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without love is grievous sin, and it entails its own punishment—wretchedness."

Laura spoke solemnly, and with feeling; and Annie, as she listened, trembled and turned pale. When she bad concluded, however, Annie merely shook her bead, repeating hopelessly—

"It must be—it must be!"

"And pray, why must it be ?" asked Laura, quickly; for she was becoming slightly provoked at that which she deemed Annie's childish weakness; the only fault, perhaps, with which her clear head, warm heart, and earnest zealous nature, unfitted her to sympathise— "Why, if the thing is wrong in itself, and is to render you miserable, must it be? At all events, let us make some efforts to prevent it; suffer Charles and me—"

"Dearest Laura," interrupted Annie, mournfully, "I assure you nothing cau be done; any attempt to break off the match now would be unavailing, and end in making me still more wretched than I am at present."

Annoyed alike at her perseverance in that which Laura could not, but consider a culpable want of moral courage, and at the way in which she still withheld her confidence, while at the same time the idea occurred to her, though she was vexed with herself for admitting it, that one so feeble-minded was uo fitting bride for the higli-souled brave-hearted Lewis, the spirited little matron was about to utter a somewhat sharp reply, when, glancing at Annie's pale beautifullyformed features, the expression of deep anguish she read there disarmed her, and merely saying, "We take different views of this matter, Annie, dear, and must talk of it again when we are both more composed," she rose and left the apartment.

Annie waited until the sound of the closing door assured her that she was alone, and then murmuring, "She too is angry with me, and despises me—nobody loves me; oh, that I were dead !" she hid her face in the sofa cushion, and gave way to a passionate burst of grief. / Now, there is one of our dramatis persona? for whom ( we have reason to believe many of our readers entertain a warm regard, a regard in which we confess ourselves fully to participate, of whom we have lately heard but little—of course, we refer to that most "meritorious individual," that dog of dogs, dear, honest old Faust. Since Lewis had quitted Broadhurst, Faust's character, like those of his betters, (if mortals are better than dogs,) had in a degree altered. The blind unhesitating obedience lie had been accustomed to pay to his master's slightest signal, he accorded to no other person; if Walter called him, he would come, it is true, but he would do so in the calm, leisurely, dignified manner in which one gentleman would comply with the request of another; towards the General he conducted himself with a degree of respectful hauteur,which seemed to say, "Weare not friends, there is no sympathy between us, but as long as I continue to reside in a family of which you are the head, I owe it to myself to render you the amount of courtesy due to your position." For Mr.

Spooner, the usurper, who had dared to succeed his beloved master, he showed a most unmitigated con-' tempt, utterly ignoring all his commands, and resenting any attempt on his part to enforce his authority by the utterance of a low deep growl, accompanied by a formidable display of sharp white teeth. Towards Annie alone did he evince any great affection, which he showed chiefly by attending her in her walks, and taking up his position under the sofa, or close to the chair on which she was sitting—demonstrations of attachment which, as we have already hinted, were, for some unexplained reason, a source of considerable annoyance to Walter. During the conversation between Laura and Annie, Faust had been lying unnoticed under the sofa, and now finding his young mistress alone, and for some cause or other unhappy, (lie knew that quite well,) it occurred to him that the correct thing would be to come out and comfort her, which he attempted to do by laying his great rough head in her lap, wagging his tail encouragingly, and licking her hand. In her loneliness of heart, even the poor dog's sympathy (endeared as he was to her by a thousand cherished recollections) was a relief to Annie, and stooping down she imprinted a kiss on his shaggy head, whispering as she did so, "Good Faust,—you have never forsaken me!" At this moment the door opened, and Walter entered hastily. As his eye fell upon Annie and the dog, his cheeks flushed, and he exclaimed hastily,—■

"Annie, I wish you'd let Faust alone; how often have I told you that I won't have him meddled with!"

With a start at this sudden interruption, Annie hastily raised herself, and pushing the dog gently from her, said,—

"Dear Walter, do not be angry; Faust came and licked my hand, you would not have me unkind to him?"

"Oh! its Faust's fault, is it?" returned Walter crossly. "Faust, come here! Take him to our room, Mr. Spooner, and keep him there till I come; he shall not stay in the drawing-room if he is naughty. Faust, do you hear me, sir?"

"He will never follow me, Sir Walter; it's no use calling him," remonstrated Mr. Spooner.

