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"You have betrayed the confidence reposed in you,' said she to him; you have betrayed the cause of freedom and of our country, as well as of honor. As for myself, I will not follow your steps into a foreign country to expose my shame to strangers. Some blood yet remains in my veins, and I have still left an arm to raise the sword against the enemy. I have a proud heart, too, which never will submit to the ignominy of treason. Go to Prussia! Your representation of our situation does not affright me. I prefer a thousand deaths to dishonor, and I fear not to encounter them while forcing my way through the Russian battalions, in order to go and offer to my country this sword, which I have already raised in her defence, and the sacrifice of my life, if necessary.'

The same evening she left the army, determined to make her own way, at least, back into Poland. She was accompanied by her inseparable friend, the young Mary Raszanowicz, and her cousin, Count Cæsar Plater, who wished to share the dangers as well as the glory of the noble girl. On the following day Chlapowski surrendered his sword and army to the Prussian authorities, who, says our author, "were astonished to see a Pole lay down his arms."

The rest of the story of our young heroine we leave for her biographer to tell:

"Ten days after this event, three persons might be seen reclining upon a knoll, surrounded by a marsh and the thick forests of Augustin. They are clad in the common dress of the peasants of the country. They have on coarse linen frocks, and their feet are covered with sandals of bark. But their noble and delicate features betray their real station; and those arms, carefully concealed under their garments, show that they belong to the remains of the Lithuanian army, which the Russians are everywhere in pursuit of. They seem to be impatiently and anxiously waiting for some one, although a profound silence prevails among them, and they are startled at the least noise. "Cover your arms, Emily,' says one of them in a low voice, 'the air is damp and we have but little powder.' These are the only words which are uttered during a long and fruitless expectation of three or four hours.

"The sun was beginning to decline, the woods re-echoed the lowings of the flocks, which were leaving their pasture, and the

plaintive and monotonous song of the herdsman, who was leading them back to the village. The evening was dark and cloudy; very soon, a cold, fine rain set in; the young people wrapped themselves up as well as they were able in their miserable frocks, but they did not dare to leave their retreats in order to go to seek shelter in some cottage.

"How slow in returning!' said the youngest of the three, smiling.

"Have no fear, Mary,' was the reply, our guide is a Samogitian, and the faith of the Samogitians has been well proved. Some obstacle, without doubt, has detained him beyond the appointed hour, but he will soon return, and I hope we shall resume our journey to-night.'

"That is if he brings us something to eat,' said Mary; for it is now twentyfour hours since we partook of food, and I feel that I have great need of refreshment.'

"Have courage, ladies,' said Cæsar Plater, smiling, and our misfortunes will Our journey, as you well soon be ended. know, has been thus far difficult and disagreeable, but the most difficult part of it has been accomplished. Thank God and the brave peasants of Samogitia, we have passed the Niemen, that barrier which separated us from Poland, and in a few days, I hope, we shall be in Warsaw.'

A few days yet,' repeated Emily, casting a look of the deepest sadness upon her limbs, which were bruised and torn by a long journey through marshes and dense forests, and which seemed to refuse to bear her further. The train of sorrowful thoughts which was passing through her mind was interrupted by a sharp and prolonged whistle, and a peasant, about sixty years of age, but still fresh and vigorous, was seen approaching.

"God be thanked, my children,' said he to them, I am somewhat late, but it has been impossible for me to arrive sooner. These Russian dogs seized me, as I was coming out of the wood, and I have passed a very bad quarter of an hour in the hands of these brigands. They were a long time searching me and asking me questions. Fortunately, I belong to the country, and am well known, thank God! So the whole village confirmed my statement, when I told them that I was going to the neighboring village to see my father-inlaw, Martin the blacksmith. At last they let me go, and I came off with only a few blows, which God, in his own good time, will, without doubt, return to them.'

"The infamous villains!' cried Mary. "In the meanwhile I have brought you something to eat, and I am very sure you must have great need of it;' and at the

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same time, he drew from his wallet a black loaf, half bran, a piece of cheese, hard as a stone, and a small bottle of brandy. All this is not worth much; but it will nevertheless serve to appease hunger in some degree. God knows I feared to take anything more, for fear of exciting the suspicion of these Russians.'

"This is better than nothing,' said Mary, gaily, and she began to eat with apparent appetite.

"What news, old man ?' asked Count Plater. Can we soon renew our march? "Impossible yet, my good sir; the country is full of Russians, who are in pursuit of our brave Pouschet. We must wait until this rabble quits the country, or at least until sleep closes their eyes, so that you may pass, with safety, through these files of Cossacks. In the mean while, take some rest; sleep, and I will awaken you when it will be safe for you to commence your journey.'

