The Dey's doubts were soon cleared up on the arrival of the two Christians whom he had so long wished to have in his power. Elvira lay upon a litter, and the Colonel walked by her side, holding one of her hands in his. As soon as the Dey perceived them, he said to them, in a mild accent:-" Fear nothing, I pardon you, though you have deceived me, insulted me, and fled from me; my revenge gives way to the preservation of my daughter. She has twice given you your lives, and your severity and bad conduct have reduced hers to the utmost extremity." "My Lord," said Elvira, "Zara has less reason to condemn us than you, because she knew those secrets of which you are ignorant, and which cannot but justify our conduct in her sight. Permit me, my Lord, that I speak to Zara in private. Time flies swiftly, and my last moment is hastily approaching. Keaven has preserved my life a few hours, to execute what I had meditated, as soon as I found my wound was mortal, and that I was to be conducted to Tunis." "No, you will not die," cried the Co'onel, for your wound is not so dangerous as you think. Your surgeons despair not, and why should you?" "Flatter yourself not," replied Elvira, "my spirits decrease every moment; but, whatever may be my fate, I shall die contentedly in the arms of a husband I adore, and who loves me tenderly. Your tenderness, Ernestus, will disperse the horrors of my expiring moments." Eivira was interrupted by the approach of Zara, who had been informed of the return of Ernestus at Tunis, his arrival at the palace, and the unexpected accident of his lady. She hastened to Elvira, tenderly embraced her, and bedewed her cheeks with tears, exclaiming:"Ab, my dear Elvira, in what a condition do I see you! Alas, are both of us equally the sport of wauton and capricious fortune!" 311 expiring moments. Give orders that we be capable of making the least return only in my left alone." slave, who were then in her chamber, to retire; Zara then made a sign to the physicians and by themselves, Elvira thus addressed her husand Elvira, the Colonel, and Zara, being left band:"Come near me; give me that hand which is so dear to me, and promise that you will grant me the last favour I have to ask of you. I demand it of you, and I shall die with despair in my heart, if you refuse it me. Swear by our love, by the remembrance you shall have for me, that you will execute my last will." words,-" You answer me not!" said Elvira Grief denying the Colonel utterance to his to him; "but I see that your heart grants all I can ask. List n then to what I expect from you, and what you will swear to execute. I in your grief. Pity me, weep for me; I should forbid you, after my death, to be immoderate die with regret if I thought you would not. shall be a little appeased, marry Zara. It is a But moderate your grief; and as soon as it duty which you owe her, as an acknowledgment of the grief you have caused her. You see, less you become a Christian; but you are Zara, that Ernestus cannot marry you unalready such in your heart. Give me your hand; I perceive I am hastening to my long home, and have not time to give your hand to Ernestus."-This was the last effort of Elvira, for she immediately fell into a swoon from which she never recovered. The Colonel was for some time inconsolable for the loss of Elvira; but the charms and tenderness of Zara at last restored him to his usual cheerfulness. Agreeably to the dying Dey off, from time to time, of becoming a request of Elvira, he married her; but put the Mahometan. Age and infirmities, however, conversion of his son, who then privately emput a period to the life of the Dey before the barked with Zara, and arrived safe in England, ́ where they spent the remainder of their days Elvira fainted at the sight of Zara, and they happiest state has always something to sour of remorse, as she feared her pission had con tributed to shorten the days of the fondest and most indulgent parent that ever existed. Remember, ye youthful fair, the dueful ef fects of love when it is suffered to extend its empire over reason; it is a kind of phrensy, which eclipses every faculty of the soul, and draws the veil of darkness over the must exalted perfections; it leaves no room for a moment's reflection, but, Eke an impetuous torrent, hurries every thing before it, without the least hopes of recovery. How different is love founded on rea on? it is constant and sincere, but never violent and incurable; it tends to unite two hearts in the tenderest of all passions, and restores serenity to the soul; it softens the savage heart, reclaims the libertine, and stands the test of the envious shocks of fortune, since nothing but reason or death can conquer it. THE WEDDING NIGHT. THE unhappy Waldeck no sooner saw his two mothers depart, than turning to the side of the coach where, with curtains closed, reposed his bride, he threw himself into an arm chair, and sighing exclaimed, "It is with the deepest regret, Madam, that I make the cruel confession, but concealment would be cruel both to you and myself. Long have I loved an amiable girl-long before you were proposed to me; from