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How necessary, then, my prudence— how dangerous to have allowed him any power against me or mine! Vanda, I reproach not thy memory; but thy error has weighed heavily on me, and on that poor boy! Perhaps it was cowardly to shun him-I should have spoken with him-counselled him; but I could not conquer the adverse feeling."

tine brightness; whilst the original had long been | of his mother. There is no gratitude in his mouldering in the grave. And that being, so beloved breast. and so loving-that truest and tenderest of natures -had dealt him the severest blow that ever struck the heart of man. No occurrence in his existence had ever brought one portion of the rapture with which he had greeted Leon's birth. The bitter deception which followed had overshadowed his after-life, and tainted his paternal joys; for at all times, between him and his own son, the image of that lost boy would start up uncalled, and no effort could chase it away. Casimir, in his childhood, had been sickly and cross-in his dawning manhood was ungovernable and presumptuous; and the comparison between him and the joyous child to whom Vanda had taught the same devotion towards him that she herself entertained-wilful and high-looked on it. Some moments elapsed before he spirited, yet ever brought under by one kind word -would ever present itself painfully. And he could not forget that he had lavished his first paternal emotions on that changeling-emotions which he could never feel again.

The count strode hurriedly up and down the apartment. Again he approached the table, and, applying the key to the work-box, threw open the lid. The first thing that met his sight was a small piece of half-finished needlework, which he well remembered had been destined for himself. The old soldier's eyes were dim with tears as he

could bring himself to remove this article, which
had been last touched, and there deposited, by the
hand he should never see more.
He did remove
it, however; when, side by side with the small
case, which he knew to contain Leon's portrait,
he perceived a letter addressed to himself, the im-
pression of whose seal was flattened by time.

Although the general imagined that no incident connected with his beloved Vanda was forgotten by him, there was yet one to which she had alluded with her dying accents, that for the space of twenty years had never once obtruded on his thoughts. Her last words, " My letter, my letter," now rang in his ears. He made himself the bitterest reproaches for having forgotten to look for this precious document-nay, forgotten its very existence. It contained, doubtless, some expressions of a will which it would have been his greatest happiness to execute. With fear and trembling, he broke the seal. The letter had evidently been written under the dread Vanda experienced of dying during her husband's absence; for it revealed the secret that weighed on her heart, but it contained also what her last agony had prevented her from uttering-a pathetic appeal to his generosity in favor of the unfortunate victim :

He knew that in Vanda's work-table there used to be a picture of Leon. He had not raised that lid since the day of her burial. He now felt a sort of awe in touching it. As he slowly drew the key from its secret recess, he paused. The figure of a dark young man, handsome, yet fierce, with an air of hopeless melancholy about him, rose up before his mind. Of that child, near whose bed he had watched in fond anxiety, whose head had rested on her breast-what had he made?—A serf! With an unflinching hand, he had thrown him back into the slough whence hers had raised him. This was cruel, indeed; and, though in his first blind passion he had not felt it, remorse had often visited him since for his harshness. "But what could I do?" he almost involuntarily murmured aloud. "There was every proof of Vanda's having borne me a son; there was none of that son's death. If I gave the boy an education and freedom, as I could not give him a family, might he not turn an intriguer, and, after my death, attempt to rob my son of his inheritance?-bruit abroad a story, which, for the honor of the family, and Remember, she said, that we have loved him for chiefly for that of her who committed the fault, I years. Throw him not back upon that desolate life have made every possible sacrifice to cover with an realms above, a lasting consolation to know that from which he sprung. It will be to me, in the impenetrable veil? Had he but been resigned to your generous hand has repaired my fault towards the lot which fate awarded him, I would have done that unoffending child. If his presence distress much; and though I might have had the weakness you, send him to some distant land; but let him to avoid, I never should have forsaken him. But have a good education, and an opening in life. what did he ask of me?-Education! Though he lose the father in you, in you let him giving him arms against me and mine. Liberty find the benefactor; and, believe me, you will not to leave my property!-Ay, that he might spread repent this concession to the wishes of a dying woman. Something within tells me the devotion far and wide the tale of his disinheritance! After of that boy's heart will repay youall, he but went to his natural home and friends. He was yet young enough; I foolishly trusted he would lose all memory of the past, except what that old beggar-woman might chance to tell him. But my plan failed; I know not what evil genius in the boy baffled it. And then he turns out to be thoroughly bad—indeed, how could the son of such people be otherwise?-moody, discontented. He has dared to threaten even me, the benefactor

