her breast which whispered to her of hope and death; she felt all her sacrifice, and this alone gave her strength to fulfil it with a sweet melancholy consolation. She smiled again, but the roses of لا her cheek were gone: she was pale and beautiful like a statue of marble, and the bloom of her youth fled, like the scent from the roses of spring, never more to return. Time went on, and the winter passed away. Spring saw her Louis's wedded wife. Three years elapsed, and two children played on Anthony's knees, till death came to unite him to his never forgotten wife. Calm and quiet, a smiling picture of resignation, Angela continued her life of virtue, respecting her husband, and educating her tenderly beloved children. cow, But poor Frederic was not dead. He had followed the army to Mosand witnessed afterwards the grand retreat. At the cruel battle of the Beresina he had been wounded, and left for dead, with thousands, on the ground. A brave soldier, who had fought by his side, saw him fall; he ran to him, and immediately offered him all the assistance in his power, but he thought he was too late, that his friend had already shared the fate of the brave, and only the rapidity of the flight prevented him paying to the remains the last duty. Through him the news of Frederic's fall had been announced to the regiment, and inserted among the list of the dead. As Frederic recovered from his swoon, he found himself on the silent field of battle. It was night, the moon spread her cold and bright beams over the silent heaps of the slain, lying pale, and gory, and dead, in the snow. He endeavoured to rise, and with unspeakable pain he crawled a short distance to a bush, when he again lost his senses. As he awoke for the second time he found himself on a couch in a poor Russian peasant's hut. This brave man happened to pass the road whilst Frederic was endeavouring to reach the bush. Contrary to the general misanthropy of this nation, this noble-hearted peasant exercised the feelings of humanity even towards an enemy, and carried the young soldier on his shoulders to his humble habitation. He here met with all the care, attention, and solicitude that humanity and sympathy could suggest. His wound was not dangerous, and he recovered by degrees. As spring clothed anew the woods and fields, he felt he had attained sufficient strength to think of his journey homeward. Previous to his departure, he wished to reward his benefactors, and the partner of his poverty, but the simple hearts of these children of nature well felt, that charity and true hospitality were beyond reward. They refused his money, and gave their blessing to the brave youth, who left them mingling his tears of gratitude and affection with their's. He had not, however, made much progress, before he was detected and apprehended as a prisoner of war, and sent with a number of unfortunate fellow-sufferers to Siberia. Here he passed four years, working like a slave, and shut out from the enjoyments of the world and social life, by deserts of eternal ice. Yet hope and love did not forsake him in all his trials: like two gentle spirits, they watched over him. Resignation followed their footsteps, and exerted her gentle influence over the sufferer's mind, and kept despair at a distance. At length the long wished for hour of liberation arrived. Two years after the second peace had been concluded, the order for their release gladdened the hearts of the prisoners. As they were to be escorted by a military guard to the boundaries of Prussia, nearly a whole year elapsed before they reached the desired point. Here Frederic shared his money with his comrades, and proceeded alone through Prussia and Germany. Seven years since he had been forced from the land of his birth, and more than six had elapsed since he had received any tidings of Angela or his home. Grief and slavery could neither diminish his af fection nor injure his constitution, and he returned in the full bloom of manly vigour and beauty. Joy, hope, and love, smoothed the difficulties of his journey, and he relied on that Power, who had upheld him in all his sorrows; when the thought of Angela flashed across his mind-not a doubt of her faith entered his breast, for the heart devoted to love, is proof against the attacks of the fiend, jealousy. Every succeeding day brought him nearer to the seat of his bliss, and his heart beat higher, at the thoughts of his approaching felicity; oftentimes he sank down on his knees, and thanked the Father of Mercies for His preservation through his sufferings, till tears choked his utterance. After many a day of disappointed hope and fatigue, the mountains of Savoy saluted his eyes in all their majestic beauty. Who can feel what he felt, when one morning he beheld his native village from the top of a mountain? He alternately run, and walked, and only stopped to offer пр his thanksgivings to Heaven. At length he made an effort to moderate his impetuosity, till he reached a by-path that led him through the village to the Brook Cottage. It was a Sunday morning. Calm and quiet the silent valley lay in its verdant beauty; no breeze disturbed the crystal of the lake, while the tolling of the village bells invited the rustic inhabitants to the temple of the Lord. Frederic descended the hill behind the cottage. A maid-servant sat playing at the door with two children. Frederic, in his agitation, passed without seeing them. When he entered the room, in which he had passed so many happy hours, he beheld the beloved of his heart in the attitude of devotion. Her cheek and lips were pale, though she still looked as lovely as ever. yet mournful smile, played around her mouth; and, as she cast her large and melting eyes towards heaven, the yet happy husband thought that time, instead of diminishing, had added to her charms. His emotion became too great for longer silence, and he faintly uttered, "Angela, O my Angela !" A serene, She looked up, and, beholding Frederic, fell back in her chair, as if she had beheld a spirit of the dead; in an instant she recovered, and exclaimed, "Great God! am I married ?” At these words, Frederic stood thunderstruck; and after a moment's pause of dreadful agitation, he darted from the room, repeating, with a distracted air, "Married!