"He will do as I tell him, and so will you too," returned Walter, imperiously, and twisting his handkerchief, he tied it round the dog's neck, led him to the door, gave the end of the leash thus formed to Mr. Spooner, and then fairly turned the pair of them out of the room; having accomplished this feat, he strolled listlessly to the fireplace, aud amused himself by pulling about the ornaments on the chimncy-piecc for some minutes. At length a new idea seemed to strike him, and turning to his companion he said,

"Do you know why I was so angry with Faust just now?"

"Because I wss petting him, I suppose, as you don't seem to like me to do so," returned Annie.

"Ah! that was not all, though," rejoined Walter: "I wanted him particularly to have been with me when I was out walking to-day, very particularly."

"Yes, and why was that?" inquired Annie, who always encouraged him to talk to her, in the hope of overcoming the dislike which he had taken to her, and which, for many reasons, pained her inexpressibly. Walter remained for a minute or two silent, and then coming close to her, he asked in a low whisper,

"Annie, do you believe in ghosts?"

"My dear Walter, what an odd question," returned Annie, in surprise; " why do you ask it?"

Walter glanced carefully round the room, to assure himself that they were alone, ere he replied, in the same low awe-stricken whisper, "Because, if there arc such things, I think I've seen one."

"Silly boy," rejoined Annie, anxious to re-assurc him, for she saw that he was really frightened; "you have fancied it—What was your ghost like, pray?'

"Promise you won't tell anybody."

Annie, half amused, half puzzled by the boy's earncstII ncss, gave the required pledge; as soon as she had done so, Walter, stooping down so as to bring his mouth on a level with her ear, replied,—

"It was the ghost of Mr. Arundel!"

Overcome by so unexpected a reply, Annie was a moment or so before she could find words to inquire, "My dear Walter, what could make you imagine such a thing? Perhaps you were asleep, and dreamed it— when was it?"

"No, I was not asleep; and it was not fancy,"returned Walter, gravely; "I was out walking this morning early with Mr. Spooner, and we lost our way, and after trying for some time to find it, Mr. Spooner hired a boat, and told the boatman to set us down near—neat-—well I forget, but he meant near here. When we got out, we had to go through some narrow passages between the different streets, and in one of them, which was very dark because of the high houses, we met a figure of a man, very tall and wrapped in a long black cloak; it drew back to let us pass, and just as I got close to it, it turned its head, and I saw the face; it was stern and dark, and wore a black beard, but the beautiful eyes were the same, and when I saw them I knew it was Mr. Arundel, or," he added, sinking his voice, " his ghost!"

As his companion remained silent, he continued, "When I saw who it was, I stopped and was just going to speak, but at that moment he stared hard at me, gave a violent start, and before I could do anything to prevent it, vanished through a dark archway."

"Oh! you must have mistaken some one for him," returned Annie, struggling for composure—" Mr. Arundel is probably in England, and ghosts are out of the question; besides, if there are such things, vhich I much doubt, they only appear after people are dead."

Walter considered for a minute, and then met the difficulty by consolatorily suggesting, "Perhaps dear Mr. Arundel is dead—perhaps he grew so unhappy that he could not live without ever seeing Faust and me, and—Ah! Annie, how could you be so cruel as to send him away?"

"I send him away, Walter! what can have put

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such a strange notion into your head?" exclaimed Annie, astonished at the accusation.

"Yes, you did," returned Walter vehemently—" lie went away because he loved you and you would not love him—it was very cruel of you, and I hate you for it whenever I remember how unkind you have been,"—and overcome by his feelings, the poor boy burst into tears.

A thousand confused thoughts flashed like lightning through Annie's brain. Whatcould hemcan ?—was she listening to the mere folly of idiotcy, or had he indeed any possible foundation for his assertion? Anxious to soothe him, sho laid her hand caressingly upon his, while, replying rather to her own heart than to his last observation, she said—

"No, my poor Walter, he whom you so much regret never loved mc."

"Ah, but he did, though," returned Walter, positively, drying his tears—" I know it." lie spoke so decidedly, that Annie, despite her reason, could not but feel curious to hear more, and turning away her head to hide her agitation, she asked iu a low voice—

"How do you know?"