That were

The letter dropped from the general's hand. He was not without some portion of the superstition peculiar to the north; and it seemed to him as if he had forfeited the blessing which this letter had promised him—as if Vanda's displeasure, even from the blessed realms she inhabited, had lain like a spell upon him. "And yet," he muttered to himself, "what was I to do?-run the

mercy for the unoffending and unconscious accomplice of her fraud, ventured, in a last paragraph, to resume, in a few words, a subject often discussed between them, and to which her spiri clung to the last :

risk of exposure? True, I might have sent him the painful task of reading words, each of which to a foreign land-bound him by benefits-bought sank into his soul in the shape of a poignant rehis silence by meriting his gratitude, or fostering proach to his heart or his conscience. Vanda, his hopes; but it is now too late. Had I but after imploring forgiveness for herself-the sinseen this letter sooner, or never read it! Oh-ning and offending party-and tenderness and fatal habit of following the impulse of one's will, without reflecting beyond the sensation of the moment that fear to face a disagreeable topic! I might have spoken to the boy-seen him-done something for him. Had I not dreaded to look on his portrait, to see the contents of this table, which bring before me but too vividly a happiness forever lost, I should have read this letter;" and, hastily snatching up a pencil, he wrote on the mar-him another sort of being than ourselves. We gin

A joyless life, darkened by one sad, yet persistent remembrance by a feeling partaking of regret and remorse—this, Vanda, has been your legacy. Better you had buried your secret in your grave! But we shall meet where both will forgive and be for


He laid the letter on the table, and remained for a time absorbed in the thoughts it awakened; then took up, and opened, the miniature. There was the Leon of his fond delusion-the fine, spirited boy, with the bold look, yet soft smile, which he once deemed of such rare promise-an eye that spoke of a high daring and keen intelligence, in which he once thought he read tokens of warm and gushing affections. What had become of the plant his hand had blighted? A semibarbarian, dark in look, hostile in his inmost soul to all that surrounded him-without one known virtue! Again, something whispered that he was but like other peasants-more brooding, perhaps, but not so brutal. He had heard of his dauntless courage, and could not deny him a sort of rude dignity. He might, under their peculiar circumstances, have claimed money-it could not have been refused; but money Pavel never sought to obtain― but to fly the estate. Had it not been wiser to let him go? His peasants, generally, were discontented and disaffected. It could not be, of course, that they disliked their lord; that was not probable. Why should they dislike him? Could Pavel have incited them to opposition? Impossible! The influence of one man could not effect so much. The emissaries of Austria had won them overintimidated them, and paralyzed their will-or they would, ere this, have flocked round the Polish


At this point of his reflection, the general started at the confused sound of what appeared to him an approaching mass of people. After listening awhile, he became satisfied that it must be Casimir and his companions returning to the chateau. But no! that was not the clatter of horses' feet, but of peasants' hob-nailed shoes on the hard snow. The general approached the window; but, darkness coming on, nothing was discernible. The sounds, however, seemed to die away; and, dismissing the matter from his mind, he rang for lights-then, trembling with emotion, resumed

I fear, thus ran the letter, we are often involun tarily cruel and unjust, from the mere habit of overlooking the man in the serf-at least we fancy

often talk of him as though his nature were little above that of the brute. But is not the neglect of proper education the chief cause of this inferiority? The facility with which Leon has become what children of rank are at his age, has opened my eyes to this injustice. Do, for my sake, give your peasants some good schooling, such as may suit their condition of life; which may make at least men of them-reclaim them from their present state of them to remain like wild beasts, dread the hour utter darkness and moral ignorance. If you suffer when they may turn and rend you!