"Emily took but little nourishment. For several days a burning fever had consumed her. The blood boiled in her veins, and her hot breath had rendered her lips parched. Her heavy head fell back upon her shoulders, and she felt within her the germ of a malady which she knew would not permit her to pursue her projects, and witness the accomplishment of her beautiful dreams. She concealed, in the mean while, her frightful condition from the unfortunate companions of her journey, and passed whole nights in prayer to God that he would grant her, at least, one thing; that she might behold Warsaw-might see the Polish standard, and then die. Long before daylight the old man called up our pilgrims, and told them it was time to set out. He enjoined on them the most profound silence, and recommended the utmost precaution until they should have passed the Russian camp, along which they had to pass.

"The young people followed their guide in deep silence, hardly venturing to breathe. Thanks to their precautions and the darkness of the night, they succeeded in winding round the camp without alarming the sentinels, whose calls they distinctly heard. Although she felt her illness increase continually, Emily kept up her march, repressing with the greatest care all expression of pain. Fever was consuming her, but still, notwithstanding her lacerated feet, she still continued to advance. The strength of the spirit exceeded that of the body. Patriotism, alone, helped to sustain her, but at last she was obliged to give up. All at once, her sight became dim, her limbs refused to perform their office longer, and she at length fainted.

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During this unhappy war it was not a rare sight to see insurgents pursued by the Russians, or indeed citizens flying before persecution, soliciting shelter from the peasants, which was always most eagerly granted.

"The arrival, therefore, of these four persons did not astonish the peaceable inhabitants of this poor cottage. The old man entered first, exchanged a few words in Samogitian with the forester and his wife, who instantly arose to furnish aid to the sick one. They placed the cold and pallid body of Emily upon a bed and covered it up warmly, and sought to recall it to life, for she had not yet recovered her sensibility. It was a body in which death and life were sustaining a fierce struggle for the mastery.

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"Blessed Jesus!' exclaimed the forester's wife, as she was bathing Emily's temples with brandy; so young and already so unfortunate! Poor child, he has suffered much.'

"May the curse of heaven fall upon the Tzar,' answered the peasants.

"All at once, the woman raised a shriek, which neither Cæsar nor Mary understood the reason of.-In her effort to re-animate Emily she had discovered her sex, and the idea immediately occurred to her, that this person could be no other than the Countess Emily Plater, whose exploits she had often heard praised. Admiration and astonishment rendered her, sor a moment, mute and motionless.

"She stared in mute contemplation upon the thin and pale face of the dying Emily. She took her husband aside, and communicated to him the curious discovery which she had made, but which she would not make known to any other individual so long as Emily lived.

"They had relinquished all hope of restoring her, when a sudden and convulsive chill pervaded her frame. She then opened her eyes, and perceiving herself in a hut, surrounded by her fellow-travellers, her fainting-fit in the forest came to her recollection, and pressing the hand of her cousin, she said to him, not without effort:

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there, some service to our country.
for me, my career is ended. Grieve no
more for poor Emily, she well knows how
to die." "

Notwithstanding the low point to which she was reduced, the native strength of her constitution began to recover. She was placed by her cousin under the care of the proprietor of the village, and supplied with medical care and every other provision in his power to make for her safety, while he himself hastened on to Warsaw, where he performed the duty of a gallant patriot in the front ranks of the terrible struggle which the walls of that illfated city witnessed. Count Cæsar Plater is now living in exile, in Paris. Emily, meanwhile, was slowly convalescing in her impatient retirement, where she was secreted under the name of Mademoiselle Korawinska, still attended by her faithful friend and companion-in-arms, Mary Raszanowicz. The disasters that resulted in the surrender of Warsaw, through the treachery of the infamous Krukowiecki, have not yet ceased to be fresh in the recollection of most of our readers. Poland fell, and her lovely and glorious young child did not and could not survive her:

"All these events closely followed each other, and becoming known to the citizens of the distant provinces, destroyed their deeply-cherished hopes. This sad news was kept with the most scrupulous care from the knowledge of Emily, in the apprehension that it would produce a relapse which might prove fatal. But all precaution proved fruitless. The overwhelming intelligence of the Poles having sought refuge in Prussia reached her ears, and gave her the fatal blow. Her soul, identified with the existence of Poland, refused to inhabit longer its shattered tenement, worn out by fatigues and sufferings; and all that medical skill could possibly effect was to prolong for a few miserable days an existence which had become hateful to her since she had learned that Poland, her beloved country, had been enslaved again. She could not longer dwell on that soil which had, once more, fallen into the possession of barbarians, who would overwhelm its enslaved inhab itants with wo. Her heart was broken, and her noble soul disdained an existence which henceforth was to be replete with misery and suffering. She had no wish to live any longer; all her ties with this

VOL. IX.-NO. XLIX.

