the wound incaution or want of prudence has opened; therefore deceive me not: be candid, my child, we are your parents, not your judges; we are your parents, not your executioners; be candid, and we will be kind." All this time I wept oft and bitterly, and was about to add another falsehood to the one already uttered, when a treble knocking was heard at the door, which I ran to open; when who should come in but this young officer! On seeing him I shrunk back, and almost fell to the ground. I was of a timid disposition; he approached my father and mother, and said, with a smile, I shall never forget, "Sir, and Madam, I have been the inadvertent cause of frightening your fair daughter from the contemplation of that transcendent sight, the going down of the sun; I feel and deem it my duty to apologize to you and her for the intrusion, and hope both you and her will pardon such an inadvertent breach of good manners." All this time my good father and mother never took their eyes off him: I scarcely dare trust myself with a glance. "Be seated, Sir," said my father. At last my father said in a low but firm voice, "Sir, I would sooner have received my death warrant, been a beggar, and cast upon this merciless world- been a barefooted mendicant, hated for my leprosy, despised for my wounds-been friendless, homeless, and I was going to say that which was not truth-an infidel too, rather than hear the sad tidings you have just informed me of;" (all this time my mother sobbed bitterly) "for it seals with the seal of truth, that my child, my only child, has deceived, and been guilty of that which will embitter the last days of her father's life. Eliza, explain this apparent mystery, or you will soon have no father to deceive or to advise." Here I fell on my knees, and begged forgiveness, and stated the whole affair from beginning to end. He kissed my cold, trembling cheek, and taking me by the hand said, "I do forgive you, my child, on one sole condition on the banks of a small lake, and I innocently replied, "That cottage, perhaps, you mean." "That's beautiful, certainly, but it is a sight that even excels that.' "What may it be, Sir?" "You, my sweet girl," he replied, and he attempted to seize my hand. It was close by a stile, over which I got, but how I know not. I ran home with the speed of an antelope, and was soon at the cottage door of my beloved parents; but my frightened and agitated manner alarmed them, and my father said, "My beloved child, what has alarmed you so?" "Nothing, dear father." Reader, this was the first palpable falsehood that had ever escaped my lips, and I had scarcely uttered the words when I felt sorry, and regretted what I had done. However, I accounted for my alarm by saying that I had been running to get home before it became dark. This pacified him, being satisfied that I was incapable of telling a falsehood. Would that this first had sealed my catalogue of falsehoods! But, kind and gentle reader, one lie begets another-one crime another, until broad-faced infamy stamps the whole with his black seal of malignity. I would not take my tea or supper, feigned that it proceeded from having overheated myself, and that a good night's repose would bring me round. My father, my affectionate mother, watched, tenaciously watched, my every word, my every look. At last my sire said to me, first wiping away a tear that still hung on his long eye-lashes, he felt assured that there was a something that had disturbed my usual placidity, and banished my smile; "For why those scrutinizing looks, those involuntary sighs, that blue and trembling lip, that agitated bosom, those trembling hands, those moving eyes?-whatever you may say to the contrary, my child, there is a something that has disturbed your peace, and I request, I demand, nay, I conjure you to confide it to the fond bosom of a father, to the wise council of a doating mother-to a pardoning father, to a forgiving mother. You hesitate; that hesitation is the foster-mother-promise me this, and I will fulfil that of guile and deception; truth requires no such hesitation is spontaneous; my child, there is only one thing that could not win my forgiveness, that of all crimes the worst, that hell-born vice, falsehood; whatever has been your fault, I forgive it; endeavour by my good council to heal which I hold most scred-my word." 1 replied I would-what was it. He looked at me with a benign and complacent look-" that you will never let a falsehood escape those lips." I promised, I firmly resolved to comply, and fulfil his request to the very letter; he again kissed beloved father was taken ill, and in seven me; so did my mother. He then turned towards the young officer, and, in the most firm but kind manner, said to him, "Sir, you have said that you came to apologize for having frightened my daughter; there is nothing that palliates offences but sorrow; but permit me, Sir, to ask you, of what offence have you been guilty; and are you really and truly actuated by sorrow for that offence?-or do you come here to endeavour to complete that which-oh, could I but close my sad story you say you have so inadvertently com- here!