The general had scarcely read these last words, when loud cries resounded through the before silent passages of the castle.

"Here they come-my faithful people!" exclaimed the count. Hastily throwing the letter and portrait on the table, he was about to rise, when the door of his apartment was flung violently open, and the countess, speechless, almost lifeless, rushed in, and clung to him. This extraordinary terror, the mingled clamor of voices, the yelling and barking of the house-dogs, and the crashing of falling objects, left the general no longer in doubt as to the real nature of the disturbance. Oaths and shrieks reached his ear that could not be mistaken-death-dealing blows, and groans that betrayed human agony, were growing every instant more distinct. Then, suddenly, the chateau was filled with fearful howls, such as the wolves raise in the lone forest. The general looked about him for his arms; they stood in a large closet, near his bedroom. His wife yet clung to him, in the very agony of despair. Whilst he was gently endeavoring to loosen her hold, an aged servant staggered into the apartment, his clothes and hair dabbled with blood, and the lividness of death overspreading his features.

"Fly! Fly for your lives!" he exclaimed. "The peasants are upon us! They have already seized the young count. One issue is yet free-the passage leading to poor Count Leon's former chamber!"'

But, at that instant, the hurried, confused tramp of hob-nailed shoes resounded along the corridor; and, ere they could move a step, dark figures, with Pavel at their head, poured into the chamber. At an order from Pavel the men threw themselves on the count and his wife, and bound the former fast in his chair.

"And now, my friends, one minute's patience," | report rang-Casimir's blood reddened his parents' said Pavel; "I have an old account to settle here. garments!

Do you know me?"

Savage yells now filled the room; and, whilst He approached the chair, and plunged his burn-many forced open drawers and secretaries, and ing glance into the very eyes of the count; but the seized with rapture what money and papers they old soldier maintained his dignity.

"Rebels!" he cried, addressing the boors, and coldly overlooking Pavel," what would you of me? Say what sum will satisfy you. Name it! Or am I to purchase the lives of my family by a renunciation of my rights?"


"Nothing can buy that!" shouted Stepan's son. My own hand brains him who talks of sparing the oppressor or his brood!" And he brandished, as he spoke, his keen, flashing scythe over the head of the general.

"Wait, Stepan-wait, yet awhile!" shouted Pavel; "I must be heard by this proud man!" He placed himself straight before the count. "Here," said he, "look well at me, whose life you have embittered, and who now brings his thanks to you. Your son insulted me-struck me -shot at me; the heir in whom you have placed your pride and your love-who left no place in your heart for charity or justice! All I asked was, to be suffered to depart in peace-to be allowed to wander an exile and a beggar in other lands. I would have gladly toiled for my daily bread, far from this cursed place and the contumely, the hardships of a serf's life. I could not, would not live a serf! Nothing moved younothing touched your stony heart-not my passionate appeals, not even my passive resignation! The serf had not a place in your remembrance. My father had been one before me; why should I not be the same? But, I repeat it, your silent scorn was not enough—your son's more active insolence was not repressed; he struck me, I say! Stepan, hand me the young dog!"

Pavel ap

Until that moment the countess had scarce shown signs of life; but when Casimir, tightly bound and gagged, yet unhurt, was dragged from among the peasants, a piercing cry escaped her breast; but she as immediately checked herself, and nerved her heart to endurance. proached the young count, and, after eying him for a moment, struck him on the face with his hard, horny hand. Casimir bounded with rage. There!" said Pavel, "one score is washed out between us; now for the next!" and, coolly raising a splendidly-mounted Turkish pistol, just seized from among Casimir's store of arms, he levelled it at the young man.


