friendship. Russell wrote every particular to Mrs. Cavendish, and said, that as he was about to return to England in a few weeks, having obtained sick leave, he would bring the purse and sword of his departed friend with him. Poor Mrs. Cavendish murmured over the word "departed;" paled, shook her head, and then looked up into the face of her own Kate, with a smile beaming with a hope, which certainly her daughter did not feel: -"He is not dead," she repeated; and in the watches of the night, when in her slumbers she had steeped her pillow with tears, she would start, repeat -"he is not dead.". then sleep again. There was something beautiful and affecting in the warm and earnest love, the perfect friendship existing between this youthful mother and her daughter; it was so unlike the usual tie between parent and child; and yet it was so well cemented, so devoted, so respectful: the second Kate, at fifteen, was more womanly, more resolute, more calm, more capable of thought, than her mother had been at seven-and-twenty; and it was curious to those who note closely the shades of human character, to observe how, at two-and-thirty, Mrs. Cavendish turned for advice and consolation to her high-minded daughter, and leaned upon her for support. Even Mrs. Seymour became in a great degree sensible of her superiority; and felt something like shame, at complaining before her grand-daughter, of the frivolous matters which constituted the list of her misfortunes. The beauty of Miss Cavendish was like her mind, of a lofty bearing, — lofty, not proud. She looked and moved like a young queen; - she was a noble girl; and when Sir Edmund Russell saw her first, he thought, alas! I cannot tell all he thought, but he certainly "fell," as it is termed "in love," and nearly forgot the wounds inflicted in the battle field, when he acknowledged to himself the deep and everliving passion he felt for the daughter of his dearest friend. "It is indeed most happy for your mother," he said to her some days after his arrival at Sydney Hall, "it is indeed most happy for your mother, that she does not believe what I know to be so true; I think, if she were convinced of your father's death, she would sink into despair." "Falsehood or false impressions," replied Kate, "sooner or later produce a sort of moral fever, which leaves the patient weakened in body and in mind; -- I would rather she knew the worst at once; - despair by its own violence works its own cure." "Were it you, Miss Cavendish, I should not fear the consequences; but your mother is so soft and gentle in her nature." "Sir Edmund, she knew my father -lived with him -- worshipped him; the knowledge of his existence was the staff of her's; he was the soul of her fair frame. Behold her now,-how beautiful she looks, those sun-beams resting on her head, and her chiselled features upturned towards heaven, tracing my father's portrait in those fleecy clouds, or amid yonder trees; and do you mark the hectic on her cheek?-Could she believe it, I know she would be better; there's not a stroke upon the bell, there's not an echo of a foot-fall in the great avenue, but she thinks it his; at night she starts, if but a mouse do creep along the wainscot, or a soft breeze disturb the blossoms of the woodbine that press against our window; and then exclaims, 'I thought it was your father!" " With such converse, and amid the rich and various beauties of a picturesque, rambling old country house, with its attendant green meadows, pare trout stream, and sylvan grottos, sometimes with Mrs. Cavendish, sometimes without her, did Kate and Sir Edmund wander, and philosophize, and fall in love. One autumn evening, Mrs. Seymour, fixing her eyes upon the old tentstitch screen, said to her daughter, who as usual had been thinking of her husband, "Has it ever occurred to you, my dear Kate, that there is likely to be another fool in the family? I say nothing,- thanks to your father's will, I have had this old rambling place left upon my hands for my life, which was a sad drawback; - better he had left it to your brother." "You might have given it up to Alfred, if you had chosen, long ago," said Mrs. Cavendish, who knew well that, despite her grumbling, her mother loved Sydney Hall as the apple of her eye. "What, and give the world cause to say that I doubted my husband's judgment!- No, no: I am content to suffer in silence; but do you not perceive that your Kate is making a fool of herself, just as you did, my dear, - falling in love with a soldier, marrying misery, and working disappointment."-More, a great deal more, did the old lady say; but fortunately nobody heard her, for when her daughter perceived that her eyes were safely fixed on the tentstitch screen, she made her escape, and, as fate would have it, encountered Sir Edmund at the door. In a few minutes he had told her of his love for her beloved Kate; but though Mrs. Cavendish had freely given her own hand to a soldier, the remembrance of what she had suffered, - of her widowed years, the uncertainty of her present state, anxiety for her child's happiness, a desire, a fear of her future well being, all rushed upon her with such confusion, that she became too agitated to reply to his entreaties: and he rushed from the chamber, to give her time to compose herself, and to bring another whose entreaties would be added to his own: he returned with