-I, with female fortitude, resisted mitted? If the former, there is the hand his audacious attempt; in anger he flew of forgiveness; if the latter, the arm of from me, and for three days I saw him retribution; for, Sir, I too have served not. This, with the evident dejection of his majesty, long and loyally. There, my mind, alarmed my mother, which, in Sir," pointing to a sword hanging over one week, carried her to the grave, leavthe mantle-piece, "is my blade - one ing me alone, but not destitute; for, after that has stood my friend many a time my father's property was sold, I had and oft. Be candid, Sir, and tell me the seven hundred pounds left. I took lodgtruth." The officer replied, "When I ings in the town with a young acquaintsaid I was sorry for causing your fair-"ance, and, on the following day, saw him "Stop, Sir," said my father, "I hate 1 really loved walking with another. I flattery; my daughter is not fair; she did not, till that moment, know the exhas hitherto been a dutiful and obedient tent of my love, until I saw him bestowchild, and if you, Sir, have nothing more ing that attention I thought mine upon to offer than flattery to my child, you had another-whom I was resolved to supbetter retire." "If," replied the young plant, as she sneered on passing me on officer, "she is not fair, she is that which the opposite side. In the evening, I, far exceeds beauty-goodness, and I am with my friend, strolled out together, and sorry if I was the cause of one moment's in the market-place met my lover alone, disquietude to so good a family, if I who came up to me, with a smile, and have offended, I am willing to make res- | said, Miss, Denning, I am about to titution by the noblest act in my power. leave the town; I therefore bid you fareSir. I have viewed your daughter." "My well-may you enjoy every happiness child," said my father, "you may retire this world can afford-good bye!" He for a time." I did so, and went up stairs. was about to leave me, when I said, "The conversation lasted for some time; "Good bye, for the present." "Present!" when I returned, the young officer had he repeated, "for ever!" He was again retired, and I was given to understand he going-I seized his hand "And can had requested permission to pay his ad- you thus leave me, Sir, after all you have dresses to me; on hearing which, I must said to me?-if you can, you are unconfess, I felt myself proud, for Lieu-worthy of my regard; I therefore wish you tenant P was very handsome. that happiness you have deprived me of." "But," continued my father, "this shall I left him, and went home to give vent be entirely at your own disposal. take to my feelings. On the following morntime to consider of it." I replied not, ing he did leave the town, taking care to but rushed out of the room to hide my pass my lodgings on his route; he looked confusion. I shall be short in my nar-up, kissed his hand, and I thought I saw rative-the two following months were passed in confidential intercourse between my father, but I was never permitted to walk with my lover alone; nor, I must confess, when we were alone, did he ever make use of a word that could offend the most fastidious. This soon won my most | sincere affection, and time seemed only to increase our mutual love, when my him wipe a tear from his eye. Mine was full-so was my heart. I laid down on my bed, went off into a profound sleep, and did not awaken until the evening, and then so ill that I could scarcely move; my heart seemed broken, and I felt myself destitute. Oh, reader! such was my affection that I made up my mind to follow him-I did so. Three nights after, he assembled some friends, and went through a mock marriage. Several years having rolled by, he, having spent all my money on the false plea of purchasing a higher step, sold his commission, and abandoned me to my fate. From that day to the present I have never seen or heard of him, and whether he is living or dead it can little matter to her whose heart he has broken.-Military Bijou. AFFECTING STORY. "I had the good fortune," says the author of a Visit to the Field of Waterloo,' "to travel from Brussels to Paris, with a young Irish officer and his wife, an Antwerp lady of only sixteen; of great beauty, and with manners of much innocence and naivetté. The officer had been in the battle of QuatreBras, as well as Waterloo; and to him I owe much of my minutest and most interesting information. An anecdote of his fair Belgian, which he justly took some pride in relating, will further serve to give an idea of the kind of scenes then occurring, the horrors and the dangers of which it is so difficult to describe. He was living in cantonments at Nivelles, having his wife with him. The unexpected advance of the French called him off at a moment's notice to Quatre-Bras; but he left with his wife his servant, one horse, and the family baggage, which was packed upon a large ass. Retreat at the time was not anticipated; but being suddenly ordered on the Saturday morning, he contrived to get a message to his wife to make the best of her way, attended by the servant, to Brussels. The servant, a foreigner, had availed himself of the opportunity to take leave of both master and mistress, and made off with the horse, which had been left for the use of the latter. With a firmness becoming the wife of a British officer, she boldly commenced on foot her own retreat of twenty-five miles, leading the ass, and carefully preserving the baggage. No violence was dared by any one to so innocent a pilgrim, but no one could afford to assist her. She was soon in the columns of the retreating British army, and much retarded and endangered by the artillery. Her fatigue was great; it rained in water-spouts, and the thunder and lightning were dreadful in the extreme. She continued