s^:.. i ! *■:> '■■■■■rth.n^:: iliii q , ^ • . ' ^ ELIZABETH? OR, THE EXILES OF SIBERIA. A TALE, FOUNDED UPON FACTS. From the French of t MADAME COTTIN. ' ISnifieUt0]^e& bPttf) i£ngral)tng0 on 2i21lootr« • ^^ .*,'*-'; ' /" LONDON: PRINTED FOR, AND PUBLISHED BY J. L1MB1RD. 143, STRAND, NEAR SOMERSET HOUSE 1824. «z _ l: — — , ' . JX S, JOHNSON, Pfmt«r, Bvhole truth, my tale might have borne the appearance of exaggeration, or improbability ; and to them a recital of long fatigues, though unable to exhaust the courage and perseverance of a heroine of eighteen, might yet appear tedious and uninteresting. The scene of the principal anecdote of this story is removed as far as Siberia; yet, I must add, that it was unnecessary for me to extend my researches to so distant a region ; since every country affords traits of filial piety, and of mothers animated with the glow of parental tenderness. M 38^'3 ELIZABETH; OR, TKX2 EXIZ.ZSS OF SIBERIA. ON the banks of the Irtish, which rises in Calmuck Tartary, and falls into the Oby, is situated Tobolsk, the capital of Siberia ; bounded on the north by forests of eleven hundred versts in length, ex- tending- to the borders of the Frozen Ocean, andinierspersed with rocky moun- tains, covered with perpetual snows ; — around it are sterile plains, whose frozen sands have seldom received an impres- sion from the human foot, and numerous frigid lakes, or rather stagnant marshes, whose icy streams never watered a mea- dow, nor opened to the sun-beam the beauties of a flower. On approaching nearer to the pole, these stately produc- tions of nature, whose sheltering foliage are so grateful to the weary traveller, to- tally disappear : brambles, dwarf birches, and shrubs alone ornament this desolate spot ; but even these, farther on, vanish, leaving nothing but swamps covered with an useless moss, and present, as it xyere, the last efforts of expiring nature. But still, amidst the horror and gloom of an eternal winter, Nature displays some of her grandest spectacles — the aurora bore- alis, inclosing the horizon like a resplen- dent arch, emits columns of quivering light, and frequently offers to view, sights which are unknown in a more southern hemisphere. South of Tobolsk is the province called Ischim : plains strewed with the repositories of the dead, and di- vided by lakes of stagnant and unwhole- some water, separate it from the Kerquis, an idolatrous and wandering people. It is bounded on the left by the river Irtish, and on the right by the Tobol, the naked and barren banks of which present to the eye fragments of rocks promiscuously heaped together, with here and there a solitary fir-tree rearing its head ; beneath them, in a space formed by an angle of the river, is the small village of Saimka, about six hundred versts from Tobolsk ; situated in the farthest extremity of the circle, in the midst of a desert, its envi- rons are as gloomy as the sombre light which illuminates their hemisphere, and as dreary as the climate. The province of Ischim is nevertheless entitled the Italy of Siberia; since it en- j oy s nearly four months of summer, though the winter is rigorous to an excess. The north winds which blow during that pe- riod are so incessant, and render the cold so piercing, that even in September the Tobol is paved with ice ; a heavy snow falls upon the earth, and disappears not before the end of May; but from the time that it begins to dissolve, the celerity with which the trees shoot forth their leaves, and the fields display their ver- dure, is almost incredible ; three days is the short period that nature requires to bring her plants to maturity. The blos- soms of the birch-tree exhale an odori- ferous scent, and the wild-flowers of the field decorate the ground; flocks of va- rious kinds of fowl play upon the surface of the lakes : the white crane plunges among the rushes of the solitary marsh to build her nest, which she plaits with reeds, whilst the flying squirrels in the woods, cutting the air with their bushy tails, hop from tree to tree, and nibble the buds of the pines, and the tender leaves of the birch. Thus the natives of these dreary regions experience a season of pleasure ; but the unhappy exiles wha inhabit it — alas ! none. Of these miserable beings the greater part reside in the villages situated on the borders of the river, between Tobolsk and the extremest boundary of Ischim ; others are dispersed in cottages about the country. The government provides for some ; but many are abandoned to the scanty subsistence they can procure from the chase during the winter season, and all are objects of general commiseration. Indeed the name they give the exiles seems to have been dictated by the ten- derest sympathy, as well as a strong con- viction of their innocence ; they call them " Unfortunates." A few versts from Saimka, in the cen- tre of a marshy forest, upon the border of a deep circular lake, surrounded with black poplars, resided one of these ba- nished families, consisting of three per- sons — a man about five-and-forty, his wife, and a beautiful daughter in tho bloom of youth. Secluded in the desert, this little fa- B • Jl 2 ;y J i -: :;: ;*«/J: : ELaAB^yni ; or, the mily were strangers to the intercourse with society ; the father went alone to the chase; but neither had he, his wife, or daughter been ever seen at Saimka, and, except one poor Tartar peasant, who waited on them, no human being entered their dwelling. The governor of To- bolsk only, was informed of their birth, their country, and the cause of their ba- nishment ; the secret he had not even confided to the lieutenant of his jurisdic- tion, who was established at Saimka. In committing these exiles to his care, he had merely given orders that they might be provided with a comfortable lodging, a garden, food, and raiment, accompanied with a positive charge to restrict them from all communication with any one, and particularly to intercept any letter they might attempt to convey to the court of Russia. So much consideration, such mystery, and strict precaution, excited a suspicion that, under the simple name of Peter Springer, the father of this family con- cealed one more illustrious, and misfor- tunes of no common nature ; the effect, perhaps, of some great crime, or possibly a victim to the hatred and injustice of the Russian ministers. But every endeavour to discover the truth of these conjectures having proved ineffectual, curiosity was soon extin- guished, and all interest in the fate of the new exiles died with it : indeed they were so seldom seen, that they were soon forgotten ; and if, in pursuit of the chase, some straggling sportsman rambled to- wards the lake of the forest, and inquired the name of the inhabitants of the hut upon its borders, the only answer to be obtained was, that " they were unfor- tunate exiles ;" and on quitting the spot, a secret prayer that the Almighty might one day restore them to their country, was the tribute of compassion generally bestowed. Peter Springer had built their little cottage himself; it was of the wood of fir-trees, thatched with straw; detached masses of rocks defended it from the sweeping blasts of the north wind, and from the inundations of the lake. These rocks, formed of a soft peeling granite, "in their exfoliation reflecting the rays of the sun ; mushrooms sprung from their crevices, some of a pale pink, others of a saffron colour, ^r of a greyish blue, like those of the lake Baikal, announced the earliest days of spring ; and in those ca- vities, where hurricanes had scattered loose earth, pines and service-trees bu- 'fied their roots, and raised their tender foliage. On the southern side of the lake, the forest consisted only of underwood, thinly scattered, and leaving open to view the" uncultivated plains beyond, coveied with burying-places and monuments of ther dead : many had been pillaged, and the bones strewed upon the earth ; the only remains of a nation that had been con-^ signed to eternal oblivion, had not the gold and jewels, buried with its people in the bowels of the earth, revealed to avarice its existence. To the east of this extensive plain a little wooden chapel had been erected by the primitive Christians ; on that side the tombs had been respected ; under the cross which adorned it, (the honoured* memorial of every virtue,) no one hacJ dared to profane the ashes" of the deaJ'^ In these plains, or steppes, (the name they bear in Siberia), Peter Springer, during the long and severe winter of the northern climate, spent his days in hunt- ing : he killed elks which feed on the leaves of the willow, and poplar ; some- times he caught sables, but more fre- quently ermines, which are very nume- rous in that spot ; with the price he obtained for their fur he procured front Tobolsk different articles which greatly contributed to the comfort of his wife^ and the education of his daughter. The long winter evenings were devoted to the Instruction of the young Elizabeth; who^ seated between her parents, would read aloud some passage of history, while Springer directed her attention to those parts which could elevate and expand her mind, and Phedora, her mother, to all that could make it tender and compas- sionate ; one pointed out to her the beau- ties of heroism and glory, the other all the charms of piety and benevolence | her father reminded her of the dignity and sublimity of virtue, hermother of the support and consolation it affords ; the first taught how highly to revere, the latter how carefully to cherish it. From these united instructions, Elizabeth ac- quired a disposition at once heroic and gentle, uniting the