The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 93

Pulaski, always ready, always active, was actually defending them: during the course of this fatal night, he achieved every thing that might have been expected from his valour and experience.

We repel the a.s.sailants no less than five different times, but they return unceasingly to the charge, pour in fresh troops at every new attack, and, during the last one, penetrate into the heart of our very camp by three different avenues, at one and the same time.

Zaremba was killed by my side; a crowd of n.o.bles fell in this b.l.o.o.d.y action; the enemy refused to give any quarter. Furious at seeing all my friends perish before my eyes, I resolved to precipitate myself into the midst of the Russian battalions.

"Heedless man!" exclaims Pulaski, "what blind fury urges you towards your destruction? My army is entirely routed---destroyed---but my courage still remains! Why should we perish uselessly here? Let us be gone! I will conduct you into climes where we may raise up new enemies against the Russian name. Let us live, since we can still serve our country! Let us save ourselves, let us save Lodoiska."

"Lodoiska! am I capable of abandoning her?"

We instantly run to her tent--we are scarce in time: we carry her off, precipitate ourselves into the neighbouring woods, and on the next morning we venture to sally forth, and present ourselves before the gate of a castle that was not altogether unknown to us.

It indeed belonged to a n.o.ble Pole, who had served during some time in our army. Micislas instantly comes forth, and offers an asylum, which he advises us, however, to make use of for a few hours only. He informs us, that a very astonis.h.i.+ng piece of news had spread abroad on the former evening, and began to be confirmed, according to which the king himself had been carried away out of Warsaw, that the Russians had pursued the conspirators, and brought back the monarch to his capital; and that, in fine, it was talked of putting a price upon the head of Pulaski, who was suspected of being the author of this treason.

"Believe me," says he, "when I a.s.sure you, whether you have engaged or not in this bold plot, that you ought to fly; leave your uniforms here, which will a.s.suredly betray you: I will instantly supply you with clothes which are less remarkable: and as to Lodoiska, I myself will conduct her to the place which you have chosen for your retreat."

Lodoiska now interrupts Micislas: "The place of my retreat shall be that of their flight, for I will accompany them every where."

Pulaski represents to his daughter, that she was not able to sustain the fatigue incident to such a long journey, and that besides we should be liable to continual dangers.

"The greater the peril is," replies she, "the more I ought to partake it with you. You have repeated to me a hundred times, that the daughter of Pulaski ought not to be an ordinary woman. For the last eight years I have constantly lived in the midst of alarms; I have seen nothing but scenes of carnage and horror. Death has environed me on all sides, and menaced me at every moment: will you not permit me to brave it now by your side? Is not the life of Lodoiska connected with that of her father? Lovzinski, will not the stroke that fells you to the ground send your wife to the grave? and am I no longer worthy----"

I now interrupt Lodoiska, and join with her father, in stating the reasons which determined us to leave her in Poland. She hears me with impatience: "Ungrateful man," exclaims she at length, "will you fly without me?" "You shall remain," replies Pulaski, "with Lovzinski's sisters, and I prohibit you----"

His daughter, now frantic with grief, would not permit him to finish the sentence.

"I know your rights, my father! I respect them; they shall always appear sacred to me: but you do not possess that of separating a wife from her husband."

"Ah, pardon me! I see that I offend you---my reason no longer maintains its empire---"

"But pity my grief---"

"Excuse my despair---"

"My father! Lovzinski! hear me, both of you; I am determined to accompany you every where!

"Yes, I will follow you every where, cruel men! I will follow you in spite of yourselves!

"Lovzinski, if your wife has lost all the rights she had over your heart, recollect at least her who was once the mistress of your affections.

"Recal to your remembrance that frightful night, when I was about to perish in the flames; that terrible moment when you ascended the burning tower, crying out, let me live or die with Lodoiska!

"That which you felt at that terrible moment, I now experience! I know no greater evil than that of being separated from you; and I now exclaim in my turn, let me either live or die with my father and my husband!

"Unfortunate wretch! what will become of me, if you should forsake me.