"If I tell you, you must never tell the General or anybody," returned Walter—" people think I'm a fool, and I know I am not clever and can't learn like other boys, and sometimes I feel a weight just here," and he pressed his hand to his forehead, "and then all my sense goes out—I wonder where it goes to—Annie, do you think it finds wings and flies up to heaven among the white angels? I think so sometimes, and then I long to be a bird and fly with it." Too much interested to allow him to fall into a new train of thought, Annie recalled his wandering ideas by saying—

"You were talking about Mr. Arundel, Walter dear."

"Oh yes, and abont you, I remember," resumed Walter. "I knew, at least I thought, he was very fond of you a long time ago, but I was not quite sure of it till one day when I dressed Faust up like a gentleman, with Mr. Arundel's watch, and you took it off the dog's neck, and then you threw your arms round him and kissed him as you did just now—that was what made me angry when I remembered about the first time—well, while you were hugging Faust, Mr. Arundel came to the door and saw you, though you did not see him, and his eyes danced and sparkled, and his mouth melted into such a sweet smile; he was so glad to see how fond you were of Faust, and then I knew he loved you, for if he had not, he would not have cared about it, you know. Then he went away, and left me Faust, and I thought because he had left Faust he was sure to come back, but I know now that he left him to comfort mc, and went away himself all alone. Then that horrid Mr. Spooner came; he's a great friend of Lord Bellefield's, and one day they were talking together, and they fancied I did not attend to them, but I did though, for I knew they were talking about Mr. Arundel. Well, Mr. Spooner asked why he went away, and Lord Bclleficld replied, 'Why, if the truth must be tolil, he had the audacity (what does that mean !') to raise his eyes to my cousin Annie.' Mr. Spooncr questioned him further, and he informed him that Mr. Arundel had gone boldly to the General, and said he loved you."

"Told my father so !" exclaimed Annie.

"Yes, so he said," resumed Walter; "and th» General told him you loved Lord Bellefield instead, and meant to be his wife; and then poor Mr. Arundel said he would go away, and so he did, but of course if you had loved him he would have stayed, aud we should all have been so happy together. So you see, Annie, it was you that sent him away, and since I've known that, I've hated you, and tried to keep Faust from loving you, only he will, aud I can't hate you quite always;—but I never meant to tell you jill this, and you must never tell Lord Bclleficld, or he would be ready to kill me."

He paused, then, regarding her with a sod regretful look, he said, "But, Annie, is it really true that you don't love dear Mr. Arundel?"

Poor Annie! affected and excited as she had been by the foregoing scene, this lost speech was too much for her, and throwing her arms about the boy's neck, and hiding her burning check against his breast, she whispered, " Dearest Walter, do not hate me 1 you have no cause io do 10!"

[To be continued.)

THE BARONESS VON BECK.1 "Who b the Baroness Von Beck?" inquires some simple-minded English lady or gentleman, not accustomed to travel iu foreign parts, and having but vague and misty notions concerning "all people, nations, and languages," not British. It would be difficult to explain, all at once, who and what this famous Baroness is; and yet we think it very much worth our while to make an effort in that direction. Therefore, after an attentive reading of her book, we take pen in hand and proceed to tell the public what it is all about, and a bit of our mind on the matter, into the bargain.

The Baroness Von Bcek is a noble Magyar lady. Her husband was killed on a barricade in Vienna, on the 28th of October, 1313, fighting on the popular side. Since that day, his widow has devoted herself, body and soul, to the cause of Hungarian independence; not with the ordinary, passive, indirect, and ornamental flag-working patriotism of her sex, nor with that more active kind of patriotism, which animated so many brave and generous women in the late European revolutions; and which has ever animated such women, in all national wars, since the Carthaginian ladies cut off their hair to make bow-strings, and gave their gold and silver ornaments to be made into weapons for use against the Romans. No, the Baroness Von Beck's patriotism has something in it

II) Pertonal Adventure* during the Late War or Independence n llunpiry. By the Buronesi Von Beck. 2 vols. pwt 8vo. iliclurd Ue'niley, New Burlington Street.