to advance, and got upon the great road from Charleroi to Brussels at Waterloo, when the army on the Saturday evening were taking up their line for the awful conflict. In so extensive a field, and among 80,000 men, it was in vain to seek her husband; she knew that the sight of her there would only have embarrassed and distressed him: she kept slowly advancing to Brussels all the Saturday night; the road choked with all sorts of conveyances, waggons, and horses; multitudes of native fugitives on the road, and flying into the great wood; and many of the wounded working their painful way, dropping at every step, and breathing their last. Many persons were actually thrown down by others, if by chance they stood in the way of their endeavours to save themselves. And to add to the horrors, the rain continued unabated, and the thunder and lightning still raged as if the heavens were torn to pieces. Full twelve miles further in the night this young woman marched, up to her knees in mud, her boots worn entirely off, so that she was barefooted; but still unhurt, she continued to advance; and although thousands lost their baggage, and many their lives, she calmly entered Brussels in safety, and without the loss of an article. In a few hours after her arrival, commenced the cannon's roar of the tremendous Sunday; exposed to which, for ten hours, she knew her husband to be; and after a day and night of agony, she was amply rewarded by finding herself in his arms, he unhurt, and she nothing the worse, on the Monday. The officer told me the tale with tears in his eyes. He called her his dear little woman,' and said she became more valuable to him every day. I never saw a more elegant getlemanlike young man; and assuredly his pretty Belgian seemed almost to adore him. It gave additional value to the foregoing anecdote, that I had it from the actors in the scene described." FIRMNESS. WHEN an attempt was once made to hinder Pompey from embarking during a violent tempest: "It is necessary,' said he, " that I should depart; but it is not necessary that I should live." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. No. 2. LIEUT.-GEN. SIR THOMAS PICTON. G. C. B. Memorable in the Peninsular campaigns, he began his military career September, 1779, in the 12th regiment of foot, upon the reduction of which regiment, we find him to have attained the rank of captain, and in the bosom of his family in Pembrokeshire, the birth-place and residence of his ancestors for centuries. Upon the commencement of the revolutionary war in 1794, he embarked for the West Indies, were he soon distinguished himself, and obtained his majority in the 68th regiment, and the appointment of deputy quarter-master general. Upon the appointment of a new general officer, he proposed to return to Europe, but was induced to remain at the request of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, who arrived in 1796; this general officer was fully sensible of the worth of this officer, at the moment, and took every occasion he could to make his merit conspicuous, and upon the capture of St. Lucie, became the lieutenantcolonel of the 68th, and with his commanding officer and friend returned to England, upon the close of the campaign, by the reduction of St. Vincent. The ensuing campaign in 1797, from the kindness and friendship of his commanding officer, he was honoured, "in being selected as the best officer to discharge the duty" of governor in Trinidad: the difficulties of his new situation, however, in the result, occasioned many days and years of anxiety, which was only to be relieved by the esteem, gratitude, and applause of every man of probity and principle in the island, notwithstanding the unparalleled exertions of individuals to sully his character and ruin his fortune, and to render him an object of public clamour. The law, at length, although tardy in reparation, proclaimed him innocent of the charges attributed to him, and vindicated his honour, which from the first he had boldly defended. In 1809, we find major-general Picton commanding a brigade of an army sent to rescue Holland from the French, and was at the siege of Flushing, of which town, after its surrender, he was appointed governor: he there rendered himself conspicuous for his humanity to the natives, and to the sick and wounded soldiers. During his stay at Walcheren, he caught the fever, and came home enfeebled and emaciated: fortunately for his country, his health was restored. Instantly, and even before he could be said to have resumed his tone of health, his active services were required in Portugal, when he commanded the 3d division of the British army; in which command, by his zeal, celerity, and courage, he soon distinguished himself, and from the situation in which the fortune of war had placed his troops, they became noticed as the fighting division. In all the battles in the Peninsular war, the division which he commanded was placed in the post of honour, and never failed to justify the confidence reposed in its gallant commander. The capture of Badajes was principally owing to his resolution and presence of mind, in converting a feint into a real attack, and thus gaining possession of a castle which overlooked the place. His services were continued during the whole of the Peninsular war, excepting that he was obliged from ill health to resign for a time previous to the battle of Salamanca, when the command of his division was entrusted to the late