her I have been torn, to vow affection to you! But my heart is her's alone. She only can I love whilst that heart is capa ble of sensation. I know, I feel, how dreadful is the confession; but I appeal to your delicacy-I trust to it. You will never wish for the attentions of a man whose tenderest endearments would not be dictated by the heart. You will not then think it strange; you will even approve of my leaving to you this apartment, and passing to my own. Our friends have wished to give you my name, it is yours, it is theirs but you will expect no other sac: i fice from one who, spite of shame and regret, is forced to make this avowal." He rose, but was checked by a soft and faltering voice which faintly sighed, but what it said must be reserved for a future opportunity; we must first account for Waldeck's being thus left alone with a bride whom he chose to leave behind the curtains. rapidity with which, unchanged and regardless of the vicissitudes of ages, the never- ceasing torrent has rolled at their base midst all the changes of passing generations. Here, in the midst of this sublime scenery, she spent her early years of widowhood, being the relict of a gallaut nobleman, the Baron de Waldeck, of her own family, whose sword had been his sole patrimony, and who bad recently fallen at the battle of Lu zen, in the service of his country. The only memorial left to her of past affection and departed happiness, was the young Ernest de Waldeck, then three years old, who now occupied every care, and was the sole object of her thoughts. Anxious to dedicate all her time and all her affections to the offspring of the man she had ardently loved, the Countess, although accustomed to the gaieties of life, and to all the pleasures of society, determined to shut her doors to all but a favoured few, whose friendly attentions should solace her in retirement, and whose conversation and advice should aid her in the education of the young Count. With a few of these friends she had passed the dreary months of the first winter, and the spring with languid steps was just ushering in the early snow drop, when a continuance of boisterous weather, for some days, had swelled the Danube's stream, that now ran thunder The Countess of Waldeck, the heiress of the extensive estates of her ancestors, the Countsing at the fect of the rocks which skirted the de Waldeck, ou the banks of the Danube, had retired about sixteen years before this era to her paternal castle in the centre of her domains, whose hoary towers hung frowning over vast masses of rock finely contrasting with the castle walls. Towards the close of the evening, au aged fisherman whose fragile boat had been driven from her moorings by the rent, and who had wandered thus far in search of it, applied for admission at the site gate, re-, questing to see the lady of the domain, and holding in his arms a bundle of rich drapery which he seemed to have rescued from the river. The Countess, impelled by humanity, hastened to the hall, and there saw the old man drawing from the envelope an infant, which seemed perishing from cold and want, but which, from the story hastily told by the fisherman, she concluded had been swept by the floods from some of the villages in Bavaria. Means were immediately used for the recovery of the child, whose pulsation soon ́returning, gave hopes of its perfect restoration, and the Countess had now not only leisure to listen to the old man's story (who said that he had found it in a light wicker cradle which had been overturned upon the bank), but also to examine the dress of the child and the furniture of its cradle, which bespoke opulence and nobility. || mencement and improvement of her education as her years should advance. Though determined to provide for her support, she feared not that the generous heart of the young Ernest would at any time blame her for her generosity, and as it was impossible, under all these circumstances, that the fair Seraphina could pass for his sister, she took care as soon as reason had sufficiently dawned in their young minds, to inform them both of the events of their infancy. The attachment resulting from a near similarity of years, and || perhaps that delicacy of sentiment which pervades the virtuous breast, had habituated them to consider each other as brother and sister, and to consider the Countess equally as their mother, until the period when she chose to explain the mystery to them both. At this period Seraphina was old enough both to understand and to feel her almost unprotected, and really dependent situation; nor could she stop her tears when Ernest, now a fine youth of fifteen, bade her weep no more as he would still be a brother to her. The maternal affection which filled the heart of the Countess, rendered her tremblingly alive to the feelings of the unknown parents, and to the sorrows which must have filled their bosoms for the loss of a lovely A new feeling now filled the bosom of Serafemale infant not more than eighteen months phina. She had considered herself as the old, supposing it doubtless to have perished; || daughter of the Countess, and