THE BETRAYED AND HIS AVENGER.

A STORY OF THE POLISH REVOLUTION.

(For the Parterre.)

In the summer of 1833, there were many conspiracies formed for the purpose of overturning the Continental governments; and the Polish emigrants did not lose the opportunity it afforded them, of making another desperate effort under hopes of gaining the independence of their country. About three hundred, of the Polish emigrants were sent under, different disguises to the various provinces in Poland, for the purpose of stirring up a revolutionary spirit amongst the enslaved population-but, in all the instances, were unsuccessful. Many of the emigrants fell into the hands of the Cossacks, and were hung or shot, without even the mockery of a Russian trial. It was towards the latter end of July of that year, that, one beautiful morning shortly after sunrise, we were gazing on the tranquil farm-yard that was seen below; its only noise being that occa

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sioned by the agricultural labourers, as they sought out or arranged their various implements of husbandry, and prepared to follow the toils of the day.

The farm itself was situated on one of those delightful spots where nature appears to have done her best to make man happy. The building, or rather series of buildings, formed four sides of a square;-the one towards the south was the dwelling place of the family, that towards the north was occupied by the cows and lower animals, the eastern side was reserved for stables, while the western served the purposes of a barn, and sheltered the grain, carts, carriages, and the other farm stock and furniture.

From the front of the house was seen a most beautiful view of the Prosna, as it winded below in many narrow curves, occasionally breaking out where the land was low and sandy. Few boats ruffled the quiet face of its smooth course; nor were the inhabitants on its banks often disturbed by the sound of the bugle, or. the shriller blast of the huntsman's horn. Far as the eye could reach, lay extended those long and beautiful meadows that so

adorn unfortunate Poland; while behind, rose an abrupt gathering of hills, which protected the cottage from the northern blast; all around was foliage trees, stately, grand, and beautiful, towering forth in their innocent pride, and shaming the more studied works of art that in the curiously-fashioned old pile vainly attempted to disturb the attention of the gazer.

A horseman was seen rapidly galloping towards the house by the road which approached it from the south, and in a few minutes more the hoofs of his steed grated harshly as he reined him up before the door, which was opened by Niela, the only daughter of the old farmer.

"Oh! Waclaw, has he escaped?" she exclaimed.

"I arrived too late-his doom was already fixed."

"Oh heaven that I had informed you sooner-his blood is on my head!-poor youth! some sister may yet mourn thy unknown fate-but how came it-is he really dead?"

"He fought long and bravely, but had to contend with a superior force; and before I came to his assistance, all hope was over-he was wounded, and a prisoner! I watched every opportunity to effect his escape-but it was a hopeless task-last night he was condemned; and this morning, at sun-rise, I saw his body bleaching in the air!"

"Why did I not inform thee sooner! -but the duty of a daughter forbade it! No! avaunt with such a feeling!-I am no longer a daughter; I am a Polish woman. O that I had forgot my father, and saved Winnicki! O that I had remembered alone the cause of my country! He came from afar to regenerate it-my father betrayed him, and I forbore until too late to inform him of the deceit Wretch that I am!-the Polish mothers will raise their finger in scorn at me as I pass, and shout,There goes the daughter of a traitor Pole!'hateful name; would that I had betrayed the traitor, even although it would have been my grey-headed father!"

"Niela! my dear Niela! who betrayed him?-speak, tell me--you rave -my blood runs strangely in my veins!" Niela answered only by a deep-drawn sigh, and sunk back upon the threshold. "God be my witness, my betrothed! -speak, tell me, who is the traitor ?and I swear that no tie, no endearment of relationship to either thyself or to me, shall screen him from the vengeance he merits."

"My father is the traitor!" shrieked the terrified girl, as she rose and muttered hastily between her set teeth, and, wiping the cold perspiration from her brow, invited Waclaw to enter.

"No, Niela!" replied Waclaw, "the daughter of a traitor never can be my wife!"