courage and energy of the father, to the angelic mildness of the mother ; at once ardent and enterprising as the exalted ideas of honour could renr der her, docile and submissive as the blindest votary of love. But as soon as the snow began to yield to the power of the sun, and a slight shade or verdure appeared upon the earth, the whole family was busily engaged in the culture of their garden; Springer turned up the earth, while Elizabeth sowed the seeds prepared by the indus- trious hand of Phedora. Their little en- closure was surrounded by plantations of alder, of white cornel, and a species of EXILES OF SIBERIA. birch much esteemed in Siberia, its blos- som being the only one that affords a fragrant smell. On the southern side of this plantation, Springer had built a sort of hot-house, in which he cultivated, with the greatest assiduity and care, va- rious flowers unknown in that climate ; when they were in full bloom, he would gather them, and pressing them to his lips, ornament the brow of his daughter, saying, " Elizabeth, adorn yourself with the flowers of your native country, their fate resembles your's ; like you they flourish in a foreign land. Oh! may your €nd be more fortunate than theirs !" Except during these moments of emo- tion, he was calm and silent upon the siibject of his misfortunes. For hours together he would remain absorbed in the deepest thought, his eyes fixed upon the same object, seated in the same spot. The caresses of his wife, and more espe- cially those of his daughter, at these times seemed rather to increase than alleviate his misery. He would sometimes take her in his arms, and pressing her to his bosom, exclaim, presenting her to her mother, " Take her, Phedora ! take our child ! her fate and your's rend my heart ! Ah ! why did you follow me? Had you abandoned me to my own sufferings, had you not insisted upon partaking of them, it seems to me, that even in this desart, I could have been content, knowing you and my child were living happy and respected in our native land !" The gentle Phedora seldom answered him but with ters ; her looks, her words, her actions, all bore testimony to the tender and sincere affec- tion by which she was attached to her hus'^and. Separated from him, she could have known no happiness ; nor did she regret so forcibly their exile from their country, or their fall from grandeur, when she reflected that high dignities, places of trust and danger, might have detained him at a distance from her : in exile, he never quitted her; and there- fore she could have almost rejoiced in Siberia, but for the grief she endured at seeing the affliction with which his soul was rent. Although Phedora had passed the first season of youth, she was still beautiful ; devoted to her Creator, her husband, and her child, time was unable to efface the charm.s that innocence and virtue had im printed on her countenance. She seemed to have been created for love in its great- est purity : and if such were her destiny, it had been fulfilled. Attentive to all the wishes of her husband, she watched his looks to discover what could contri- bute to his comfort or pleasure, that she might anticipate his wish before he had expressed it. She prepared their repasts herself. Order, neatness, and comfort, was the characteristic of their little abode ; the largest apartment served as a sleeping-room for herself and Springer ; it was warmed by a stove ; the walls were decorated with the drawings and work of •Phedora and her daughter, and the win- dows were glazed — a luxury seldom to ELIZABETH OR, THE be met with in this country, and for which they were indebted to the profit Springer derived from the chase. Two small rooms completed their habitation : one was occupied by Elizabeth : in the other, where the garden and kitchen utensils were kept, slept the Tartarian peasant, their only attendant. Their days were spent in superintend- ing domestic concerns ; in making dif- ferent articles of clothing out of the skins of the rein-deer, which they dyed with a preparation from the bark of the birch, and lined with thick furs ; but when Sun- day arrived, Phedora secretly lamented that she was deprived attending divine service, and spent great part of the day in prayer. Prostrate before the God of all consolation, she invoked him in behalf of the objects of her tenderness ; and if her piety daily increased, one of the prin- cipal causes was, that her ideas and her expressions became more eloquent, and better adapted to bestow that consolation her husband so much required, in propor- tion as her soul became elevated by de- votion. The young Elizabeth, who knew no other country than the desolate one which she had inhabited from the age of four years, discovered beauties which nature bestows even upon those inhospitable climes ; and innocence finding pleasure every where, she amused herself with climbing the rocks which bordered the lake, in search of the eggs of hawks and white vultures, who build their nests there during; summer. Sometimes she caught wood-pigeons to fill a little aviary, and at others angled for the corrasines, which move in shoals, whose purple shells, lying against one another, appear through the water like a sheet of tire covered with liquid silver. It never oc- curred to the happy days of her child- hood, that there could be a lot more for- tunate than her own. Her health was established by the keen air she breathed ; and exercise, in her light figure, united agility and strength; while her counte- nance, beaming with innocence and peace, each day seemed to disclose some new charm. Thus, far removed from the busy world and mankind, did this lovely girl Improve in beauty — for the eyes only of her parents, to charm no heart but theirs ; like the flower of the desert, which blooms before the sun, and arrays itself in not less brilliant colours^ because it is des- tined to shine only in the presence of that luminary to which it is indebted for Sts existence. The roost fervent affections nro those '^hiDh AKc least divided: thus Elizabeth, who knew no one besides her parents, (consequently could love none but them), loved them with a fervour that scarcely admitted of comparison : they were the protectors of her childhood, the partak- ers of her amusements, her only society ; she knew nothing but what they had taught her ; to them was she indebted for her talents, her knowledge, her studies, her recreations, and every thing ; and feeling that without them she could do nothing, enjoy nothing, she delighted in a dependance that was felt only through the medium of the benefits resulting from it. When reason and reflection, how- ever, succeeded to the carelessness of childhood, Elizabeth observed the tears of her mother, and perceived that her father was unhappy. She often pressed them to be told the cause, but could ob- tain no other answer than that they re- gretted at being such a distance from their country ; but with the name of that country, or the rank they lield in it, they had never trusted her, fearing to excite a vain regret by informing her of the ele- vated rank from which they had been precipitated into banishment. From the time that Elizabeth discovered the afflic- tion of her parents, her thoughts no longer flowed in the same channel, and the whole tenor of her life became alter- ed. The innocent amusements she had so much enjoyed, lost all their attrac- tions : her birds were neglected, and her flowers were forgotten: when she went down to the lake, it was no longer to cast the bait, or to navigate her little canoe, but to meditate profoundly upon a scheme which had taken possession of her mind. Sometimes, seated upon a proj ecting rock, her eyes fixed upon the waters of the lake, she reflected upon the griefs of her parents, and on the means of alleviating them. They wept for their country ; Elizabeth knew not where this country was situated, but that they were unhappy out of it was sufficient ; all her thoughts were directed to devise some plan for re- storing them to it. She would then raise her eyes to heaven to implore that assist- ance she could alone expect from thence, and would remain buried in a reverie so profound, that the snow, falling in large flakes, and driven with violence against her by the wind, could not disturb it : but if her parents called, in an instant she would descend from the tops of the rocks, to receive the lessons of her father, or to assist her mother in her domestic avoca- tions. But with them, or alone, whether engaged in reading, or occupied with her needle, one idea only pursued her, one project held constant possession of her KXILES OF SIBERIA. mind; this project she kept profoundly secret, resolved not to mention it till the moment of her departure should arrive. Yes : she resolved to tear herself from the embraces of her parents — to proceed alone, on foot, to Petersburgh, and to im- plore pardon of the emperor for her father. Such was the bold design which had presented itself to her imagination, such was the daring enterprise, the dan- gers of which could not daunt the heroic courage of a young and timid female. She beheld in their strongest light many of the impediments she must surmount ; but her confidence in the Creator, and the ardour of her wishes, encouraged her ; and she felt convinced she could overcome them all. As her scheme, how- ever, began to unfold itself, and she re- flected upon the means of carrying it into execution, her ignorance could not fail to alarm her: she had never passed the boundaries of the forest she inhabited ; how then was she to find her way to Pe- tersburgh ? IIow could she travel through