Another cry escaped the mother. The Indian at the stake shows not a more unflinching brow than the general; and, beyond that cry, which revealed the agony within, the countess, too, seemed, like her husband, turned to stone.

Pavel paused an instant, and said, "Does no one here plead for his paltry life? Then, kneel to me, Casimir Stanoiki! Kneel to the serf!" The slender form of the youth remained erect and firm as ever. Pavel extended his arm-the

found-papers which they meant to deliver over to the Austrian authorities, as their best shield against all future punishment, and which ultimately caused numerous arrests and confiscations in the Grand Duchy of Posen, and in Russian Poland, as well as in Gallicia-Pavel watched his victims; Casimir writhing in the agony of death-the countess, whom Stepan's brutal son had not spared, covered with wounds, lying upon her husband's breast-and the old general, who, though untouched, seemed dead to outward sensations, a carved effigy of despair! Pavel would permit no one to go near the count.

"He dies"-he furiously cried, as the murderous Stepan approached-" he dies who dares so much as touch a hair of his head! The count is mine. I will suffer no one to come between us."

The peasants now, with one accord, declared their intention of proceeding to plunder the castle. Many of the servants were killed, and the survivors badly wounded-no resistance, therefore, was to be apprehended; and, before succor could arrive, if any one had escaped to seek it, they would be far away. Their only fear was the possible return of the little band of nobles which had dispersed that afternoon. No time was to be lost,' for no one wished to go home empty-handed.

"It is our turn to gather tithes now," said they to the count, as they left him, still bound to his chair, with his murdered son and wife lying at his feet.

The peasants were gone, and he was aloneall alone in that chamber of death. The tapers threw a feeble, flickering light around, revealing but near objects, and leaving the space beyond it in gloom. Since that fatal pistol-shot, the count had shown no signs of life. Now, for the first time, he spoke; and his voice sounded hollow and unnatural in that awful stillness.

"What's that?-Who's there?" he said, endeavoring to penetrate the obscurity of the opposite corner, where two fiery eyeballs, like those of a wolf, were glaring at him.

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The general suffered his head to drop on his bosom, as if hopeless of the desired relief from such a hand. But nature conquered all other feelings; even his tormentor's presence was a relief at such a moment.

"Wretch!" he exclaimed, "if you have, indeed, any remembrance of your early life-if you have a spark of human feeling left-strike this old breast-complete your work-and I will say, at the Throne of Judgment, that your last crime was one of mercy."

"You knew no pity for me," said Pavel, “nor do I know any for you. I, too, would have

thanked you for an inch of cold steel in my | If the government satisfied the lords and humanbreast, instead of the undying misery that has ity, by pursuing the perpetrators of these crimes eaten into my very heart, and made me what I with the utmost rigor of the law, the Poles would, now am." at their next rising-and no leniency could prevent it-find most willing tools in those very men upon whose ill-will their revolt at that time foundered.

There was no reply. Half-an-hour passed away; but neither Pavel nor the count reckoned time as it fled. The Parisian bronze clock of Leroy on the console struck eight; but its silver tone was not heard by either, though the silence of death reigned in that fearful chamber.

When the peasants, about to depart-having laden all the conveyances, of whatever kind, belonging to the castle, with their booty-returned to seek Pavel, they found him still sitting, in the same meditative attitude, in the corner. They approached the count. Nature, more merciful than man, had freed the poor struggling soul from its earthly tenement.

On hearing that his victim was no more, Pavel sprang to his feet; and, darting towards him, in his haste struck against the table, and his eye fell upon an open letter and a miniature. Some strong | impulse, even at that moment of excitement, induced him to pause. He took them up, looked at them, thrust them into his bosom, and, without uttering a word, hurried from the chateau.

