+The FATAL EFFECTS of a TOO SUSCEPTIBLE HEART
in a YOUNG PRUSSIAN OFFICER.+
“My son was an ensign in a regiment in which I ranked as Captain. We had
served two campaigns together, and I was pleased with the marks of a
cool and sensible courage, which I had observed in him, and which
promised the most flattering hopes of his becoming one day an ornament
to his family.
“His heart was naturally generous and tender. This virtue endeared him
to me; but I trembled for its effects. It might, I thought, shake his
fortitude in the trying scenes of the miserable spectacles of war, and
possibly suppress the enterprising spirit of youth; a quality so
essential to the advancement of a soldier, and so necessary an
embellishment to his character.
“Oftentimes, when his overflowing compassionate heart would vent itself
in a burst of sorrow for the unfortunate, I had recourse to the
_sophistry_ of argument, to paint those objects of his reflections in
different colours to his imagination; and while reproving him with his
unmanly weakness, could have clasped him to my bosom for the melting
tenderness of his nature.
“I frequently, though with utter repugnance, conducted him to the trying
scenes of suffering criminals; thus attempting to familiarize his mind
to the disastrous events which life is too often embittered with.
“Some little time after the affair of Schweidnitz, our army had burnt
and sacked a small village of the Austrians. It was our chance of duty
to be sent to this place. When the general confusion of the day had
subsided, and some order restored among the troops, we made an excursion
round the village to view the effects.
“On our approach to the ruins of a once clean and neat house, we were
suddenly shocked by the approach of an old woman. The genius of extreme
wretchedness seemed faithfully pourtrayed in her ghastly countenance.
“She flung herself upon her knees, and in a shrill voice of desperation,
imprecated the most direful curses on our heads. “If,” says she, “you
call yourselves men, and not savages of unequalled brutality, either
kill me instantly, and end my extreme sufferings; or, O! let me have
help to search for the remains of my children.”
“I tenderly exhorted her to calm herself--that she might expect every
assistance; and staying with her till my son had returned with a few
soldiers, I learnt, that on the alarm of the sudden approach of our
troops to the village, the unrestrained disorder which was naturally to
be expected, had forced her son and daughter, with two grandchildren, to
seek shelter in a cellar of the house; which house sharing the same
unfortunate fate with the rest, was soon pillaged and set on fire--that
she herself had fled some little way into the country, and had retired
from the danger of the enemy, in hopes that, in case of a discovery, her
age might secure her from that fate which her grandchildren, two young
women in the bloom of life, might otherwise be exposed to--that their
father, who was a notary of the place, with his wife, had resolved on
staying with the children in their concealment.
“When my son returned with the soldiers, the old woman showed us the
spot where we should search for the poor devoted family. We had not been
long at work among the ruins, when we broke into the cellar whither the
family had fled. Here a scene presented itself, that would have turned a
monarch’s heart from the fell tide of war, which brings such desolation
and horror in its course.
“Clasped in each others arms lay two beautiful sisters, with their
father and mother by their side, suffocated by the smoke; while the old
woman, with horrid yells, was bewailing the loss of her unfortunate
children, kissing the bodies, and frantic with grief. My son stood with
folded arms musing over this melancholy spectacle.
“I solicited him to depart; I urged him to withdraw from so affecting a
scene. Sternly did he turn his eyes on me, and seemed petrified to the
spot. In vain did I reason on the necessary consequences of war; that it
was no premeditated cruelty, but one of those casual misfortunes that
even the civil transactions of life are often checquered with.
“Where is your reason, your manhood, my boy? shall a soldier be overcome
with weak womanish feelings? for shame! for shame! All men in the course
of their lives must make up their minds to calamities like these. Away!
Your countrymen will ridicule your want of firmness; and the laurels
which you have hitherto acquired, will only serve to point you out as a
more conspicuous instance of effeminacy.
“I took him by the arm to draw him gently from this distressing sight,
when he flung himself away from me, and exclaimed, pointing to the
youngest of the girls, whose tongue, from the convulsive gasps of death,
hung from her mouth, “Behold this unparalleled butchery of my
countrymen! Will not the wrath of heaven revenge this outrage on
humanity? Cruel, cruel Prussians! You are bloody indeed! accursed
profession! Hell only has invented thee. From this moment I abjure thee.
I will not return to these blood-hounds: I will fly to the desarts for
ever, and hide my face from such inhumanity:” with “see there! my
father,” pointing again to the dead bodies, and burst into a flood of
tears.