countries inhabited by people who spoke a language unknown to her ? She must subsist upon charity ; to sub- mit to this, she recalled to her aid those precepts of humility her mother had so carefully inculcated ; but her father had so often spoken of the inflexibility of mankind, that she dreaded being reduced to implore their compassion. Elizabeth was too well acquainted with the tender- ness of her parents to indulge the hope that they would facilitate her journey. It was not to them she could, in this in- stance, have recourse. To whom then could she apply in a desert where she lived, secluded from the rest of the world ? To whom address herself in a d^velling, the entrance to which was for- bidden to every human being? Still she did not despair : the remembrance of an accident, to which her father had nearly fallen a victim, had engraven upon her mind the conviction, that there is no place so desolate, in which Providence cannot hear the prayers of the unfortunate, and afford to them assistance. Some years before, Springer had been delivered from imminent peril, upon one of the high rocks which form a boundary to the Tobol, by the intrepidity of a young stranger. This brave youth was the son of M. de Smoloff, the governor of Tobolsk ; he came every winter to the plains of tschim, to hunt elks and sables, and sometimes bears, which are fre- quently seen in the environs of Saimka. In this dangerous chase he had met Springer, and was the means of saving his life. From that period the name of Smoloff had never been mentioned in tire abode of the exiles but with reverencf^ and gratitude ; Elizabeth and her raothdr felt the most lively regret at not know- ing their benefactor, that they might offer him their acknowledgments and be- nedictions ; to heaven they daily offered them for him ; and indulged the hope, at each return of the hunting season, that chance might lead him to their hut; but they expected in vain : its entrance had been forbidden to him, as well as to every one else ; and he lamented not the restriction, as he was yet ignorant of the treasure this humble habitation enclosed. Nevertheless, since Elizabeth had been thoroughly convinced of the difficulty of leaving the desert without some human aid, her thoughts had frequently rested upon young Smoloff. Such a protector would have dissipated all her terrors, and might have vanquished all the ob- stacles that opposed her design ; who was better calculated than he to give all the information she required respecting her journey from Saimka to Petersburgh ? — to instruct her in what method to get her petition delivered to the emperor ? — and, should her flight irritate the gover- nor, who was better calculated than a son to soften his resentment, move his compassion, and save her parents from being made responsible for her trans- gression ? Thus did she reflect on all the advan- tages which were likely to result from such a support ; and as winter drew near, she resolved not to let the hunting season pass away, without taking some steps to inform herself whether young Smoloff was in the country ; and if so, of seeking an opportunity to speak to him. Springer had been so much affected by the terror of his wife and daughter, at the mere recital of the danger he had in- curred, that he promised never again to engage in the bear-hnnt, nor to extend his walks beyond the plain, but in pur- suit of squirrels or ermines. Notwith- standing this promise, Phedora could not see him depart for a distance without terror ; and she continued till his return in a state of agitation and anxiety, as if his absence was the presage of some ca- lamity. A heavy fall of snow, congealed into a solid mass by an intense frost, had com- pletely covered the surface of the earth, when, on a fine morning in the month of December, Springer took his gun and prepared for the chase. Before his de- parture he embraced his wife and daugh- ter, and promised to return before the close of day : but the hour had passed, night approached; and Springer arrived not. Since the adventure which threa- 6 ELIZzVBETH ; OR, THE tened bis life, this was the first time he had failed in the strictest punctuality, and the terror of Phedora was indescribable. Elizabeth, while she partook of it, sought every means to tranquillize her ; she would have flown to seek and succour her father, but she had not resolution to leave her mother in the agony in which she beheld her. At length, however, the delicate and timid Phedora, who had never ventured beyond the banks of the lake, roused to exertion by the violence of her agita- tion, resolved to accompany her daugh- ter ; and could she find her husband, to incur any danger in ofl'ering him assist- ance. They proceeded together through the underwood of the forest, towards the plain ; the cold was severe in the ex- treme ; the firs appeared like trees of ice, their branches being hid under a thick covering of hoar frost ; a mist obscured the horizon ; night's near approach gave to each object a still gloomier shade ; and the ground, smooth as glass, refused to support the steps of the trembling Phedora. Elizabeth, reared in this cli- mate, and accustomed to brave the ex- tremest severity of the weather, assisted her mother, and led her on. Thus a tree transplanted from its native soil, lan-p guishes in a foreign land, while the young sapling that springs from its root, habi- tuated to the new climate, acquires strength, flourishes, and in a few years sustains the branches of the trunk that nourished it, protecting by its friendly shade the tree to which it is indebted for existence. Before Phedora had reached the plain, her strength totally failed. *' Rest here, my dear mother," said Elizabeth, " and let me go alone to the edge of the forest : if we stay longer, the darkness of the night will prevent me from distinguishing my father in the plain. '\Phedora supported herself against a tree, while her daughter hastened for- ward, and in a few seconds reached the plain. Some of the monuments with which it is inspersed are very high ; Elizabeth climbed upon the most ele- vated ; her heart full of grief, and her eyes dim with tears, gazed around in vain for her father ; but all was still and lonely : the obscurity of night began to render the search useless ; terror al- most suspended her faculties, when the report of a gun revived her hopes. She had never heard this sound but from the hand of her father, and to her it appear- ed a certain sign that he was n^ar ; she fushed towards the spot from whence the noise proceeded, and behind a pile of rocks discovered a man in a bending pos- ture, apparently seeking something on the ground. *' My father ! my father l is it you?" she exclaimed, ^e turned hastily — it was not Springer His coun- tenance was youthful, and his air noble. At the sight of Elizabeth he stood amaz- ed. " Oh ! it is not my father," resumed she with anguish ; '• but perhaps you may have seen him on the plain ? Oh ! can you lell me where to find him ?" — " I know nothing of your father," answered the stranger ; " but surely you ought not to be here alone at this unseasonable hour. You run great hazard, and should not venture." — "Oh!" interrupted she, " I fear nothing but losing my father." As she spoke, she raised her eyes to hea- ven ; their expression revealed at once firmness in affliction, dignity united with softness ; they expressed the feelings of her soul, and seemed to foretel her future destiny. The stranger had never seen a person, nor had his imagination ever painted a vision, like Elizabeth; he al- most believed himself in a dream. When the first emotion of surprise had sub- sided, he inquired the name of her father ; " Peter Springer," she replied. "How!" he exclaimed, " you are the daughter of the exile residing in a cottage on the lake side ! Be comforted, I have seen your father ; it is not an honr since he left me ; he was to make a circuit, and must be at home ere this." Elizabeth listened no longer, but flew towards the spot where she had left her mother, on whom she called with the voice of joy, that the sound might re-ani- mate her before she could explain the cause ; but Phedora was gone. The ter- rified Elizabeth made the forest resound with the names of her parents : a well- known voice answered her from the lake- side; she redoubled her speed, arrived at tlie hut, and found her father and mo- ther at the door, their arms held forth to receive her. Mutual embraces were fol- lowed by mutual explanations; each of them had returned home by a different road, but all were now united and happy. Not till then did Elizabeth perceive that the stranger had followed her. — Springer immediately recognized him, and said, with profound regret, " M. de Smoloff, it is very late ; but alas ! you know I am not permitted to offer you an asylum even for a single night." " M. de Smoloff!" exclaimed Elizabeth and her mother, "our deliverer! is it indeed he whom we behold ?" They fell at his feet ; and, while Phedora, unable to ex- press her acknowledgments, bathed them with her tears, Elizabeth addressed him thus: " M. de Smoloff, three years have now elapsed since you saved my father's life ; during that period not a day has EXILES OF SIBERIA. passed on which our fervent prayers have Hot been ofifered up to the Almighty, to beseech hifti to reward and bless you." ** Your prayers then have been heard," answered Smoloff, with the most lively emotion, " since he has deigned to guide my footsteps to this blessed abode ; the little good I did deserved not such a re- ward." It was now night, profound darkness covered the forest; a return to Saimka at this hour would be attended with dan- ger, and Springer knew not how to refuse the rights of hospitality to his deliverer ; but he had pledged his honour to the go- vernor of Tobolsk not to receive anyone under his roof; and to fail in his word, solemnly given, was a dreadful alterna- tive. He proposed therefore to the youth to accompany him to Saimka. " I will take a torch,'* said he ; "I am well ac- quainted with every turn of the forest, and all those places we must avoid, and fear not to conduct you safely." The terrified Phedora rushed forward to pre- vent him ; and Smoloff, addressing him respectfully, *' Permit me, sir,'' said he, " to solicit a shelter in your cottage till break of day. I know what are my fa- ther's injunctions, and the motives which compel him to show you so much seve- rity; but I am certain that he would allow me, on this occasion, to release you from your promise, and I will engage to return shortly to thank you, in his name, for the asylum you will have grant- ed me.'