different from these, though inclusive of them; for she, too, presents colours to regiments, gives banquets and encouraging words to soldiers, tends the wounded, and gives her property to the government which she believes to be the only true and lawful one. Her patriotism exhibits itself in energetic deeds, such as would do honour to the courage, military knowledge, and undaunted resolution, of many a captain known to fame. Her state of mind is simply this. Now that her husband is dead, (having no children,) s>lic has no personal tie to this life. She is ready to die at any moment; for her own sake, she cares not how soon. But there is one idea, for which she will sacrifice everything yet remaining to her; an idea which she firmly believes to be realizable, and which she can help to realize. Thus, having a distinct object in view, a grand and exciting object, (the national independence of her country,) and being freed utterly from that ignoble fear, the fear of death, it becomes easy to understand how she should desire to make herself essentially useful to the generals and political leaders in the Hungarian cause. The desire, it is easy to conceive; thousands of women, in a similar position, would have a similar desire; but not one in twenty thousand would have the ability to gratify it. Madame Von Beck has that ability. To the tact, acutcness, ready wit, and general cleverness of a clever woman, she joins the fearlessness, the persistency, and presence of mind of a clever man. Add to this an experience among soldiers and politicians, aud a familiarity with the engines and the arts of war; and it ceases to be wonderful, that a woman, a high-born lady, should be mixed up with the details of a bloody war; passing from camp to camp—mixing iu military councils—the coufidaute and adviser of Kossuth—the messenger from one general to another, across districLheld by the enemy; it ceases to be wonderful, because you see that she is admirably calculated for the work, and that it has a strong charm for her. The active spirit within her could not rest quietly, while all I list she held dear was being fought for by others. This masculine daring is accompanied by passionate, womanly enthusiasm. Had circumstances conspired to favour the external resemblance, all the world would recognise in this Magyar lady another Joan of Arc. Never was any feeling more thorough, more entire, than her love for Hungary, aud her desire for the restoration of its ancient rights. It is a strong passion, which no amount of suffering in the cause will ever enfeeble. Her perfect faith in, and love for Kossuth, is only equalled by her scornful anger at Corgcy, and her bitter hatred of the Austrian government and its generals.

This book of hers is remarkable in several ways 'First, it docs not read like a translation, (though occasionally we meet with foreign idioms,) but if it be written by the Baroness herself in English, it is deserving of high praise as a literary production, and we are puzzled to understand how a Magyar lady, who had never been to England till she was driven here the other day as an exile, should liave learned to write English more correctly than many English authors. Secondly, though an extremely interesting book has been produced, there is clear evidence throughout, that "she had no such stuff in her thoughts" as literary notoriety. What she states, briefly, in her preface, as the reason for writing it, cannot be doubted by any one who reads the book.

"iAlthough a woman," she says, "I have taken the most ardent interest in the contest, having enjoyed the conCdence of the noble and heroic men who took the lead in that national movement. I have stood by their side in moments the most exciting—have heard their deliberations—have witnessed their actions; and now that the struggle has been terminated by treason, I feel it to be a sacred duty to impart to the public my own personal knowledge, both of the men, and of the object which they strove to accomplish." "Neither female vanity, nor a desire for notoriety, has induced me to become an author; it was to satisfy a heartfelt impulse, which warns me not to neglect the discharge of a solemn obligation." Thirdly, the personal adventures related in this book, are some of the most extraordinary that ever befell a woman; and they strike the reader the more that they do not happen by chance, but seem to be the result of her own strong, masterly will. She is not controlled by circumstances, but seems to rule her own fate, failing in nothing she undertakes, till Gorgcy's surrender; which, according to her view of matters, was a shameful act of treason, caused by a mortified, selfish ambition, and envy aud hatred of Kossuth. Making due allowance for the strong, passionate feeling, which animates her when she describes actions, sketches characters, and attributes motives, a very good—in fact, a very truthful idea—of the Hungarian war may be got from this book. It is better worth reading than fifty impartial accounts bv people who could not possibly have seen and known half as much as the Baroness Von Beck. Taken merely as autobiography, the volumes are very interesting. Ilere is the true account of the strange, romantic adventures of a woman of the present day, as strange and full of marvels as the lovers of marvels will ! and,

"Lone, sitting by the shores of old romance."

j| In their own time did these things occur. If hdies and gentlemen in England care to learn how their fellow-creatures in Hungary were spending I heir

'time in 1849—if they would like something start

i lingly new and exciting, and yet, full of the common newspaper talk—let them get this book.