5

world were rent asunder, and, therefore, it was with feelings of gladness that she saw the approach of death. Hardly anything in the world could have induced her to sacrifice the freedom of her own dear Poland, which, in her own imagination, she had so long considered free and happy, but now trampled under the feet of two hundred thousand Russians, and, like her, self, breathing her last. ́

"Feeling the approach of her last hour, after having submitted herself to God's holy will, and received the last consolations of religion, she asked for her arms. She seized them with a feeble grasp, and a burning tear escaped from her eyelid. Her look seemed for a moment to express regret. Alas! all she regretted and wept for, was that she had failed in saving her country, and that she was unable to serve that country longer. Unwilling to be separated from her arms, she requested that they might be placed in her tomb; and in the very act of pressing them close to her heart, she expired. Her last breath was a supplication to the Supreme Being, that he would vouchsafe to take under his holy protection her suffering compatriots, who, less fortunate than herself, remained exposed to the vengeful ire of their tyrants, as well as her unhappy country, which Heaven seemed to have for

saken."

She died on the 23d December, 1831. Her obsequies were as simple as they were sorrowful. The whole country being in the possession of the despot, there were few to follow her remains to their last repose. She was privately buried, like a precious relic, which her poor and afflicted friends were endeavoring to hide from the rude gaze of the stranger and the foe. A small wooden cross was placed at the head of the grave, which was covered with a white stone slab, and all that exists to tell of her brilliant life and sad death, is engraved upon it in the simple word

"EMILIA."

Poland has yet to raise her monument-but it must be that Poland she so earnestly panted to call into existence-Poland again Free. Till the arrival of that hour, let her rest where she is still lying, while her memory shall remain imperishably embalmed in the admiration and sympathy of every heart that can know a throb at the sacred names of Patriotism and Liberty, wherever those words exist, or such hearts are to be found, on the face of the globe.

THE STARS THAT HAVE SET IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

NO. IV. SCHILLER.

THERE was a time in Germany when the name of Schiller was not repeated without the name of Goethe, and every one who pronounced it attempted with eagerness to draw a parallel between those two poets, though they followed very different paths, and may be said only to have met towards the close of Schiller's life. The subject of these remarks displayed high poetical talents at a very early age, but the laws of the karl-schule being exceed ingly severe, and tending particularly to restrain the free will of the students, these were rather suppressed than encouraged. Nevertheless, (or, may it not be said, in consequence of their influence?) Schiller there imagined the plan of his famous tragedy, "The Robbers," and wrote the greater part of it clandestinely. After having finished the course of his studies, he entered the service of the reigning Duke of Stuttgart, as regimental surgeon, and completed his tragedy, which he got printed without the permission of his superiors. This was a cause of trouble and vexation to him, and he was threatened with the fate which poor Shubarth had suffered-a ten years' imprisonment on the HohenAsberg for some indiscreet verses. He therefore resolved to fly, and to leave his country till better days should come. His first sojourn, after having quitted Würtemberg in the year 1782, was at Mannheim, where he was appointed poet to the theatre; but he did not remain there long, and lived success ively at Dresden, Leipzig, and lastly at Weimar. The late Grand Duke, eager to protect distinguished men, conferred upon him a professorship at the University of Jena, which post he occupied from the year 1789 to 1799, with the greatest credit to himself; but his health made it necessary for him to relinquish it. He returned to Weimar, and died there on the 9th of May, 1805, having lived too short a life for the friends who adored him, and for Germany, which considered him as one of the greatest poets of the age, and the reformer, if not the creator, of German tragedy. The words

which his great contemporary and intimate, Goethe, spoke over his grave, bear a testimony to his merits which, as long as the German language is spoken, will be acknowledged as true, just, and in every respect due to him.

Strictly speaking, Schiller was, perhaps, even a greater poetical idealist than Goethe. With more than Heine's felicitousness of language, and not inferior to Goethe himself in truth and tenderness of feeling, he had gifts in addition, which justly entitled him to take the pre-eminence over all but one.