felt all that she therefore took the earliest opportunity of || filial affection which would naturally arise making every inquiry respecting its parents, but the unsettled state of the country, from the horrors of war, rendered all her inquiries || unavailing. Prepossessed with the idea of its being of noble birth, and being unwilling to believe that it had been voluntarily deserted, in which, indeed, she was confirmed by the richness of its habiliments, as well as by the time which must have elapsed from its birth, she deter. mined to take the same care of the child as if it had been her own, and to make a provision for it out of her own superfluity, if chance, or the all guiding hand of Providence should not restore it to its parents. Notwithstanding the probability of the young adventuress being already a Christian, the pious Countess availed herself of the rites of the church, and though she did not believe her fair charge to have dropped from the clouds, yet she bestowed on her the name of Seraphina; and took measures for the comNo. XXXIII. Vol. V.-N.S. from the tenderness she bestowed upon her; but now this affection, if it did not absolutely change its nature, was most powerfully stimulated by a feeling of gratitude of a different order to that which had impelled her youthful heart. Though too young to look forward, she now felt a blush rise on her cheeks if at any time she used the term mother in the presence of Ernest; yet she knew not why, unless it were that she feared he might suspect her of wishing from pecuniary or interested motives still to be considered as the daughter of the Countess; but even this idea was soon effaced by the recollection of his generous spirit which she well knew was never more gratified than when the Countess was most kind and most liberal towards her. Much of their education had already passed together, and those hours which Ernest had devoted to the more masculine studies under proper masters, had been filled by Seraphina in attending to the instructions of the beneRr volent Countess, who, though she had spared no expence in procuring her lovely charge the education then in fashion, had determined to form both her mind and manners herself, a task for which she was well fitted, and for which she was amply repaid by the grateful improvements of her young pupil. The Countess, like many other good and amiable people who look not before them, had never thought of the possibility of a juvenile attachment between these young folks; or if she did, even her pride of birth was not alarmed by the idea, as she remained fully satisfied that time would, or at least might satisfactorily explain every mystery of the ancestry of her protegée; yet still she could not help noticing with some degree of pain, mixed with pleasure, the apparently involuntary, yet often sedulously watchful care of the young people to shus that intimacy of intercourse which circumstances had hitherto warranted. She hailed it as the dawn of delicacy alarmed by virtue, and though she cherished it with pleasure, she did not fail sometimes in the liberality of her heart to thank Heaven, that should it ever be its will to restore the amiable girl to her real parents, still was there that embryo of affec. tion in their youthful bosoms which would prevent her from suffering the deprivation of Seraphina's company, a fear which now always obtruded itself whenever she thought of the propriety of recommencing her inquiries; and this sensation was much strengthened by the necessity she was now under of sending the youthful Ernest to the university of Leipzig, in order to complete his education preparatory to his engaging in the profession of his father, for which his heart beat high, even though it should separate him from the only two objects which in this world he loved. At this period, the time of Ernest's depar ture for the university had arrived. Two years, interspersed with visits to Waldeck castle, soon passed away; another year at the military school at Vienna would make him eighteen, when he was destined to appear in arms. The time flew rapidly; though his departure from home was sad, yet his absence was always cheered with the hopes of return; and a long and dangerous illness of the Countess, which rendered Seraphina his correspondent, had now fully explained to him the pleasure, mixed with sorrow, which he felt when it was first announced to him that she was not his sister. Seraphina bad been too young hitherto to check her feelings, but she now began to think. She could not avoid hoping that Ernest would not forget her during his absence from Waldeck; she wished it was proper for her to indulge those hopes; but when she reflected on the uncertainty of her birth, on her dependent situation, she feared it wrong to indulge in reveries of future happiness which might never occur, and though her breast bounded with joy when the Countess talked of them both as her children, though she even wished that Ernest might feel the same happiness, nay, that he should know the sensations that swelled her bosom, yet no sooner was he present than her most assiduous care was to