Kate, pale, but almost as dignified as ever. Mrs. Cavendish clasped her to her bosom. "You would not leave me, child, - would not thrust your mother from your heart, and place a stranger there?" "No, no," she replied; "And do you love him ?" "Kate's heart is large enough for both." The maiden hid her face upon her mother's bosom; yet though she blushed, she did not equivocate; but replied in a low firm voice, "Mother, I do." "Sir Edmund," said the mother, still holding her child to her heart; "I have suffered too much, too much, to give her to a soldier." "Mother," whispered Catherine; yet, for all that you have suffered, for all that you may yet endure, you would not have aught but that soldier husband, were you to wed again!" : No other word passed the lips of the young widow : — again, again, and again, did she press her child to her bosom; then placing her fair hand within Sir Edmund's palm, rushed in an agony of tears to the solitude of her own chamber. "Hark! how the bells are ringing," said Anne Leafy to Jenny Fleming, as they were placing white roses in their stomachers, and snooding their hair with fair satin riband." And saw you ever a brighter morning? Kate Cavendish will have a blithesome bridal; though I hear that Madam Seymour is very angry, and says no luck will attend this, no more than the last wedding!" The words had hardly passed the young maid's lip's when a bronzed countenance pressed itself amid the roses of the little summerhouse in which they sat arranging their little finery, and a rough and travelsoiled man inquired; "Of whom speak ye?" "Save us!" exclaimed Jenny Fleming, who was a trifle pert. "Save us, master! why, at the wedding at the Hall, to be sure,- Kate Cavendish's wedding, to be sure; she was moped long enough, for certain, and now is going to marry a brave gentleman, Sir Edmund Russel!"— The stranger turned from the village girls, who, fearful of being late at the church, set away across the garden of the little inn, leaving the wayfarer in quiet possession, but with no one in the dwelling to attend the guests, except a dea. 2 waiter, who could not hear "the strange gentleman's" questions, and a dumb ostler, who was incapable of replying to them. * * * * * The youthful bride and the young bridegroom stood together at the altar; and a beautiful sight it was, to see them on the threshold of a new existence. Mrs. Cavendish might be pardoned for that she wept abundantly, -partly tears of memory, partly of hope; -and the ceremony proceeded to the words "If either of you know any impediment ;"-when there was a rush, a whirl, a commotion outside the porch, and the stranger of the inn rushed forward, exclaiming "I know an impediment, she is mine!" A blessing upon hoping, trusting, enduring woman! A thousand blessings upon those, who draw consolation from the deepness of despair-the wife was right, her husband was not dead — and as Colonel Cavendish pressed his own Kate to his bosom, and gazed upon her face, he said—“I am bewildered! they told me false, they said Kate Cavendish was to "And so she is," interrupted Sir Edmund Russel; but from your hand` only will I receive her: are there not Two KATES, my old friend?" What the noble soldier's feelings were, Heaven knows, voice could express them,- no pen write them; they burst from, and yet were treasured in his heart. be married! and no human "My child! that my daughter!-two Kates!-wife and child!" he murmured. Time had galloped with him, and it was long ere he believed that his daughter could be old enough to marry. The villagers from without crowded into the sweet village church, and moved by the noise, Mrs. Seymour put on her new green spectacles, and stepped forward to where Colonel Cavendish stood trembling between his wife and child; then looking him earnestly in the face, she said, "After all, it is really you? Bless me! how ill you look ! -- I never could bear to make people uncomfortable; but if you do not take great care, you will not live a month!" "I said he was not dead,” repeated his gentle wife; " and I said but what does it matter what was said?- Kate the second was married; and that evening, after Colonel Cavendish had related his hair breadth 'scapes, and a sad story of imprisonment, again did his wife repeat, “I said he was not dead!" THE DEVOTED. A TALE OF POLAND.-BY A POLISH REFUGEE. [From "The Friendship's Offering," for 1835.] [The following narrative was written by a Polish Nobleman, now a refuges in England. It is founded on facts which occurred during the late heroic struggle of his countrymen for independence; in which the writer and his family were distinguished for their patriotic devotion; and, subsequently, not less distinguished for their cruel sufferings from Russian vengeance.