“It required some force to bear him from this calamitous scene; and so
strong was the impression, that a fixed melancholy took entire
possession of him: and such was the extreme delicacy and tenderness of
his feelings, that I was destined to see this beloved child seized with
a violent fever, and to hear him, in the paroxisms of his distemper,
rave in the wildest, yet most pathetic language on this event.
“Some little time before he expired, he had fashioned one of the young
women into his wife; and starting up in bed, cursing the war which had
snatched her away from him, he fixed his eyes ghastly upon me, which I
readily translated into a remonstrance for being the author of his
unhappy malady, fell back into a swoon, from which he never recovered.”
* * * * *
MIRANDA.
A Moral Tale.
(Concluded from page 318.)
Sighs and tears interrupted her speech; her words died on her tongue;
she pressed her little companion, and was silent. Her mother begged she
might here take up the story.
She was just beginning, when an old woman opened the cottage-door. Her
appearance was such as to prejudice beholders in her favour. She set
down a basket, which she carried on her arm; and, without speaking a
word, was about to retire, when the matron called to her--“This
gentleman, Mary, who deigns to interest himself so much in our
afflictions, will not, my heart, I know not why, tells me, be offended
at your being admitted to his company.” I joined my voice to the old
lady’s--Mary curtsied, and sat down.
“This, Sir,” continued the old lady; “this, Sir, is our Heaven-sent
benefactress: under that rustic garb, are virtues which would adorn the
possessors of a throne!--But I make you uneasy, my good friend; I will
cease to praise you in words: I will only tell your actions, and let
them praise you. This worthy creature, Sir, lived with us twenty years.
In that space, she saved nearly forty pounds; by which we have all, my
poor dear husband included, been for these nine months supported.”
“The money came from you, my good lady; it was my duty, therefore,” said
Mary, “when you stood in need, to restore it to you again.”
“Her attentions, Sir, would heal our woes, if they could admit of cure:
but, alas! that seems impossible. However, when I reflect how
miraculously Heaven has hitherto preserved us, I take comfort; and hope
that, in his own good time and manner, he will make us triumph over our
calamities. God is just; he chastens those whom he receives into the
number of his children.”
“Do not doubt, Madam,” exclaimed I, involuntarily clasping her hand; “do
not doubt, that God will speedily cause you to emerge out of this sea of
adversity!”
“Will you please, Madam, to take your little supper now?” said Mary,
with officious attention.
“We will,” replied her mistress; “and this gentleman, if he can put up
with our rustic food, will perhaps do us the honour to partake with us.”
We moved to the table; and, when supper was over, the old lady returned
the clue of the narrative--
“Henry, the rector’s amiable son, returned now from Oxford; he saw, he
admired, he loved Miranda. The nobleness of his nature caused him to act
in every thing with the strictest honour and integrity. He confessed his
passion, and received as ingenious reciprocation of love. With generous
frankness, he acquainted his father with his attachments. The haughty
priest foamed with rage at the bare mention of it, and maddened at the
idea of his son’s marrying---these were his words---“a wench without
fortune, family, or any thing; the daughter of my curate, too!” In
short, from hence forward, he studied only how to distress and ruin us.
His first motion was to get his son out of the way, whom he compelled to
take the tour of Europe!---Miranda sobbed aloud--“a joyless tour, alas!
for Henry.” We believe he constantly writes to Miranda; but the rector
secures his letters, knowing that we are not able to bring him to
account. Not satisfied with having separated the lovers, he sought for
other means of distressing us; and, having bought the debt which my
husband had contracted, thrust him with merciless cruelty into prison.
Here we succour him, and make him as comfortable as such a situation
will allow: though the surly priest takes every means of harrassing both
him and us.”
When the old lady had finished her narrative, I felt such deep
commiseration, that I could answer her only by marks of indignation, and
by sighs.
Miranda, during the whole time, had been totally absorbed in tears: but,
now, collecting herself, she caught my eyes fixed on the little dog.
“You wonder,” said she, “no doubt, at the unusual kindness which I
manifest towards this little animal. I will put an end to your
astonishment. It is the only memorial of my Henry; he gave it to me: we
were both wont to amuse ourselves with it; since his departure I have
cherished it in my bosom; it has eat of my bread, drank of my cup, and
been to me as my lover.”