No poet had ever the power of dignifying little things more by his manner of treating them, or of composing from the inconsiderable floating incidents of the day creations of such imperishable splendor. Goethe had, undoubtedly, more of the cleverness of one who wished to be a fine writer, and therefore was not loth occasionally to mix up with the pure ore of real passion a proportion of the alloy of fiction and pretence, in order to make it fitter for receiving the stamp and impress of his genius. Schiller seldom does this. There is a freshness and nature in his conceptions which could only be derived from a constant irrigation of the living and flowery currents of the heart. It is true that the soul of all his creations lies in his ideal characters; that he not only paints man, but man in his highest moral beauty and elevation; and that it was almost impossible for him to give the high and honorable name of poetry to any work which does not idealize man. But his ideals are at the same time true, and no German poet knew like him to unite moral and poetical interest. We have no picture of virtue more poetical than his-no poet more virtuous than he. His heroes are distinguished by a nobleness of nature which shows itself in action as a pure and perfect beauty. There is something in them which excites a pious worship; this beam of heavenly light, falling into the obscurity of earthly perverseness, shines with higher splendor. The angel of God is the more beautiful amongst the

detestable faces of hell. The first secret of this beauty is that angelic innocence which dwells eternally in noble natures; and this nobleness of innocence returns with the same celestial features of a pure and youthful angel in all the great poems of Schiller. The second secret of the beauty of his ideal characters lies in their dig nity-their high-mindedness. His heroes and heroines never disown that pride and dignity which attest an elevated nature, and everything which they utter bears the stamp of generosity and of inborn nobleness. The fire of noble passions constitutes the third and highest secret of beauty in his poetical creations. Every heart is invaded by this fire; it is the flame of sacrifice to the heavenly powers-the vestal fire guarded by the initiated in the temple of God.

Nothing that is great can thrive without the ardor of noble passions, either in life or in poetry. Every genius owns its celestial light, and all his productions are penetrated by it. Schiller's poetry, therefore, seems a strong and generous wine; all his works sparkle with the noblest sentiments. The ideal beings which he created are the genuine children of his own glowing heart, and beams of his own fire. He is the strongest and purest of all poets, and the love his spirit has painted, and which he most intensely felt himself, is likewise the chastest and holiest of all. In his soul could abide no wrong, and he enters armed into the lists to fight for eternal justice. He teaches, an inspired poet, the holy doctrine of that blessing which dwells with justtice, and the curse of that evil which inevitably follows injustice. Liberty, inseparable from justice, was, there fore, the most precious treasure of his heart. There is no poet who painted immortal freedom with such heavenly inspiration and such purity and disinterestedness.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that Schiller's style is, in every way, worthy of his mind and of his poetical conceptions. "Le style c'est l'homme," says Buffon, and this sentence proved never so true as with him. He showed the nobleness of the German language; the dialogue which he introduced upon the stage has ever since been a standard with Germans, and will always be

a model of tragic elocution. There is a vigor, a softness, and a charm, in Schiller's poetry, which are unequalled; and his verses overflow with a melodious harmony that has not been surpassed, though Germans may, with due right, boast of the progress which their language has made since the time when he flourished.

There are three periods to be noticed in his dramatic works. The first is that in which "The Robbers,” “Don Carlos," "Fiesco," " Cabal and Love" (Kabale und Liebe) were written. These tragedies are the free productions of a mighty and irregular genius, who feels that a new path is to be opened, but is still in want of an experienced guide. It was easy to see in these early works extraordinary breadth and dramatic power, and life-like vigor of character, and yet feel that he overflowed with words, said a hundred idle things, and pursued dialogues till they grew tedious and wanted coherence and proportion. The language is sometimes too lofty and elaborate; there is an artificial sustainment about it, which lifts it above the rough unstudied vigor of the language of actual life; but the genius of the poet shows itself surpassingly fertile in combinations, and quick in the invention of incident. If the plant is to be judged by its fruit, Schiller's genius might be considered at this time as a kind of passionflower, planted in a luxuriant soil, but left to wander about at its own will, without pruning, direction, or support; and consequently running wild and to waste, and producing few leaves and scarcely any blossoins.

During the second period appeared his "Wallenstein," where he seems to have found the leader he wanted :-it was philosophy, which threw a new light over poetry and the fine arts, and taught that the drama should represent the struggle of the individual with fate. We do not go too far in our admiration of one of the human mind's noblest efforts when we say that no writer of any age or country ever produced a finer work than "Wallenstein." As a study of character, a record of feeling, and a narrative of action, it is unrivalled. In this drama he has exhibited such force of nature, such knowledge of the world, and painted so vividly the light and shade of passion, that we know of no one

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