* Springer conquered his scruples ; he took the young man by the hand, con- ducted him into his cottage, and placing him near the stove, seated himself by his side, while Phedora and her daughter prepared their repast. Elizabeth was dressed, according to the costume of the peasants of Tartary, in trowsers made of the skin of the rein- deer, and a short petticoat of crimson stuff, looped up ; while her hair, in grace- ful ringlets, almost reached the ground: a close vest, buttoned at the side, display- ed to advantage the elegance of her form ; and her sleeves, turned back above the elbow, discovered her beautiful-shaped arm. The simplicity of her dress seemed to enhance the mild dignity of her man- ners; and all her gestures were accom- panied with a grace that did not escape the observation of Smoloif ; who, as he watched her, experienced an emotion, to which he had been before a stranger. Elizabeth beheld him with equal delight ; but it was a delight pure as her mind, founded on the gratitude she owed him, and on the hope of his assistance she had so long indulged. That Power, who dives into the inmost recesses of the heart, beheld not in that of Elizabeth a single thought which had not for its ob- ject the happiness of her parents; for to them it was devoted, to the exclusion of every other earthly attachment. During supper young Smoloff informed his companions that he had been three days at Saimka, where he had learnt that a great number of ravenous wolves in- fested the neighbourhood, and it was in contemplation to commence a general chase, in the course of a few days, for the purpose of destroying them. At this intelligence Phedora changed colour; " I hope," said she, addressing her hus- band, " you will not join in this danger- ous diversion; Oh! do not expose your life, the greatest of my blessings." — *' Alas, Phedora, what is it you say ?'* exclaimed Springer, with a sensation of grief he could not repress. " Of what value is ray life ? Were I gone, would it be any longer your destiny to remain in this desolate place ? Do you not know what would restore liberty to yourself and to our child ? Do you not know — '* Phedora interrupted him with an excla- mation expressive of the anguish of her soul. Elizabeth rose from her seat, and •drawing near her father, took one of his hands, *' My dear father," said she, '* you know that, reared in this forest, I am ig- norant of every other country. With you, my mother and I are happy ; in losing you. our happiness would be lost. I answer for her, as for myself, without you we could not be happy in any situa- tion of the globe ; no, not even in that country you so much regret.'* ^ *' Possibly," M. de Smoloff," resumed Springer, after a short pause, " you may think these words should bring me com- fort ; on the contrary, they plunge the poniard of grief still deeper in my bo- som ; that virtue, which should be my delight, creates new pangs, when I re- flect that it will for ever be concealed in this desert, a sacrifice to me ; my Eliza- beth will never be known, never meet with the admiration and the love so just- ly her due." Elizabeth hastily inter- rupted him : " Oh, my father I placed between my mother and you, can you tell me I am not loved." Springer, unable to moderate his affliction, continued thus : " Never will you enjoy that happiness I receive from you ; never will you hear the voice of a beloved child addressing you in angelic words of consolation ; your life will be spent without a companion, without any of the tender, the endearing tics of life, like a bird wandering in a desert. Innocent victim ! you know not the blessings from which you are de- barred ; but 1, who no longer possess t\w ELIZABETH; Oil, THE power of bcstowiiig them upon you, I know and feel, how deeply feel their va- lue!'* During this scene youngs Smolofi had in vain endeavoured to repress his tears ; they had fallen more than once : he had attempted to speak, but his voice refused utterance : at last, after a pause of some minutes, " Sir,** said he, " from the me- lancholy office which my father holds, you must be well aware I am not a strar.- fer to the sight of distress : often have travelled through the different districts under his extensive jurisdiction. What lamentations have I heard ? What soli- tary wretchedness have I witnessed ; in the deserts of Berisow, upon the borders of the Frozen Sea, I have seen men who possessed not in the wide world a single friend, who never received a caress, nor heard the soothing language of consola- tion; insulated and separated from all mankind, they were not merely banished, their misery admitted of no alleviation," — " And when Heaven has spared you and my child," interrupted Phedora, ad- dressing her husband in an accent of tender reproach, " should you complain so bitterly ? Had she been taken from you, what would you have done?" Springer shuddered at the idea ; he seiz- ed his daughter's hand, and pressing it to his heart with that of his wife, he said, regarding them both tenderly, *' Ah ! Heaven be my witness, how strongly I feel that I am not deprived of every bless- ing." As soon as the morning dawned, young Smoloif took leave of the exiles. Eliza- beth saw him depart with regret ; for she was impatient to reveal her project to him, and to implore his assistance : not a moment's opportunity had presented itself for her to speak to him in private: her parents had never quitted the apartment, and she could not address him unobserved in their presence: she hoped, however, should she see him often, to be more for- tunate ; and therefore, as he took leave, said in the most anxious manner, " Will you not come again, M. de Srcoloff ? Ah ! promise me, that this is not to be the last time I am to see the deliverer of my fa- ther.'* Springer was surprised at the earnest- ness of her address, and felt rather un- easy. He reflected upon the orders of the governor, with a resolution not to disobey them a spcondtime. Smoloff re- plied to Elizabeth's request, that he was certain of obtaining from his father an exception in his favour, and should go that very day to solicit it. "But, sir," said he to Springer, " when T am asking this favour lor myself, can I not deliver any message from you 1 Is there any fa- vour you may also require at his hands ?'* — " No, sir," answered Springer, with unusual gravity, " I have no request to trouble you with :'* His guest looked down dejected ; then addressing himself to Phedora, repeated his question in nearly the same terms. " Sir,'* she re- plied, *' I should be glad if he would allow me and my daughter to go to Saim- ka, on Sundays, to hear mass." SmolofF undertook to obtain this permission ; and departed with the benedictions of the whole family, and the secret wishes of Elizabeth for his speedy return. During his walk back to Saimka, Smo- lofF could think only of her. His imagin- ation had been forcibly struck, at her first appearance in the desert ; his heart had been deeply interested in the scene which he had witnessed afterwards be- tween her and her parents ; he recalled to his memory every word she had uttered ; her looks, her manner : and his mind dwelt particularly upon the last words he heard her utter. Without this last address, a sort of respect, approaching to veneration, would perhaps have deterred him from presuming to love her ; but the eagerness with which Elizabeth had ex- pressed a desire of seeing him again, the tender sentiment by which her re- quest had been accompanied, could not fail to excite a suspicion in his mind that she had been actuated by feelings similar to his own. His ardent and youthful imagination dwelt upon the thought, and persuaded him that fate, not chance, had brought about the adventure of the pre- ceding evening, and that a mutual sym- pa';hy now existed between them : he was impatient to read, in the innocent heart of Elizabeth, the confirmation of all his hopes. How far was he from imagining the sefttiments, he was destined on a fu- ture day to discover there. Since Smoloff's visit to the hut. Sprin- ger's melancholy seemed to have increas- ed. He reflected upon the generosity, the intrepidity, the gentleness of charac- ter this young man appeared to possess ; and it was ever present to his mind, that such was the companion he would have chosen for his daughter : but her situa- tion prevented him from dwelling on the idea : and far from being desirous of see- ing Smoloff again, he dreaded his return ; for it would have been a far more insup- portable affliction than any he had yet experienced, to see his child the pining victim of hopeless love. One evening, while