As the peasants went home, laden with their spoils, they passed Duski's dwelling. The unfortunate man had been delayed too long by the packing of his goods and chattels. He fell into the hands of the marauders, who hung him over his own door-post-his ingrate heart thus paying the forfeit to his cupidity. Some days later, when Stepan, and a few of the more determined of the rioters, appeared before the Austrian authorities, at the nearest town, to render an account of themselves, and deliver up the papers they had taken from the chateau of Stanoiki, they left at the lunatic asylum a miserable maniac. The maniac was Pavel.

It would be next to impossible to determine so rapidly and wide did this insurrection spread -whether any one family fell the first victims of popular fury, their misfortunes serving as an encouragement to the tumultuous peasantry elsewhere; or whether, which seems more likely, the movement, resulting from one and the same cause, was simultaneous in many places. But, as is well known, castle after castle, and mansion after mansion, were attacked, some of whose proprietors attempted to hold out against the mob, with the desperation of men who had no hope in front, and no expedient in the rear. For where could they turn for succor? Not, certainly, to the government, against which they were conspiring, and within whose power they would scarce have ventured to trust themselves.

The Austrian government stood, then, in a critical position. On the one hand, the nobles expected signal punishment to overtake the murderers and despoilers of their friends and relations; on the other, the peasantry anticipated recompense for their fidelity, and grateful acknowledgments for having gained for the emperor so easy a victory.

In this emergency, government took a middle course. Troops were sent to those parts where tumults and bloodshed continued unabated-principally the circle of Tarnow-for the double purpose of intimidating the rebel nobles, and of suppressing the but too faithful peasantry. Justice closed its eyes to their first delinquencies; but it was necessary to check in time the extension of such horrors, which would otherwise ramify all over Gallicia, and become formidable even to the authorities; and thus many a devoted victim was spared.

The emperor then issued a decree which, without abolishing the robot, greatly diminished its hardships; reducing it, in fact, to the system that exists in Austria proper, where it is considerably softened by the habits and manners of the nobility. The much complained of supernumerary days of labor at harvest time were suppressed, and the peasants' cattle were no longer at the unlimited disposal of the lord.

There can be no doubt but the government had calculated upon a passive resistance on the part of the peasantry to the rebellious measures of their masters; but it had not foreseen, and was altogether innocent of, its tragic development. Nothing, however, can persuade the Poles to think so. In the aversion with which they are regarded by their peasants, they see nought but the fruit of Austrian intrigue. But an impartial judgment must admit that the semi-barbarism in which they have suffered their people to vegetate, is sufficient to explain the brutality of their deeds. This view of the case is more fully and ably illustrated in the following record of similar events in Poland, which is to be found in the "Annual Register" for the year 1768 :—

An insurrection of the Greek peasants, which Ukraine, was attended with such circumstances of now happened, in the province of Kiova and the barbarous and inhuman cruelty, that it seemed to take off from the horror of many of those scenes which this unhappy country had already presented. These peasants, who had long groaned under the tyrannical oppression of cruel masters, were now a signal instance of the badness of that policy which rights as men, and degrade them to the condition would deprive any part of the community of their of slaves. The poor, in all countries, meet with much injury and oppression from the great and the rich; yet we find, that, where they are allowed to participate in almost any degree of the common rights of mankind, and to partake of the general gifts of nature, they will, in times of public distress, adhere to the fortune of their superiors with the most persevering fidelity, and freely spend their blood in the defence of benefits of which they partake so small a share. But in the country of which we treat, where the bulk of the people can claim no

rights, the cruel hour of weakness and distress was instantly seized upon as the happy opportunity to revenge upon their masters all the past injuries and oppressions which they had suffered from them. The peasants, accordingly, finding that most of the arms, ammunition, and stores, and many of the best men, were drawn out of the country, assembled in great bodies, and committed the most savage cruelties; murdering, without distinction, gentlemen, ecclesiastics, Jews, Catholics, and United Greeks; and sparing neither women nor children. The Sieur Dessert, Governor of Palawocs, and his lieutenant, having fortunately got timely information of their designs from the Bishop of the United Greeks, saved their lives by flying to Rowna, in Volhynia; but the barbarous peasants massacred the bishop for his humanity. The Governor of Simla had so little notice of his danger, that he escaped to Rowna in his shirt only, and left his wife and child sacrifices to their fury. Fifty Prussian hussards, who had the misfortune to be in the country buying horses, were murdered by them, under pretence that they were Polish gentlemen in

From the Churchman.