-The circumstance of this article having been written in English by a foreigner, may account for some few peculiarities of style. I. DURING the last Polish war with Russia, on the evening of the 28th of March 1831, two horsemen, mounted upon jaded steeds, were seen on the side of the River Bug, in Podolia, making the best of their way towards the hollow road leading into a dark forest, with the view of sheltering themselves from an impending storm. The wind howled fearfully; the rain began to fall in heavy drops; and the thunder, not usual at this season of the year, was heard in the distance in tremendous peals. The clder of the horsemen, wrapped in a large military cloak, gazed in silence for a considerable time on his young companion, whose appearance indicated that he had been recently wounded. His head was bound with linen completely saturated with blood, and his right arm hung in a scarf; while with difficulty he maintained his seat on a horse apparently almost as feeble as himself. At length, the former of the two horsemen broke a long silence by inquiring of the other if he felt himself better, and whether he thought he should be able to reach the castle. The younger, whose person, dress, and demeanour seemed to class him in a higher rank than that of his companion, replied with the condescending familiarity of a master to his vassal: My honest friend John, think not of my weakness, or the miserable plight in which you now see me; I have still sufficient strength, not only to reach the castle before midnight, but also, should it be necessary, to defend myself against a second surprise of Cossacks. Be assured that to the weakness of my horse the escape of the leader of this band of robbers is to be attributed; and make yourself easy upon this point, that the remainder of these rogues will not he tempted again to attack three, or even two horsemen who bear the badge of Dwernicki."* "Ah! Lieutenant," replied old John; "it is true that by your hand two Cossacks were slain, and that I assisted in the dispersion of others; but it's a sad pity that our brave Sergeant Przyporski, after having served gloriously in so many wars, in Spain, Italy, and Russia, in Napoleon's time, should at length finish his course in a paltry skirmish with these thieves. He taught them, however, to know the stroke of a Polish sword, which I think, they will not speedily forget; and I believe, had it not been for the In the battle of Kurow, on the 4th of March, 1831, some squadrons of cavalry espe cially distinguished themselves, and were rewarded by General Dwernicki for their gallantry by a mark of honour affixed to their uniforms Czerkie* with his ianczarkat behind the thicket, who shot him in the breast, you, Lieutenant, would not have been so desperately wounded; and the poor sergeant would perhaps still have lived to harass the enemy upon his karoszt in many a battle." "What more is to be said, John? Human destiny is irrevocable; and although Sergeant Przyporski fell in this trifling encounter, he has nevertheless died the death of a hero fighting against the enemies of his country. Glory be to his memory יי! "Amen!" sighed John, deeply affected, and the travellers relasped once more into silence. During this conversation, the violence of the storm had increased. The peals of thunder became more loud and awful, the flashes of lightning were frequent and vivid; while around were heard the sound of the tempest-stricken trees, the fierce howling of the wind, the cries of affrighted beasts, and the hoarse roaring of the river, whose waters, swollen by foaming torrents, and impetuously bearing along fragments of stones, and splinters of riven trees, gave to the scene a terrible grandeur. Our travellers, however, proceeded, although with the greatest difficulty, in the darkness of the night, through the deep recesses of the forest, unable to distinguish the road; while their horses, weary with their fourth day's journey, during which they had been supplied with but scanty provender, were barely able to sustain their riders, as they stumbled on a path strewn with loose stones, and rendered rugged and uneven by gnarled roots of trees. After two hours, the storm in some measure subsided, and the silence of the travellers was again interrupted by an observation from old John, who regarded the gradually improving aspect of the road, and the prospect of a more campaign country, as an evidence that they were at last not far from the Castle of L *Thank Heaven for that!" answered Zapolski, the Lieutenant, "for I feel I want strength, and what is worse, our horses can scarcely move their weary limbs." "Oh! my dear master," answered the other," do not lose courage. I fancy I already see lights beaming from the castle windows, and although, judging from their apparent distance, we are at least a half a mile§ from a comfortable bed, nevertheless, by the blessing of God, I hope we shall soon find a welcome there.-Come, my poor Tysiu, get on; in a short time oats and hay will be your reward for the fatigues of the day. Your Siwosz, ¶ Lieutenant, I perceive, is aware of his proximity to a stable, -- he raises his ear and walks more boldly; and see my steed has also taken the hint." Lieutenant Zapolski, although feeble, tickled the side of the Siwosz at this intimation, and in another half-hour our two travellers had halted be. fore the gates of the castle of L II. In the saloon of the Castle of L -, Count Adolph was sitting at a table, intent on the composition of a list of the names of noblemen devoted to the cause of their common country. His wife, a beautiful and interesting woman, was standing behind his chair, to whom the Count frequently referred for her opinion as he set down the names. His sister, the young • A savage horde belonging to Russia, who served in the war, like the Cossacks. A black horse. Particular names are commonly given to horses from their colour. The name of a horse which has a star upon his forehead. A grey horse. |