plunged in deep dejection, his head supported by his hand, his elbow resting on his knee, he heaved a deep sigh. Phedora dropped EXILES OF SIBERIA. ber kneedle ; and fixing her eyes upon her husband, with an expression of the most heart-felt commiseration, she im- plored Heaven to enable her to banish his vain regret, and pour the balm of consolation into his wounded soul. Elizabeth, from a farther corner of the room, observed them both, and felt a secret joy as she reflected that a day might possibly come when she should be able to restore them to their former hap- piness ; not doubting that Smoloff would encourage and facilitate her enterprise : a secret instinct assured her, that he would be moved by it, and would assist her ; but she feared the refusal of her pa- rents, and particularly that of her mo- ther. Nevertheless to depart without their knowledge would be repugnant to her feelings ; nay, \^ould be impossible, as she knew not the name of their coun- try, nor the nature of the offence for which she was to supplicate forgiveness of the emperor : it was necessary then to discover to them her intention ; and the present seemed to be a fit moment for the disclosure : therefore, bending one knee to the ground, she fervently implored aid from the Almighty, and that he would in- cline her parents to grant her suit : then, approaching her father, she stood behind him, leaning upon the back of the chair on which he was seated, and remained silent for some moments, in the hope that he would ])erceive and speak to her : but he continued in the same dejected atti- tude ; and she broke the silence thus : '* Will you permit me, my father, to ask you a question V* He raised his head, and made a sign that she might proceed. " When M. de Smoloff inquired the other day, if you wished for any thing, you an- swered No : is it true that there is no- thing you wish for V — " Nothing that he could procure me." — " And who then could grant your wish?" — " The hand of justice." — ''My father," where is it to be found?" — " In heaven, my child ; but if you mean upon earth, — no where." As he ceased speaking, a deeper gloom over- cast his brow, and he resumed his melan- choly position. After a short pause, Elizabeth again broke sileiice thus : " My dear father and mother," said she, in a tone of ani- mation, " hear me : I have this day com- pleted my seventeeth year : this was the day on which I received from you a be- ing, which will be valuable in my estima- tion, if to you I am allowed to devote it ; to you, whom my soul reveres and che- rishes, as the living images of my Crea- tor. From the time of my birth, not a day has passed away unmarked by your benefits, unendeared by tokens of your love ; hitherto, the only return in my power to make, has been gratitude and tenderness : but what avails gratitude if it be not shown? what avails tenderness, if I cannot prove it? Oh ! my beloved parents, forgive the presumption of your child ; once in her life she would do for you what, from the hour of her birth, you have so unceasingly done for her. Condescend then to entrust her with the secret of your misfortunes." — " My child, what wouldst thou ask ?" interrupted her father. — " That you would inform me of as much as it is needful for me to know, to be able to prove the extent of my re- gard for you : Heaven bear testimony to the motive which induces me to make this request." As she uttered these last words, she fell on her knees before her father, and raised her eyes towards him with a look of the most movin? supplioa- titm. An expression so noble shone through the tears that overflowed her countenance, and the heroism of her soul reflected an air so angelic over the humi- lity of her attitude, that a suspicion of her intention instantaneously darted across the mind of Springer. Unable to shed a tear, or breathe a sigh, he remain- ed silent, motionless, struck with a sort of awe, like that which the presence of an angel might have inspired : no circum- stance attending his misfortunes had ever had power to move his soul to such a de- gree, as the words Elizabeth had uttered : and his firm spirit, that even majesty could not intimidate, was subdued by the voice of his child, and attempted in vain to strive against the emotions that over- powered it. While Springer remained silent, Eliza- beth continued kneeling before him : her mother approached to raise her : seated behind her daughter. Phedora had not seen the motion or the look which had re- vealed her secret to her father ; and was still far from imagining the trial her ten- derness was threatened with. " Why," said she, " why do vou hesitate to confide in your child the history of our misfor- tunes ? Is it her youth that prevents you? Can you fear that the soul of our Eliza- beth will suffer itself to be weakly de- pressed by the knowledge of our reverse of fortune?" " No,'' replied Springer, looking steadfastly on his daughter ; " no, it is not weakness I apprehend from her.*' From these words, and the expressive look which accompanied them, Elizabeth saw that her father had understood her : she pressed his hand in silence, that he alone might comprehend her meaning ; for she knew the heart of her mother, and was glad to retard the moment in 10 ELIZ^ETH ; OR, THE which it must be afflicted. *' Oh, Hea- ven ]" exclaimed Springer, " forgive me that I dared to repine : I regretted the blessings of which I was deprived, but knew not those you had in store for me. Elizabeth, in this one happy day, you have made me ample amends for twelve years of suffering." — " My father," she replied, " say not again there is no real happiness on earth, when the child of such a parent canbe blessed with hearing words like these. But speak — tell me, I conjure you, your name, that of your country, and the cause of your unhappi- ness." — " Unhappiness ! I am unhappy no longer : my country is wherever I can live with my daughter ; the name in which I place my greatest glory is, that of the father of Elizabeth."— " Oh, my child," interrupted Phedora, " I did liot think the tenderness 1 bore you could admit of increase ; but you have afforded consola- tion to your father." At these words. Springer's firmness was entirely subdued : he burst into tears, and, pressing his wife and daugh- ter to his heart, repeated in a voice bro- ken with sobs, " Pardon, O Most High ! pardon aningrate, who presumed to mur- mur at thy decrees ; and withhold the chastisements his temerity has deserved." When these violent emotions had sub- sided, Springer said to his daughter, " My child, I give you my word that I will inform you of every particular you wish to know ; but you must wait some days : I cannot speak of my sufferings at the moment you have taught me to for- get them." The obedient Elizabeth ventured not to press him further, determining to wait with deference till he should feel inclined to give the information he had promised ; but she waited for that moment in vain : Springer appeared to dread it, and to avoid her ; he had guessed her intention ; and though no language could express the gratitude and admiration of this fond parent, his tenderness would not allow him to grant the consent he knew she would entreat ; nor did he consider him- self absolutely authorized to refuse it. This was indeed the only resource from whichhe might hope to be re-established in hisrights, and to replace Elizabeth in the rank to which she was born: but when he reflected upon the fatigues she must undergo, the dangers she must in- cur, the idea was insupportable. Wil- lingly would he have sacrificed his own life to reinstate his family in their rank and possessions ; but to risk that of his daughter in such an attempt, was a trial to which he felt his courage was un- equal. The silence of her father taught Eliza- beth the line of conduct she ought to pur- sue : she was certain that he had pene- trated into her design, and was more deeply affected by it than she had ever seen him : which, if it had met his ap- probation, he would not, with so much precaution, have avoided speaking to her upon the subject. Indeed, when she con- sidered her scheme, it seemed so imprac- ticable, that she feared her parents would only regard it as the effusion of filial enthusiasm. In order, therefore, to place her project in a point of view more favourable to its execution, she must represent it divested of some of the greater obstacles by which it was op- posed, and to this end, must solicit the advice and assistance of Smoloff. With a determination, therefore, to maintain silence upon the subject, and not to dis- close the secret entirely to her parents till she had conversed with him, she waited impatiently for his return. Elizabeth foresaw that one of the strongest reasons that would withhold ' her parent's consent, would be the diffi- culty of undertaking to travel eight hun- dred leagues on foot, in the severest cli- mate of the earth. To lesson this diffi- culty as much as possible, and to prepare herself for hardships and fatigue, she ex- ercised her strength daily in the plains of Ischim. Whether the snow, drifted by the wind, beat against her with a violence that opposed her passage, or a thick mist concealed almost the path before her, she relinquished not her resolution ; sometimes, in contradiction even to the wishes of, her parents, accustoming her- self by degrees to indure the inclemency of weather, and their disapprobation. Siberia is subject to sudden storms ; frequently during the winter season, when the sky appears the most serene, dreadful hurricanes arise instantaneously, and obscure the atmosphere. They are impelled from the opposite sides of the horizon ; and when they meet, the strong- est trees in vain oppose their violence : in vain the pliant birch bends to the ground : its flexible branches, with their trembling leaves, are broken and dis- persed ; the snow rolls from the tops of the mountains, carrying with it enormous masses of ice, which break against the points of the rocks : they break in tlieir turn ; and the wind, carryiag away the fragments, together with those of the falling huts, in which the terrified ani- mals have in vain sought shelter, raises them high in the air, and dashing them back to the earth, strews the ground with the ruins of every production of nature. One morning, in the moHth of Jamiaryj EXILES OF SIBERIA. 