I thanked her for her condescension; and, turning to address the old
lady, found her eyes again fastened on me: she examined my features
involuntarily, and with seeming forgetfulness; then shook her head as
before, and sighed. This striking behaviour, particularly as I found
myself similarly circumstanced, stopped what I was about to utter. I was
silent. Soon after, she looked eagerly at me again.
“Excuse me, Sir; I am sensible of my rudeness, but nature impels me to
this behaviour; will you have the goodness to ease my doubts, by
informing me, whether you are a native of England?”
“No, Madam! but born of English parents in Russia.”
“Good Heaven! art thou, then, making me amends for the afflictions thou
hast laid upon me!”
“Your words, Madam, distract me! What do they mean? My heart tells me
that some kindred tie binds us. Heaven grant that it may be so!”
“Is your name, then, Egerton?”---“The same.”
“I thank thee, O God!”---Here she sunk into a swoon; but was quickly
recovered by her daughter and the old servant.
She opened her eyes again; and, by the kindness of indulgent Heaven,
I embraced a long-lost-sister! Who can describe my joy?
Our family thought she had become a prey to the waves. She had been
shipwrecked, at an early age, in a vessel bound to England; was taken up
by an English privateer, and adopted as the captain’s daughter. About
the time she married, the captain had been unfortunate; and had,
therefore, no portion but about two hundred pounds to give with her,
which sum had been long since expended in the education of her children.
He promised, however, to seek out her parents, but was cast away in the
voyage. She, therefore, had never heard any thing of them; and, as the
captain of the vessel in which herself had been wrecked had her
instructions in his possession, she knew not whither she was intended to
go to, in England.
Miranda, and her sister, now pressed me to take their bed for the night,
as it was too late to return; but, as I was stronger, and in better
health than them, I insisted on using the couch.
Early next morning, I repaired to Lord Alton, my worthy host, and
acquainted him with my adventure. He hastened with me to relieve my
respected, but unknown brother, from the horrors of confinement.
We reached the prison; when, lo! the good man had just been liberated by
his future son. Henry had returned in disguise; had discharged the debt;
and was now receiving his grateful benediction. I explained who I was:
and they received me with tears of joy.
His lordship took upon himself the conciliation of the rector, and
immediately set out to acquaint him with all the circumstances, while we
hastened to the cot. I will not attempt to describe the overflowing joy
of the old couple, nor the rapturous embraces of the young folks.
Miranda underwent a transient suspension of her faculties, but awakened
to never-fading happiness. The two young children climbed the good man’s
knees, to share the long-regretted kiss. The old woman gazed on her
worthy master, with eyes overflowing with unaffected tears of mingled
joy and sorrow. Her extacy was unbounded; she lifted up her hands to
Heaven, and silently blessed its goodness! Her master did not neglect
her, but quickly received her in a kind and grateful embrace.
We now received a message from his lordship, desiring our attendance
immediately. Henry, the worthy curate, and myself, quickly obeyed it. We
met the hitherto obdurate father--but, how changed! He was all
politeness, all compliance: proud of an alliance with his lordship’s
friend and relation--for such Miranda now proved to be. I gave my niece
a dower equal to the young man’s fortune.
In a few days the nuptials were celebrated. All the inhabitants of the
village shared heartily in their joy. They danced on the village green,
and were treated in rustic sumptuousness by the happy bridegroom.
Whispers of blessings showered on them both! Such as had been ungrateful
to the father, threw themselves on their knees, and asked his
forgiveness; which was readily granted them, with a kind and gentle
rebuke. Even the rector sued for pardon, ashamed of his inhuman
treatment, as he himself termed it.
His lordship soon after stationed my brother in a comfortable rectory,
to which I added five hundred pounds a year as my sister’s fortune.
The old woman survived but a few months: during which time she had been
treated as a sister. Her remains were interred in a vault designed for
the family; and a small mural monument was erected with this
inscription----
To the Memory of
MARY S--
A humble Christian,
A steady Friend,
The best of Servants;
Who graced her station by her Virtues;
Supported her Master and his Family
In their distresses;
And strove, with tender and incessant attention,
To blunt the stings of Adversity:
This Monument
Is erected, as a testimony of Gratitude
And sincere Respect,
And as an example, to excite others
To the like pious Conduct,
By her grateful Master,
W. JACKSON.
Henry, and his ever-lovely Miranda, live in tempered extacies of love;
their little dog is treated as a child. They have one child, a sweet
boy, called after my name. My niece is again pregnant. May Heaven render
my dear little son, and all their future offspring, who are to inherit
my estates, as worthy and as virtuous as their parents.
* * * * *