We will now give a few extracts. The following will convey some notion to the reader of the sort of work the Baroness Von Beck was employed in by

'Kossuth and the Generals. Kossuth tells her, that be lias an important and dangerous mission in which he can employ no one but herself:—

"I told him I was ready by life and by death. Ho then told me it was essential I should visit Qorgey's camp, which was still at Tokay, though it was afterwards removed to Miszkoloz; not for the purpose of commu

nicating with Giirgcy, from whom the President had just returned, and who was expected on a visit to him in a few days. I was to remain at Tokay till the Hungarians had removed from thence, and the place had been taken possession of by the Austrian*, who were already on their march. When they arrived, I was to ascertain their strength and disposition, with all particulars the knowledge of which would be likely to be advantageous to our cause; from thence I was to proceed to Pesth, and observe the proceedings of the enemy, and communicate from thence all the information I had acquired to Kossuth. 'In what manner you will be able to accomplish all this,' said he, 'I must leave altogether to your own resources; I know they will not fail you. Comfort our true-hearted brethren in Pesth. Tell them to bear their present difficulties with patience, and to look forward with assured confidence to better times, for the God of Hungary still lives and will not forsake his faithful people. From Pesth,' he continued, 'you must proceed to Vienna, and bear a letter to the Ambassador, with whom you are already

acquainted. I am convinced that your presence thcro will greatly animate and encourage all our colleagues. Tell the gallant Viennese not to despair of the firmness and bravery of the Hungarians. Wc will! yes, we will ! make them yet share in that glorious freedom for which wc are fighting. From Vienna you must go to Prague. There you will find a few members of the Austrian Diet, who are native Bohemians. Ascertain from them the disposition of the Bohemian people as regards Hungary, and the nature of the estimate they form of our proceedings. From thence you must visit successively, Dresden, Leipsig, and Breslau. I will give you letters relating to the purchase of arms and their transmission to us, which I entreat you to deliver carefully. It will be necessary also that you take 140,000 florins to pay for them, which will be a heavy and serious charge for you. The last subject upon which I wished to speak with you, refers to a matter recently brought under my notice by yourself. You have informed me, aud I feel with truth, that wo have been paying extravagant prices for many articles of clothing for the army, such as linen, cloth, ticken, and other materials. The army must have lighter clothing for the approaching summer, and I wish much to put your economical hints in practice, so that wc may obtain the various articles at a more reasonable charge. You will, therefore, have thj goodness to visit the manufacturers of such fabrics in Moravia on your return, and contract with them as you see most advantageous for the necessary supplies. The manufacturers must engage to deliver the various articles upon the Hungarian frontiers, where they shall be duly paid for in ready cash. I know not how the prices of such things range, but you will receive all such information from the Minister of the Commissariat. You have now my commission. I have named everything which is of the most pressing Importance; but the whole shall lie clearly drawn up in writing. It is a fearful undertaking; of that 1 am distinctly conscious; but our country requires the service, and if you cannot accomplish it, it is vain to ask any one else.'

"I thanked him sincerely for the distinguished confidence he had again placed in me, and promised faithfully to accomplish everything as ho had directed. Indeed his slightest wishes were Racred to me, for I have never known him form a desire or a hope for himself alone; all was for the fatherland. 1 regarded him with a species of superstition, as I would look upon its guardian genius. At his command, I could at anytime have joyfully laid down my life for the promotion of our great cause."

Her reverence for Kossuth isvery strongly expressed throughout; and her opinions about the other leaders are clearly set down, except in the ease of Klapka. She speaks coolly of him, without strong blame or praise; thinks he ought not to have surrendered Komorn; and that if he did surrender it, that he should have made better terms. She was with him at Komorn; and, indeed, seems always to have been in every place, where anything of importance to the Hungarian cause was going on. Of course she docs not speak with much gentleness of the Austrian generals. She is delighted when she tricks them, as she often does, and in the most daring manner. Her disguises and various ruses ie guerre, are not a whit less amusing for being very dangerous. She tells the following anecdote of Jellachich, the celebrated Ban of Croatia, with manifest pleasure and contempt:—

"When he entered Pcsth, he heard that the young Countess K.irolyi possessed a palace there in which she was then residing. The fame of her beauty and amiability had been long known to him; and he thought this a favourable opportunity of recommending himself to her notice. He therefore quartered himself at her residence, and strove with all his power to make himself agreeable to her, without success.

"He had the most profound faith in his personal charms, and believed that such an Adonis as he must prove irresistible. He could not understand, therefore, why the young countess did not surrender at discretion; but he was utterly confounded when, wishing to have an interview with her one morning, he received a message that the countess was not at home to him. He went at once to the Tiger Hotel, bursting with mortification; and to revenge himself, sent for his 'bill,' that he might pay the beautiful Karolyi for his board and lodging. She saw his meaning, and instead of taking offence sent him actually an account, in which every thing he had had at her palace was charged for at a monstrous price. So far the exchange was, perhaps, only fair; but the Croat could not digest the indignity put upon his self-esteem, and all his love for Karolyi turned into a desire for vengeance, which he gratified by filling her palace with common soldiers. Thus ended the renowned Ban's first love-adventure in Pesth, to the inextinguishable mirth of the worthy citizens."