11 Elizabeth was overtaken by one of these terrible storms : she was in the plain, near the little chapel ; and as soon as the sudden darkness of the sky announced the approaching tempest, sought shelter un- der its venerable roof : the furious wind sooa attacked this feeble ediSce ; and, shaking it to its foundation, threatened every instant to level it with the ground. Elizabeth, prostrate before the altar, was insensible to fear : the storm she had heard destroying all around her, created no sensation in her breast but that of a reverential awe, caused by a natural reflection on the Omnipotent Being, from whose hand it came. As her life might be serviceable to her parents, she felt assured that Heaven would, for their sake, watch over and guard it, till she had delivered them from suffering. This sentiment, approaching almost to super- stition, created by the fervour of her filial piety, inspired Elizabeth with a tranquillity so perfect, that in the midst of warring elements, with the thunder- bolts of heaven falling around her, she yielded calmly to the heaviness which oppressed her ; and lying down at the foot of the altar, before which she had been offering up her prayers, fell into a slumber, secure and peaceful as that of innocence reposing on the bosom of a father. On this very day Smoloflf had returned from Tobolsk. On arriving at Saimka, he hastily proceeded to the cottage of the exiles. He brought the permission Phedora had solicited ; her daughter and herself were at liberty to attend divine service at Saimka every Sunday : but so far from extending his indulgence to Springer, the orders of the court regard- ing him were more strict than ever ; that in allowing young Smoloff to see him once more, the governor of Tobolsk had consulted his feelings rather than his duty ; but this visit was to be the last : of this his father had exacted a solemn promise. Smoloff was grieved to the soul at so much severity ; but as he drew near the dwell- ing of Elizabeth, his melancholy dis- persed ; he thought less of the pain of taking leave under the cruel restriction imposed upon him by his father, than of the delight he should experience in seeing her again. In the first ardent pursuit that occupies the youthful mind, the enjoyment of the present felicity is so animated, so com- plete, that it obliterates all idea of futu- rity, and engrosses the soul so entirely, that no room is left for the anticipation of future distress : happuiess is a sensa- tion too ardently felt by youth, to suffer them to waste a thought upon the insta- bility of its duration. But when, upon entering the cottage, Smoloflf looked around for Elizabeth in vain, and reflect- ed that he might not be able to prolong his visit till her return, his disappoint- ment was too apparent to escape the most superficial observation. In vain did Phe- dora address him in the most affecting terms of gratitude, blessing the hand that had re-opeiicd for her the house of God, as well as preserved the life of her be- loved husband. In vain did Springer call him the protector, the comforter of the afflicted: he appeared almost insensible to their discourse, and in the little he spoke, the name of Elizabeth every in- stant escaped his lips. His evident em- barrassment partly betrayed the situation of his heart, and the disclosure rendered him dearer to that of Phedora : his love for her daughter flattered her pride, the indulgence of which jields the highest gratification ; and surely no mother had more reason to be proud of a child. Springer, though no less sensible of the merit of his daughter, and fearing that she would discover the visible par- tiality of the young man, which might dis- turb her peace, reminded Smololf of the obedience due to his father, with the hope of putting an end to a visit, which, by divers pretences, the youth sought to pro- long. It was at this period that the storm arose ; the parents trembled for the safety of their child. " Elizabeth ! Oh Eliza- beth ! What will become of my Eliza- beth?" cried the agonized mother. Springer took his stick in silence, and went to seek his daughter ; Smoloff rush- ed after him. The tempest raged with the most ter- rific violence on every side ; the trees were torn up by the roots, and an attempt to cross the forest was attended by the most imminent danger. Springer remon- strated with Smolofi", and endeavoured to deter him from following, but in vain ; Smoloff saw all the danger, and rejoiced that an opportunity should offer for him to encounter such for the sake of Eliza- beth : he would give a proof of an aflfec- tion he could scarcely have declared to her by any other means. They had now reached the middle of the forest. " On which side shall we turn?" asked Smoloflf. — " Let us proceed towards the plain," Springer replied ; " She walks there every day, and has probably taken shelter in the chapel."— . They said no more; their anxiety was equal ; stooping to shelter their heads from the blows of the broken boughs, and from the fragments of rock which th« 19 ELIZABETH ; OR, THE wind scattered about, they walked for- ward as fast as the snow, which beat in their faces, would permit. On reaching the plain, the danger with which they liad been menaced from the falling of trees ceased ; but in this ex- posed situation they were sometimes driven backwards, and at others, thrown down by the violence of the tempest. At last they reached the little chapel, in which they hoped Elizabeth had sought a refuge ; but when they beheld this dan- gerous shelter, the walls of which con- sisted only of slightly-joined planks, that seemed ready every instant to fall, and become a pile of ruins, they began to shudder at the idea that she might be within them. Animated with more than parental fears, Sraoloff, leaving Springer behind, was the first to enter the tottering edifice, where, to his inexpressible asto- nishment, he sees Elizabeth, not terrified, pale, and trembling, but in a peaceful sleep before the altar. Struck with un- utterable surprise, he stops, — points out to Springer the cause of his amazement ; and both, impelled by •similar sentiments of veneration, fall on their knees by the side of the angel, sleeping under the spe- cial protection of heaven. The father bent over his child, while Smoloff, c isting down his eyes, retired some steps, not pre- suming to aj)proach too near to such su- preme innocence Elizabeth awoke, beheld her father, and throwing herself into his arms^, ex- claimed, " Ah ! I knew you watched over me." Springer pressed her to his heart with indescribable emotion *•' My child," said he, " into what agonies have you thrown your mother and me!" — 'Oh, my father ! pardon me for causing those tears," answered Elizabeth ; '"■ and let us hasten to relieve the terrors of my mo- ther." In rising, she perceived SmolofT. *' Ah!" said she, in gentle accents of pleasure and surprise, '"'■ all my protectors have then been watching over me : Hea- ven, my father, and you." With extreme difficulty did her delighted lover repress the emotions of his heart. Springer resumed. " My dear child," said lie, " you talk of rejoining your mo- ther, but do you know whether it will be possible ! whether you will be able to resist the violence of a tempest that M. de Sninloff and 1 seem to have escaped from but by a miracle ?" — " I will try," answered she ; " my strength is greater than you think : and I rejoice in an op- portunity which enables me to show you how much it is capable of performing, when the con^solation of my mother calls forth its exertion." As she spoke, unwonted courage beam- ed in her eyes ; and Springer perceived that her enterprise was far from being relinquished : she walked between her father and Smoloff, who supported her together, and sheltered her head with their wide mantles. How much did Smo- loff rejoice in that boisterous wind which obliged Elizabeth to trust to him for sup- port! He thought not of his own life, which he would gladly have exposed a thousand times to prolong those moments ; he feared not even for that of Elizabeth, which, in the ecstacy that possessed him, he would have defied the elements com- bined, to hinder him from preserving. The sky now began to resume its sere- nity, the clouds dispersed, and the wind ceased by degrees ; Springer recovered his spirits, but those of Smoloff were de- pressed. Elizabeth withdrew her arm, and chose to walk on unassisted ; for she was desirous of braving before her fa- ther, the remainder of the storm ; she was proud of her strength, and eager to dis- play before him a proof of it; with the hope of convincing him, that it would not fail when she should undertake to obtain his pardon from the emperor, were it necessary to go to the remotest extremity of the earth to seek it. Phedora received them all with tran- sports of joy and tenderness, thanking heaven that had restored them to her : she comforted