Waclaw mounted his steed, and pursued his route to the rendezvous of his companions in arms, and before it was noon passed over the spot of the morning's murder. The scene was in the centre of one of the most verdant meadows on the banks of the Prosna; it had already yielded its golden crop, which, gathered up into sheaves, dotted the landscape as far as the eye could reach, Near the spot on which Waclaw stood were the marks of the hoofs of the Cossack-horse, and all around were apparent the ravages of an insolent barbarian and invading force: these were the only visible marks of the morning's butchery, still the blood of the slain cried to Heaven for vengeance, and Waclaw swore that it should be avenged.

The grief of Niela was extreme; she had not only suffered an innocent patriot to be butchered for her want of decision; -she knew, too, that her father was a traitor to his country-she knew that Waclaw also knew this-that he had vowed vengeance against her father, and that he despised herself,-her best feelings were lacerated-she wished for death -life had become a burden to her ;-her father's sight had become hateful, and his endeavours to console her, only augmented her grief, and when she was forced to tell him the cause, the old man covered his face with his hands and wept like a child. This called a new feeling into her heart, and the woman again became a daughter; she wept upon his neck, as he detailed to her how he had been forced to betray the poor emigrant; how he himself had been in the hands of the Cossacks, and only saved his life and that of his daughter, by giving such information as had, unwittingly on his part, been successfully used for the purpose of entrapping Winnicki.

The heart of the old man was its own avenger; he bethought himself that he had a son also, an exile, who might be betrayed, and that he might yet live to know that the death of Winnicki had been avenged in that of his own blood. These thoughts had hardly once through his fevered brain ere his daughter was summoned to the door; she returned with a letter he knew the

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hand-writing, and opening it with breathless anxiety, found that Winnicki was no other but his exiled son-the letter said the writer had but a few minutes to live-that he had been betrayed by some unknown hand-that ere the sun was high in the heavens, he would have ceased to exist-he craved pardon for living with him under a false name, but assured him that the cause in which he was engaged, imperatively demanded that he should so disguise himself.

The sun had already sunk beyond the horizon of the Prosna-the heart-broken daughter and frantic father were silently sitting at the cottage table · -a slight knock was heard at the window; Niela opened it t-some one desired to speak with her father. The old man rose at the summons, but had not reached the window when a shot was fired, and he fell prostrate on the floor.

A tall slender figure bent himself over the window, and exclaimed, "thus may every traitor perish!" mounted his horse and rode off from the farm.

Niela, poor Niela! she it was who least deserved it, and who suffered the most: in one day deprived of her brother, her father, her betrothed; she felt the iron of disappointed hope deep in her breast, but she gave way to no impassioned madness-her resolve was soon taken, and she devoted herself, like more of her countrywomen, to wander among the tombs of her country's patriots, imprecating vengeance on the head of the ruthless invader, who has converted Poland into a wide and long churchyard, and keeping alive the spirit which will yet burst the bonds that despotism has succeeded for a time in fixing on the face of a marked nation.

Ten months after these tragical events, I was forced to travel quietly through France on my way to England, as I found that the part I had taken in the expedition to Savoy, prevented my finding an asylum in any other quarter of Europe. During the journey, the diligence arrived at midnight, in the month of July, at a village in the department of Vesoul upon the Saône; we were crowded with passengers, all of them belonging to France, and when they entered the inn, every one made as much noise as possible, in order the more quickly to attract the attention of the bustling waiters. In about a quarter of an hour after our arrival, the mistress of the house entered and begged that we would make less noise, as there was a sick person in the house.

"A sick person do you say? is she' pretty, is she a nice little maid, sick with love, or an old hag, ill with hate?" demanded a wine merchant, taking the half smoked cigar from his mouth.

"No, sir; it is a Pole, wounded in body and mind, on the point of death." It was with feelings of the deepest pain that I heard this announcement, and pain the deeper felt-because I observed with what levity the statement was received by my travelling companions, and I requested that I might be conducted to the sick man's apartment. To this request, the mistress at first objected; but when I told her that I was a countryman, and could possibly alleviate his sufferings, she conducted me to where he lay.