It is difficult to select passages from these pages that would give, in a short space, a fair idea of the real eloquence of the work. Out of the fulness of the heart her mouth hath spoken. Indignation sometimes makes verses, and good verses too; indignation has made an eloquent prose-writer in these pages. A noble indignation it is; there is nothing selfish in it. Never were the horrors of war more vividly depicted! She who holds war to be right in such a cause as that in which she is engaged, denounces it solemnly in any other cause. The truthful pictures she draws of the battles she has witnessed,— the awful misery of towns delivered np by Austrian generals to be pillaged for six hours by a brutal soldiery,—the havoc and ruin wrought in besieged and bombarded cities,—are all enough to make the reader's blood boil or freeze as he reads. The following is one of the least horrible of these scenes from her every-day life. Buda had been taken at last, after a brave defence by Hcnzi, the Austrian general, whose fidelity to his treacherous government, and whose noble character, she records, as well as his dying words to herself, when she went to visit him, "/ wat betrayed!" He had been commanded to

defend Buda till succours came, which were never to be sent.

"At seven o'clock, all was still; Buda had fallen. Couriers were issuing from the town to bear the intelligence in every direction. I was anxious to sec the state of the fortress after so desperate a siege, and ordered my carriage to be driven thither. I entered at the Vienna Gate, where the battle had raged with exceeding fierceness. The scaling ladders by which our troops had mounted the walls and entered the fortress, were still in the positions in which they had been placed. Behind the gate the street had l>ccn barricaded, and the effect of this fresh obstacle was plainly visible in the heaps of Hungarian dead which lay before it. My carriage could not pass ou account of the barricade. I, therefore sent it back, and determined to proceed on foot.

"I ascended the walls, but they had been so damaged that it was dangerous to walk on them. I persevered, however, till I got into a position in which I could neither go forward nor retire without danger; from this awkward predicament I was rescued by Colonel Keucti. It is impossible to form an adequate idea of the ruin and destruction which lay around on every side. It was horrible, thrice horrible! The 6mell which arose from the blood and the dead bodies that choked the streets, was the most fearful and unnatural sensation I have ever experienced. The Austrian! had not had time to bury those that had fallen during the latter part of the siege, and the bodies lay about in every stage of decomposition, and were preyed upon by dogs and vermin. The Croats had crawled into the cellars, where numbers of decaying bodies had been hastily thrown, and, upon being discovered, I am sorry to narrate, were slaughtered without mercy. The hatred of the Hungarian soldiers against the Croatian troops was intense, and well had they merited it by the wanton cruelties and abominations of which they were guilty towards our people.

"Their officers were sent under an escort to a place of safety to save them from the fury of the populace, whom they had shamefully mishandled and dishonoured during their possession of the fortress; but the private soldiers fared, I fear, very dreadfully, for the crowd were infuriated beyond measure. They rushed up and down, armed with paving-stones and clubs, to wreak their long pent-up vengeance upon those heartless robbers and cold-blooded murderers. But the sight of so much unmitigated evil and terror was too much; I began to 6icken at it, and departed to my lodgings with a feeling as if I myself had arisen from the dead, and carried with me still the odour and impression of mortality."

All the adventures in the book are not so grave and heartrending as the above. Comedy mingles occasionally for a moment with the fiery epic, and softens its terror. Gorgcy's surrender to the Russians, and his previous falling away from her party—that is, the Hungarian party, headed by Kossuth,—is told with every appearance of its being truth;—truth in that sense which means that which the speaker Irowelh. It i will be easy for the reader to conceive her rage and disappointment, and her subsequent anguish, after reading the following account of the surrender of Gorgcy's army at Villagos; she and the troops, all, or nearly all, believing firmly that if Gorgey had allowed thcin, they could yet have retrieved the ill-fortune of the war. Nearly all the ill-fortune she attributes to Gorgey's treachery; but, by her own showing, the government, of which Kossuth was the actual head, caused a great deal of it by the nomination of in efficient commanders-in-chief in place of Gorgey.

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