her daughter, who grieved for the tears she had caused, dried her drip- ping garments ; and, taking off her fur bonnet, smoothed her long hair. For these maternal cares, so tender, thou^jh trivial, which Elizabeth received daily from the hands of her mother, her affec- tionate heart became each day more grate- ful. Young Smoloff was affected at wit- nessing them ; and felt that the happi- ness he would experience, in becoming the husband of Elizabeth, would be much increased by being also the son of the amiable Phedora. The storm had now entirely subsided, and nis^ht began to spread its dark shade over the cloudless sky. Springer pressed the hand of his guest, and with a mixed sensation of sorrow and tenderness re- minded him it was time to depart. Eli- zabeth then learned, for the first time, that he was come to take a farewell. — The colour forsook her cheeks at the intelli- gence, and her embarrassment became vi- sible. '"What!" said she to him, " shall I never see you again ?" — " Oh, yes !" replied he eagerly, " as long as you in- habit these deserts, and I am free, I shall stay at Saimka. I shall see you at church whenever you come, and I shall EXILES OF SIBERIA. IS see you on the plain, upon the banks of the lake, whenever this happiness is al- lowed me." He stopped suddenly, asto- nished himself at his feelings, and at what he had uttered : but Elizabeth did not un- derstand him ; in all he had said she only remarked the certainty of their meeting- again, and that she should be able to con- sult with him upon her enterprise. Com- forted by these hopes, she took leave of him with less regret. When Sunday arrived, Elizabeth and her mother, after an early breakfast, set out for Saimka. Springer bade them adieu with a feeling of regret, as this was the first lime since his exile that he had remained alone in the cottage : but he concealed ihis sensation, and blessed them with composure, recommending them to the protection of the Supneme Being they were going to invoke. The weather was fine ; the Tartarian peasant served them as a guide through the forest of Saimka; its distance appeared short. On entering the church, every eye was turned towards them; but theirs were reverently cast down, while their hearts were fixed upon God alone. Th*^y advanced to the al ar, and bending before it, offered up their sincere supplications for the same object ; and if those of Elizabeth were more com- prehensive than Phedora's, the beneficent Being, who beheld their intentions, heard them with equal indulgence. During the time the ceremony lasted, Elizabeth did not remove the veil which concealed her face ; her thoughts were so entirely engrossed by her Creator and her parents, that they did not extend even to him from whom she hoped for protection. The pious concert of voices which chaunt- ed the sacred hymns, made an impression on her senses approaching to ecstacy ; her imagination painted the heavens open- ing, and the Almighty himself presenting an angel to conduct her on her journey. This imaginary vision lasted as long as the music vibrated upon her delighted ear; when that ceased, she raised her head, and the first object that presented itself was young Smoloff, leaning against one of the pillars, at a little distance, with his eyes fixed intently upon her : he appeared to her to be the angel God had presented, the guardian angel who was to assist her in the deliverance of her fa- ther. Her eyes beamed confidence and gratitude. Smoloff was moved by their expression ; it seemed to be in unison with what passed in his mind ; for he also felt grateful for the happiness he enjoyed in seeing her, and in believing himself be- loved. Upop leaving the church, he offered Phedora to couduct her in his sledge to the entrance of the forest ; she consented with pleasure, as it would be the means of sooner rejoining her beloved Springer ; but Elizabeth was disappointed by this arrangement ; she had flattered herself that, in the course of a walk, some op- portunity would have occurred of speak- ing to Smoloff in private ; in a carriage she knew it would be impossible : and could she speak before her mother, who, yet in perfect ignorance of her design, would, on its first disclosure, reject it with terror, and forbid him to afford her any assistance? Yet she ought not to lose such an opportuni y of mentioning her scheme to him, as possibly none equally favourable might ever occur again. Thus was her mind agitated and perplexed, w^hen the sledge had already passed the border of the forest, which Smoloff had declared he could not go be- yond ; but wanting resolution to leave Elizabeth, he went on till they reached the banks of the lake ; there, however, he was obliged to stop : Phedora de- scended first, and taking his hand said, *' Will you not sometimes walk this way ?" Eli'/abeth, who followed her mother, whispered, in a hurried voice — " No, not this way, but in the little chapel on the plain to-morrow." Thus did she inno- cently appoint a meeting, without thinking of the interpretation Smoloff might give to her words : she fancied that she had spo- ken only of her father ; and on seeing in his countenance that her request had been heard, andwould be granted, hers bright- ened with joy. While Phedora and her daughter walked towards their dwelling, Smoloff returned alone across the forest, plunged in a reverie of the most delight- ful nature. After what he had heard, how could he doubt that Elizabeth loved him. And with the knowledge he had of her, how could this certainty fail to create the most lively emotions of joy ? He had never beheld beauty equal to hers ; he had lately seen her in the presence of her Maker, the image of piety and innocence ; he had also seen repeated proofs of the tenderness of her heart, in her conduct to- wards her parents : how indeed could a heart so tender fail of being moved to love the man to whom a father's life was owing. Ingenuous and candid as the pu- pil of Nature, how should she have ac- quired the art of concealing her sentiments. Yet he felt astonished at her wishing to see him unknown to her parents ; but he easily found excuses for an indiscretion which he dared to attribute to excess of love. It was not with the embarrassment ge- nerally attending upon stolen meetings of this nature, but with all the security of 14. ELIZABETH ; OR, THE unsuspecting innocence, that Elizabeth repaired, on the following morning, to the chapel. Her steps were lighter, and her pace swifter than usual, as she con- sidered M'hat she was doini? as the first movement she had made towards the li- beration of her father. The sun shone with splendour on the snowy plains, and thousands of icicles, hanging suspended from the branches of the trees, reflected its bright image in various forms of beauty and grandeur ; but this lustre, so bril- liant and clear, was less pure, less noble, than the soul of Elizabeth. She entered the chapel ; Smoloff was not there ; this delay (iisturbed her ; a slight gloom over- spread her countenance. It was not caused by disappointed vanity, nor even by neglected love : no passion, no foible Ci uld at this moment find a place in her heart ; but she dreaded some accident or unforeseen circumstance might prevent the arrival of him she so anxiously ex- pected. With fervency she implored the Almiv6 ; no, I wiil be but as a friend, ^ a brother : and if I Serve you with all the fervour of passion, I swear never to ad- dress you but in a languiige pure as inno- cence, as that of angels, or yourself," Underneath, the following postscript •Was written by the governor himself. " No, Elizabeth, it is not my son that must conduct you : I doubt not his honour, but yours must be placed beyond the reach of suspicion. When at the court of Russia you exhibit instances of virtue too heroic not to be crowned with success, the breath of envy must not whisper, that you were conducted thither by a lover, and thus tarnish the noblest instance of filial piety the world can boast of. In your present situation there are no protectors worthy to guide your innocence, but Heaven and your father. Your father cannot accompany you : but Heaven will not forsake you ; Religion will lend you her aid ; shield yourself therefore under her guidance. You know to whom I have given permission to enter your dwelling. In intrusting you with these directions, I render you the deposi- tory of my fate : were this letter to be made public ; were it to be known that I had favoured your departure, my ruin would be the inevitable result : but I have no fear ; I know in whom I confide, and what may be expected from the he- roism and honour of a daughter willing to sacrifice her life for a father." As he finished the letter, Stanislaus' voice became firmer and more animated ; he gloried in the virtues of his daughter, and in the admiration they excited ; but the tender mother thought only of losing her : pale, motionless, unable to weep, she regarded her child in silence, and raised her eyes to heaven. Elizabeth threw herself on her knees before them both: ''Oh, my parents!'