The room was little, dimly lighted, and without the smallest article of furniture excepting the pallet upon which the man lay stretched, dressed in a Polish lieutenant's uniform. At the side of the bed stood a small candle, by the light of which he was gazing upon a packet of letters which he held in his hand-he did not appear to be above twenty years of age; his countenance, although marked with the hand of disease and death, was yet expressive and interesting; his eyes were full of fire, but there was a wildness about them that made the blood to curdle-seeing that he was not asleep I addressed him in Polish, and asked how he felt himself; he turned his eyes towards me with a sort of demoniac joy, leaped suddenly from his bed, stopped short, looked at me hard, and then fell down upon his wretched pallet, and began to weep.

I begged the exile's pardon, for intruding upon him; but said that being a Pole, and hearing of his illness, I thought myself bound to visit him, and see if I could in any way assist him.

"A Pole!" he cried, "O yes! I was once a Pole too,-'t was but only yesterday I was a Pole, but now alas-" he was much agitated and turned his face towards the wall, but had not so remained many moments, when he again turned suddenly round, held out his hand, and begged to be forgiven.

He lay quiet for a few minutes, and seemed to be endeavouring to recollect something, as he frequently passed his hand over his high white forehead, and put back the fair hair which, although uncombed, clustered about his brow and over his shoulders, in curls that would have made glad the heart of many a lank haired damsel; at last he said,

"Will you convey these to Niela, to Manda, to Bronislau, to my father? Speak, speak!" he added in a plaintive and beseeching tone.

I instantly recognised in the wasted form of the dying maniac-my old comrade Waclaw; but he knew me not. I replied that his friends were all well, and I would carry whatever he wished.

"Will they come and see me? ha! ha! will they come and see me. No! no! yes! yes!-they will come-more, they will avenge my wrongs."

After these exclamations, he instantly sunk down exhausted, and remained silent for some minutes, at last he said, "Read them-read them-oh yes! I pray you read them," and he placed in my hands a bundle of letters. I began to read one of them, when he tore the whole from my grasp, and calmly folding them up in a handkerchief, said,

"Not now-not now!" and again offered them to me; but I was so struck with his manner, that I involuntarily shrunk from accepting them.

"Are you afraid to take them?" he exclaimed, “take them, they wont hurt you."

Wishing to quiet him as much as possible, I took the bundle, and placed it under my arm; this pleased him, and he continued, in a much calmer tone,

"And thou hast seen my Niela, my Manda, my father, and my brother?-hast thou ever been in Poland, in Kamschatka? Oh! it is terrible to be condemned to pass a life-time in one of those awful mines."

His countenance now changed fasthis colour became more pale, and his features assumed a livid blue aspect.

"The gallows!-the gallows!-you would have hung me, but I escaped from your lances, I have avoided it but all now avoid me-all have forsaken me-my very dog-but it left me last, poor Carlo come with me to Poland!" These were his last words, the clock of the neighbouring church struck one, he pressed my hand and ceased to exist.

My God, who will pay for his room," exclaimed the landlady, who had unperceived entered the room, and witnessed the last act of the tragedy; this comes of keeping a sick man when he has no money-he owes me three days' rent."

I wished to remain at the village and pay my last attentions to my unfortunate comrade; but the gensd'armes would not permit it I was forced into the diligence, and when I awoke to reason, found that it was morning, and we had

arrived at Langrez. I again endeavoured to be permitted to return to bury my dead countryman; but the orders from the interior would brook of no indulgence to one in my situation, and I was forced to leave France without hearing anything more of poor Waclaw. Glasgow. J. R.

NOTES OF A READER.

LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN.