conceal from his observation every movement of that heart which beat but for him alone. His first campaign was nearly over when a slight wound received in a skirmish, but attended with severe symptoms, rendered it prudent for him to retire to his native air, where under the tender care of a parent he might be restored to perfect health. During a long winter, which appeared too short to all parties, he was thus not only exposed to all the fascinations of mind and person which shone in the lovely Seraphina, but even to the more dangerous effects resulting from her tenderness, her assiduous care, nay, her watchful love which, though unknown to her, prompted every action, and was completely visible to the anxious and watchful Countess. The return of spring, though it did not bring the lovers more together than they were, thus domesticated, yet threw them more into each others separate society in those walks in which the Countess could not accompany them. Yet Ernest feared to speak, and Seraphina trembled lest she should be obliged to hear. As his departure for the ensuing campaign was now approaching, their mutual embarrass. ments seemed to increase. Seraphina now dedicated her time so sedulously to the Conntess, and was so anxious to avoid being alone with the young Count, that the amiable matron could not avoid perceiving it, nor could she refuse her tribute of silent praise to the delicacy which prompted this evident selfdenial. Ah! me that you do not possess? Shall I not have The evening previous to the departure of Waldeck had now arrived. Suuntering in a deep embowered alley of the gardens where the treillage served as a complete obstruction to the sight though not to the sound, he met the timid and apprehensive Seraphina, who would have turned into another walk but remained indecisive and trembling, when Wal-promoting the happiness of him whom only deck advancing cried :" Why does my lovely sister thus shun me on the eve of an absence which may be final! why will she not allow me one moment to whisper those vows which I would gladly proclaim to a listening world! But the die is cast-to-morrow calls me from you; and now I shall be animated in danger, soothed even in death, by knowing that you are thus acquainted with every feeling of my heart." she can love better than you, if that indeed is possible? What have we then to fear from her? Not for worlds would I disobey or disoblige her; not for ten thousand worlds would I tempt you to any act that would be capable of exciting the smallest regret in your mind for actual error, or even for duties neglected, but why should we fear her reason, her justice, or her love? She knows, she must know our affection, dearest Seraphina, our mutual affection. Had she disapproved of it would she have permitted our intercourse? But you will say that her reliance upon our prudence has taught her not to fear it. Oh no! never could she have supposed that he who has thus been blessed in Seraphina's society could have been insensible to her merits. Yet, thus on the eve of separation, I will not mingle further regrets with our adieus. A few months will restore us again to each other. I shall then be of age. Our mother shall then know our affection; and now that I go secure of your love, there is nothing I will not dare, there is nothing I will not attempt, to prove myself worthy of you." "Ah! Waldeck," said the blushing maid, "this I thought to have avoided; any thing but this I could have borne. Alas! I dare not deny that which it would be the height of ingratitude to confess. Nay, have I not confessed it a thousand times in the innocence of childhood? but I now know, I feel, my dependent situation. To listen to you, to indulge even the reveries of my own beart, would be but to plant a dagger in the bosom of her whose humanity saved me from death, and whose kindness, prompted by a desire for my happiness, has perhaps only rendered me more susceptible of misery."-Waldeck appeared impatient to interrupt her, but she calmly said :-" You must go! but go then without forcing me to confessions which on calm reflection you will know must make me miserable. If we are not destined to meet, oh! let us not add to the sorrows of separation by the intrusive recol-deck desire? Does he ask me to cherish a lection of imprudence." Seraphina, whose heart beat responsive to these sentiments, yet felt her reason tell her that they were incompatible with strict honour." What," exclaimed she, "would Wal sentiment that may be productive of unhapWaldeck would now be heard, he would no piness and sorrow to her who claims all my longer be silent, but exclaimed:-" Cruel Se- obedience, all my gratitude? Can I perform raphina! do you then confess a similarity of towards her the common duties of my situation sentiments with mine, and can you think that when my heart tells me that I fail in my I should now obey you? But why should we greatest? Nay, whilst she is loading me with now conceal those sentiments? What can my benefits, whilst her generous heart is unfoldmother or my friends wish for in an union foring to me every wish that fills it, can I coldle |