Reduced to the cruel situation of bewailing you both, where shall I find a solace for my miseries? Will my children console me? Alas! in two years death hath s.n.a.t.c.hed four away from me; and the Russians, equally pitiless as death itself, have bereaved me of the last! I have only you remaining in the world, and even you wish to abandon me! my father! my husband! Will such dear connexions as these be insensible to my sufferings! Have compa.s.sion, take pity on your own Lodoiska."

Her tears now intercepted her speech. Micislas wept; my heart was torn with anguish. "You are resolved to accompany us, my daughter---be it so; I consent," says Pulaski, "but I wish that heaven may not punish me for my complaisance!"

Lodoiska now embraces us both with as much joy at if all our ills had been at an end. I leave two letters with Micislas, which he undertook to transmit according to the direction: the one was addressed to my sisters, and the other to Boleslas. I bade them adieu, and I recommended to them, to neglect no means to endeavour to recover my dear Dorliska!

It was necessary that I should disguise my wife---she a.s.sumes a masculine dress; we change our own, and we employ all the means in our power to disfigure ourselves in such a manner as to elude research, and prevent discovery.

Thus altered in our appearance, armed with our sabres and our pistols, provided with a considerable sum in gold, with some trinkets, and all the jewels of Lodoiska, we take leave of Micislas, and make haste to regain the woods.

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATION.

He whose pa.s.sions are mild, whose fortune is equal to his desires and situation, who pa.s.ses his life with his relations and friends, and dies in their arms without remorse, fear or pain, is a happy man.

PLEASURE.

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as to be soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is only among the Poets we hear of men changing to one delight, when satiated with another. In nature, it is very different; the glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those transports which lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appet.i.te. Thus, after a full indulgence of any one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which must be filled up. The present can give no satisfaction, because he has already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate employment, naturally recurs to the past or the future: the reflector finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now; he sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come: thus every period of his continuance is miserable, except that very short one of immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more frequent conversations with disagreeable _self_ than he: his enthusiasms are but few and transient; his appet.i.tes, like angry creditors, continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasure, the more strong his regret, the more impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most unpleasing life in the world.

Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires; he finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less divided between shortlived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect cannot consequently create so much anxiety.

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must have still a smaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect himself; the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is his pleasure; and this pleasure is permanent in its nature, because it can be changed at will, leaving but few of those anxious intervals which are employed in remembrance or antic.i.p.ation. The philosopher, by these means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection, which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion and instructor to him.

CONVERSATION OF A FINE WOMAN.

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine woman; even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches wisdom. The mind sympathises with the regularity of the object in view, and, struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent harmony.

PANEGYRIC ON MARRIAGE.

"O time roll on thy sluggish wheels, and haste the day "When joys like these shall decorate MY way."

If it be true, that our pleasures are chiefly of a comparative or reflected kind--How supreme must be theirs, who continually reflect on each other, the portraitures of happiness---whose amus.e.m.e.nts---

"Tho' varied still---are still the same---in infinite progression."

How tranquil is the state of that bosom, which has, as it were, a door perpetually open to the reception of joy, or departure of pain, by uninterrupted confidence in, and sympathy with, the object of its affection! I know of no part of the single or bachelor's estate, more irksome than the privation we feel by it, of any friendly breast in which to pour our delights, or from whence to extract an antidote for whatever may chance to give us pain---The mind of a good man, I believe to be rather communicative than torpid:---If so, how often may a youth, of even the best principles, expose himself to very disagreeable sensations, from sentiments inadvertently dropped, or a confidence improperly reposed!---What, but silence, can be recommended to them; since, in breaking it: so much danger is incurred, among those little interested in our welfare? A good heart, it is true, need not fear the exposition of its amiable contents:---But, alas, is it always a security for us, that we mean well, when our expressions are liable to be misconstrued by such as appear to lie in wait only to pervert them to some ungenerous purpose?

The charms, then, of social life, and the sweets of domestic conversation, are no small incitements to the marriage state.--What more agreeable than the conversation of an intelligent, amiable, and interesting friend? But who more intelligent than a well-educated female? What more amiable than gentleness and sensibility itself? Or what friend more interesting than such a one as we have selected from the whole world, to be our steady companion, in every vicissitude of seasons or of life?