gallant Sir Edward Pakenham, who bravely led it to victory. Before the battle of Vittoria, our hero was sufficiently recovered to resume the command, and in this battle his division acted in a manner, which at once excited acclamation and surprise; for nearly four hours did it alone sustain the unequal force opposed to it, of which the whole army, from the peculiar nature of the ground, were acting witnesses General Picton continued with the army until its entrance into France. word he was the very soul of honour. The pupil of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, he never disgraced his general and his friend. In private life Sir Thomas Picton was kind, humane, benevolent, and charitable. He discharged with strictness all the social and relative duties; and, in the midst of the severest persecution, never lost that equanimity of temper which pious integrity alone can impart. The duke of Wellington, in his dispatch, passes a just eulogium on his worth. In a As soon as our army was sent to Flanders, government, it is stated, offered him the command of a division; but appre hending the duke of Wellington, as com mander-in-chief, would leave the British force to some officer in whom he could not repose the same confidence, he declined the offer, adding, however, if the duke should personally require his services, he would instantly repair to the army. This requisition was made-and the general left town on June 11th, and on the 18th terminated his honourable career in the field of glory! He had made his will before his departure he did not expect to return; but observed to a freind, that when he heard of his death, he would hear of a bloody day. Alas! his prediction was too literally verified !-The following pleasing trait in his character may be relied on. Some time after relinquishing the government of Trinidad, the inhabitants voted him 5000l. as a testimony of their esteem. When a dreadful fire laid the capital in ashes some time after this, a subscription was opened for the relief of the sufferers, and the general eagerly seized the opportunity of appropriating the 5000l. to that object! The duke of Queensbury, with nobleness of spirit, offered 5000l. to Sir T. Picton, on the close of his prosecution by Colonel F. but he politely refused it, with the highest sense of gratitude to the donor. His remains were landed at Deal, June the 25th. Minute guns were fired from all the ships in the Downs, while the body was conveyed to the beach, where all the military were drawn up to receive it. The body reached Canterbury the same evening, and was deposited in the custody of a guard of honour, in the same room at the Fountain inn, where, on that same day fortnight, the general had dined, on his way to embark. At six on the 26th, the body proceeded, accompanied to the extremity of the city, by the 52d regiment, with reversed arms, the band playing the dead march in Saul. On the 3d of July, the remains of this distinguished officer were deposited in the family vault, in the burial ground of St. George's, Hanover Square, on the Uxbridge road, attended by his brother Rev. Edward Picton, and many officers and gentlemen of distinction. A great concourse of people assembled, to witness the impressive scene. On the coffin was inscribed, "Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Picton, aged 57, K. C. B. who fell at the great and decisive battle of Waterloo, in Flanders, on the 18th June, 1815, between the French army, commanded by Napoleon Buonaparte, and the English army, commanded by his grace the duke of Wellington." TREACHERY OF A FBENCH DRAGOON. The following instance of base treachery in a French dragoon, after having been vanquished by a serjeant of the 7th light dragoons, and taken prisoner, may be relied on as a fact:-Captain Dukenfield, of the 7th light dragoons, commanded a small detachment of that regiment, on a scouring party, and at the village of Palacois they fell in with a party of French light dragoons, whom they engaged. A serjeant of the 7th combated the Frenchman in question, and got him completely in his power; when the latter threw down his sword, and held his hand to shake with his adversary. The serjeant, with the true characteristic of an Englishman, took him by the hand, when the assassin drew a pistol from his holster at the moment, and discharged it, which blew the serjeant's hand to atoms, and killed his horse. The assassin was instantly killed by the Spaniards, and his body was consumed to ashes, in a fire made for the purpose. Such was the disgust of the Spaniards, that in their vengeance they killed the assassin's horse. MILITARY MADNESS. WHEN George the second proposed giving the command of the expedition against Quebec to General Wolf, great and the duke of Newcastle, in particular, objections were raised by the ministry; begged His Majesty to consider that the man was actually mad. "Mad, is he," said the King, "well if he be I wish his madness was epidemic, and that every officer in my army was seized with it." POLITENESS. AN Irish officer in battle happening to, bow, a cannon-ball passed over his head, and took off the head of a sailor who stood behind him. "You see," said he, "that a man never looses by politeness."" London: Printed by JOSEPH LAST, 3, Edwardstreet, Hampstead-road; and published by W. M. CLARK, 19, Warwick-lane, Paternosterrow: J. PATTIE, 17, High-street, Bloomsbury, and may be had, by order, of all Booksellers, in town and country. |