THE subjoined picture of Florinda, whose fatal beauty, like that of another Helen, was the cause of so much mischief and ruin to her country and kindred, is not surpassed by anything that has proceeded from the pen of the author of the "Sketch Book." The delicacy and perfection of the style, the sweetness of the language, the inimitable freshness and enchanting luxury of the whole description, render it a chef-d'œuvre of the author, and a gem of the purest

water.

To

"The beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favour by the Queen Exilona, and admitted among the noble damsels that attended upon her person. Here she lived in honour and apparent security, and surrounded by innocent delights. gratify his queen, Don Roderick had built for her rural recreation a palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after the luxurious style of the east. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and flowers; the groves resounded with the song of the nightingale; while the gush of fountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus, made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days of summer. The charm of perfect privacy also reigned throughout the place: for the garden walls were high, and numerous guards kept watch without, to protect it from all intrusion.

"One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta or mid-day slumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the society of the queen. In passing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female voices to a casement overhung with myrtles and jasmines. It looked into an interior garden or court, set out with orange-trees, in the midst of which was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank enamelled with flowers. It was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain,

the landscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the grashopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps beneath the shade. Around the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who, confident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay asleep on the flowery bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain, talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and King Roderick beheld their delicate limbs shining through the wave, that might rival the marble in whiteness. Among the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the queen. Her complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritania, but it was clear and transparent, and the deep, rich rose blushed through the lovely brown. Her eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed from under long silken eyelashes. A sportive contest arose among the maidens, as to the comparative beauty of the Spanish and Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed limbs of voluptuous symmetry, that seemed to defy all rivalry. The Spanish beauties were on the point of giving up the contest, when they bethought themselves of the young Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, who lay on the grassy bank, abandoned to a summer slumber. The soft glow of youth and health mantled on her cheek; her fringed eyelashes scarcely covered their sleeping orbs; her moist and ruby lips were lightly parted, just revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth: while her innocent bosom rose and fell beneath her bodice, like the gentle swelling and sinking of a tranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness and beauty in the sleeping virgin, that seemed to send forth sweet ness like the flowers around her.

"Behold, cried her companions, exultingly, the champion of Spanish beauty!

"In their playful eagerness they half disrobed the innocent Florinda before she was aware. She awoke in time, however, to escape from their busy hands; but enough of her charms had been revealed to convince the monarch that they were not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of Mauritania. From this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed with a fatal passion. He gazed on the beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought to read in her looks whether there was levity or wantonness in her

bosom; but the eye of the damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained bent on the earth in virgin modesty. It was in vain he called to mind the sacred trust reposed in him by Count Julian, and the promise he had given to watch over his daughter with paternal care; his heart was vitiated by sensual indulgence, and the consciousness of power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications. Being one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself with her damsels, and coming to the fountain where he beheld the innocent maidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion that raged within his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt at his feet, to examine his hand, and the touch of her slender fingers thrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in rich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom palpitated beneath the crimson bodice, and her timid blushes increased the effulgence of her charms."

SINGULARITIES OF MEMORY.

Ir is remarkable, that the incidents of childhood and youth are seldom remembered, or called forth in all their vividness, until old age. I have sometimes been led, from this and other circumstances, to suspect that nothing is ever lost that is lodged in the memory, however it may be busied for a time by a variety of causes. How often do we find the transactions of early life, which we had reason to suppose were lost from the mind for ever, revived in our memories by certain accidental sights or sounds, particularly by certain notes or airs in music! I have known a young man speak French fluently when drunk, that could not put two sentences of that language together when sober. He had been taught perfectly, when a boy, but had forgotten it from disuse. The Countess of L-v-l was nursed by a Welshwoman, from whom she learned to speak her language, which she soon forgot after she had acquired the French, which was her mother-tongue. In the delirium of a fever, many years afterwards, she was heard to mutter words which none of her family or attendants understood. An old Welshwoman came to see her, who soon perceived that the sounds which were so unintelligible to the family were the Welsh language. When she recovered she could not recollect a single word of the language she