—married!" In this state of mind he hurried through the village, without casting a glance at the home of his infancy, and disappeared. The children in the street saw him running towards the mountains. The dreadful reception had overwhelmed the powers of his mind. He never was seen again in the village. When Louis arrived at home from church, he found his wife in a senseless state. As she recovered, she assumed her former sweet calmness; but, alas! the melody of her voice was gone for ever. Those eyes, which once dwelt on him with affection and esteem, now rolled wildly and restlessly on every object. She never uttered a word, and after lingering a few days, she resigned her breath, pale and smiling as ever, into the arms of her disconsolate husband. The body of the unfortunate Frederic was subsequently found in a deep brook, where, probably, he had fallen in the distraction of his mind, and now enjoys that home, which, living, was denied him. His remains, and those of his Angela, now rest beneath one sod, under the lind-trees of the Brook Cottage. The Cottage is still pointed out to the traveller as a sad monu ment of blighted affection; and the girls of the village sing their lays over the grave, while mothers teach their offspring the tale of the tenants' sorrow, J. GANS, FEMALE DEVOTION IN A SAVAGE. THE following pathetic instance of female devotion to a beloved object, is found in the just-published Voyage to New Zealand by Captain Cruise: -A soldier, in a drunken quarrel, mortally wounded a seaman named Aldridge. A native girl, the daughter of a chief, had lived for some months with the former, and it appeared prudent to remove her from the ship; she complied with the order for her departure with much reluctance. From the time the unfortunate man had been put in confinement till the present moment, she had scarcely left his side or ceased to cry ; and having been told that he must inevitably be hanged, she purchased some flax from the natives along-side, and, making a rope of it, declared that if such should be his fate, she would put a similar termination to her own existence. Though turned out of the ship, she remained alongside in a canoe from sunrise to sunset, and no remonstrances or presents could induce her to go away. When the Dromedary went to the Bay of Islands, she followed over-land, and again taking up her station near that part of the vessel in which she supposed her protector was imprisoned, she remained there in the most desperate weather, and resumed her daily lamentation for his anticipated fate, until we finally sailed from New Zealand. IMPROMPTU, On seeing a beautiful French Girl, whose mother was Engäsh, No wonder that her cheeks disclose, A blush so crimson, and a skin so fair, England has lent her loveliest rose, ON THE PRIVILEGES OF LITERARY MEN. MR. MERTON, IN paying a tribute of admiration to the elegant musings of your correspondent, B. on the "Fate of Genius," I must at the same time admit, I do not think he has represented the case with that impartiality he ought. This is indeed a heavy charge, but I am ready to make it good, by reminding him of the following privileges which are enjoyed by Authors, and which certainly tend in a great degree to counterbalance the drawbacks which Genius, in some respects, "is heir to." In the first place, admitting, with B. that Men of Genius are but seldom properly remunerated, I would tell him, that every allowance is made for an Author; that he has privileges that no other man can claim, and distinctions, which the rest of the world would envy him the possession of. As soon as a man commences Authorship, he may, in the first place, discharge those extravagant (though to the rest of mankind, indispensable) hangers-on, and swallowers-up of income, barbers, tailors, shoe-blacks, washer-women, &c. &c. It is no disgrace for a Literary Man to be seen in a shabby coat; on the contrary, one with the elbows out, is a never-erring distinction of the wearer being devoted to the Muses, those "fantastic mistresses," as some one has called them, with what truth, the reader is best able to judge. As for his hair and beard, a pair of scissors or a razor would be nothing short of sacrilege; should both be neglected, and vie in appearance with the bards of old, it will not be considered as a mark of disrespect to the company he frequents, but rather as an indisputable sign of Genius. For it has become a truism, that wherever there is Genius, there is eccentricity. The ladies, so far from getting shocked at his greasy locks, or shoe-brush chin, will naturally think that something of a very dignified nature must be occupying his mind, to prevent his paying that attention to his person, that decency and civilized society demand. It also shews that his soul is above the common opinion of the world, and he evinces a contempt of all vanity and personal pride. Another privilege of a Literary Man is, that a cat and a garret is all the household he is expected to keep. It would be the height of folly and ignorance were he to inhabit a respectable dwelling he would be posted, as the bard was of old, who got sufficient by his writings to build himself a house. Of all the satires that were penned on this occasion, none was thought so severe as that of the simple truth, which was, "A poet hath built himself a house!" This was so severely felt by his brother bards, that the poor devil was glad to pull it down fast enough, and fly once more to his forsaken attic. A garret, independent of its adjacency to the skies, and consequently its elevation above human concerns, is associated both with classical and poetical reminiscences, which, together with its resemblance to Mount Parnassus, makes it a very fit habitation for a votary of the Muses. Another privilege is quite sufficient to counterbalance a handsome * Literary Magnet, page 83. |