ST. LUKE, Xxii. 61 and 62

DEEP sobs of anguish shook his frame,
And woke the stillness round;

His brow was pressed in burning shame
Upon the chill, damp ground;
And wrung as if from deadliest pain,
His bitter tears fell down like rain,
While words burst forth without control
From the wild tumult of his soul.

Oh! weak in proof, but strong in pride,
How vain thy vaunted power,
Deserter from thy Master's side,

In danger's searching hour;
Thine was the boast, and thine the lie,
"Though all forsake, yet will not I."
Alas! my vows, my love forgot,
Recreant I've sworn, "I know thee not."
"I know thee not!" thou who didst still
The heaving waters of the deep,
And by thine own almighty will

Didst lull the winds to sleep;
And when to meet my Saviour God
Upon Tiberias' wave I trod,
Thy love upheld my sinking faith,
And gave me vict'ry over death.

How could I say "I know thee not?”
I, who have seen thy midnight tears,
And shared thy sad and homeless lot

Through wandering, toilsome years,
And viewed thy pure and spotless life
Unstained by sin, unmoved by strife;
And yet 'neath Satan's power I fell-
I, who have known and loved thee well!
Have loved thee well! oh! thou dost see
The throbbings of this tortured breast;
"Tis full, my Lord, of love to thee,

Though weak and sin-opprest; And by the mem'ry of that look, Which all my soul with sorrow shook, Oh, Lamb of God! my crime forgive, And bid thine erring creature live. He ceased-the pardoned one arose, With humbled heart and firm resolve,

disguise. To the Jews they bore a particular animosity, as they had been long employed by the nobility as stewards, in the management of their estates, in which office they treated these people with great cruelty and oppression; who now took a most cruel revenge, slaughtered many thousands of them, burnt their houses, destroyed their books and papers, and seemed as if they would leave no vestige that they had ever existed among them. Having called in the Haydamacks, or Zaporouski Cossacks, to their assistance, they seemed to threaten the utter destruction of the country; whole starosties, districts, towns, villages, were sacked and burned; and the devastation they made was beyond description. Count Potocki, Vaivode of Kiow, had no less than ten towns, and one hundred and thirty villages, destroyed in his own territories.

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SWEET Coz! I'm happy when I can,
I'm merry while I may,
For life 's at most a narrow span,
At best a winter's day.

If care could make the sunbeam wear
A brighter, warmer hue,
The evening star shine out more fair,
The blue sky look more blue,
Then I should be a graver man-

But since 't is not the way,
Sweet coz! I'm happy when I can,
And merry when I may !

If sighs could make us sin the less,
Perchance I were not glad-

If mourning were the sage's dress,
My garb should then be sad:
But since the angels' wings are white,
And e'en the young saints smile-
Since virtue wears a robe of light,

And vice a brow of guile

Since laughter is not under ban,

Nor gladness clad in graySweet coz! I'm happy when I can, And merry when I may.

I've seen a bishop dance a reel,

And a sinner fast and pray,

A knave at the top of Fortune's wheel,
And a good man cast away!
Wine I have seen your grave ones quaff,
Might set our fleet afloat;
But I never heard a hearty laugh

From out a villain's throat;
And I never knew a mirthful man

Make sad a young maid's day— So, coz! I'm happy when I can, And merry while I may.

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