* said she, " allow me to speak to you in this posture. In an humble attitude should the great- est of all blessings be solicited. I pre- sume to aspire to that of restoring you to liberty, to happiness, and to your country ; for more than a year has this been the object of my fondest hopes : the season for it approaches, and you would forbid me to attempt it. If there is a blessing greater than thait which I en- treat, refuse me this, I will consent ; but if there is not " Agitated, trembling, the accents she would utter died unfinish- ed on her lips, and by looks and motions of the most earnest supplication only could she finish her prayer. Stanislaus laid his hand upon his daughter's head without speaking ; her mother exclaimed, '* Alone, on foot, without help ; Oh, no, 1 cannot! I cannot!" — " My mother," answered Elizabeth eagerly, '' do not, I beseech you, do not oppose my wish; you would not, if you knew how long I have indulged it, and all the consolation I have derived from it. As soon as my reason allowed me to comprehend the cause of your unhappiness, I resolved to dedicate my life to the removal of it. Blessed was the day on which I conceived the design of liberating my father ! Blessed the hope which supported me, when I saw you weep ! How long ago, wit- ness of your silent sorrow, the affliction would have overwhelmed me, had I not reflected. It is I who may restore what they lament the loss of. If you deprive me of this hope, in which all my thoughts centre, I shall no longer attach a value to my existence, and my days will linger away in despondence. Oh ! pardon me for grieving you. No, if you forbid my departure, I shall not die, since my death would be an additional source of affliction to you ; but I trust you will not oppose my happiness. Tell me not that "my enterprise is impracticable. My heart answers that it is not : it will sup- to ELIZABETH, OR, THE ply strength to sustain me when I go to claim justice, and eloquence to obtain my demand ; notliing will daunt me ; neither sufferings, nor contempt ; neither the dazzling splendour of a court, nor the awful brow of majesty ; nothing but your refusal." — " Cease, Elizabeth, oh, cease!" interrupted Stanislaus; "my ideas are confused ; my soul till now never sunk before a noble action ; till now had never heard of virtue too heroic for its strength to bear. I did not think myself weak ; oh ! my child ! you now teach me that I am : — No, I cannot con- sent." Encouraged by his refusal, Phe- dora, taking her daughter's hands between hers, said, " Hear me, Elizabeth : If your father betrays weakness, you may well excuse it in your mother ; pardon her that she has not resolution to give you permission to display your virtue. Strange ! that a mother must ask her child to be less excellent ; but your mother asks it only, she does not com- mand ; possessed of such greatness of soul as you are, you ought to receive no command but from the dictates of your own heart." — " My dear mother," replied Elizabeth, " yours shall ever be held sacred: if you desire me to remain here, I hope I shall have resolution enough to obey without repining ; but suffer me to hope tbat my scheme will yet receive your assent ; it is not the result of a mo- ment's enthusiasm, but of the reflection of many years; it is established upon solid reason as well as affection. Does there exist any other means of rescuing my Xathef from exile? During the twelve years thai he has laoguished here, vrhat friend has undertakea his j-ustification ? And were there ono who dared to do it, would he dare to say as mucli as I should ? Would he be insiigated by motives simi- lar to mine ? — Oh, no ! lei me indulge the thought, that ileaven has reserved for your child only, the blessing of restoring you to happiness, and do not opj)ose the glorious undertaking which Heaven has designed to charge her with. Tell me, what is it you consider so alarming in the enterprise ? Is it my temporary absence ? Have I not often heard you lament that exile that forbids you the hope of be- stowing me in marriage ? And would not a husband have separated me from you entirely? Is it danger? There exists none ; the winters of this climate have Inured me to the utmost severity of the weather, and the daily exercise I have taken on these plains, to the fatigue of long travelling. Are you alarmed on ac- count of ray youth ? It will be my sup- port ; the weak meet with general assist- ance Or, do you fear my inexperience? I shall not be alone ; — do you remember the words of the governor's letter ? he permits the poor missionary to take shel- ter under our roof, but to give me a guide and a protector. You see every danger, every obstacle, is removed ; nothing is wanting but your consent and your bene- diction." — " And you must beg your bread," exclaimed Stanislaus, in a tone of poignant distress. *^ The ancestors of your mother, who formerly reigned in these territories ; and mine, who were seated on the throne of Poland ; will look down and see the heiress of their name begging her daily bread in that Russia which has made of their kingdoms provinces to her empire." — '« If such is the royal blood that flows in my veins," replied Elizabeth, in accents of modest surprise, " if I am a descendant of mo- narchs, and that two diadems have graced the brows of my forefathers, I hope to prove myself worthy both of them and you, and never to dishonour the illustrious name they have transmitted to me : — ^but poverty will not dishonour it. Why should not the daughter of the Seids,* and of Sobieski, have recourse to the charity of her fellow-creatures? How many great men, precipitated from the height of human grandeur, have im- plored it for themselves ! Happier than they, 1 shall implore it only in the service of my father." The noble firmness of this young heroine, the degree of pious pride which sparkled in her eyes at the thought of humbling herself for her father's sake, ^ave to her discourse such animation, and such strength and authority, that Stanis- laus was unable to resist : he felt that he had no right to prevent his daughter from displaying her heroic virtue ; that he should be culpable in detaining her in the obscurity of a desert. " Oh, my be- loved!" he cried, tenderly pressing the hand of his Phedora, " shall we con- demn her to end her days here unknovrn? Shall we deprive her of the prospect of being the happy mother of children re^ sembling herself? Take courage, my Phedora ! this will be the only possible means of restoring her to a world of which she will be the ornament :•— let us grant the permission she solicits." At this moment the feelings of her mother triumphed over those of the wife ; and for the first lime Phedora prestfmed to re- sist the most sacred of human authorities: " No, never, never will I grant this per- mission : even you, Stanislaus, will en- treat in vain ; I shall have courage to re- * Noble Tartars who were descended from the ancient princes of Siberia. EXILES OF SIBERIA. «l sist. What J shall I expose the life of my child I shall I consent to see my Eli- zabeth depart, to hear on some future day that she had perished with cold and famine in a frightful desert, and live to deplore her loss ? Can such a request be made to a mother ? Oh, Stanislaus ! is it possible that there is a sacrifice I can- not make to you, and a grief in which all your endeavours to console me would be vain !'* She ceased to speak; her tears no longer flowed ; the anguisk of her mind was unutterable. Stanislaus, un- able to endure the sight of her distress, cried, " My child, if your mother cannot consent you must not go.'* — " No, my mother, if you desire it, I will stay," said Elizabeth, embracing her with the utmost tenderness ; " never will I dis- obey you ; but perhaps the Almighty will obtain from you what you have re- fused even to my father; join with me in entreaties, my mother ; let us ask of him the conduct we must pursue ; it is his wisdom that must enlighten, his sup- port that must sustain us ; from him pro- ceeds all truth, and from him only can we'learn submission to his decrees." While Phedora prayed, tears again came to her relief: that piety which calms and softens human aftliction, and possesses itself of the heart, to chase thence the agonies of sorrow ; that divine piety, which never prescribes a duty, without pointing out its recompense, and never fails to pour the balm of consola- tion into the souls of those who humbly invoke it, touched that of PheJora. The approbation of men can obtain from the ambitions character, whjch places all its happiness in glory, a sacrifice of the ten- derest afl'ections ; but religion alone can obtain such a sacrifice from hearts like that of Phedora, whose happiness center- ed solely in those she loved. On the following day, Stanislaus being along with his daughter, gave her a nar- ration of his misfortunes. He informed her of the dreadful wars which had afflicted the kingdom of Poland, and in v/hat manner that unfortunate nation had been at last subverted. — "My only crime, my child," said he, '' was too strong an attachment to my country to endure the sight of its slavery. The blood of some of its greatest monarchs flowed in my veins ; its throne might have fallen to my lot, and my services and my life were due to the country from which all my glory was derived. I defended it as I ought. At the head of a handful of noble Poles, I fought to the last extremity against the three great powers which combined to destroy it ; and when, over- powered by the number of our encmiea, we were forced to yield under the walls of Warsaw, in sight of that great city, delivered up to flames and pillage. Though forced to submit to tyranny, at the bottom of my heart I resisted still. Ashamed to remain in my native country, which was no longer in the possession of my countrymen, I sought arms ; I sought allies to assist me in restoring to Poland its existence and its name. Vain effort I Ineffectual attempt ! Each day rivetted faster those chains my feeble endeavours were unable to break. The lands of my ancestors lay in that part of the country which had fallen under the dominion of Russsia: I lived upon them with Phe- dora, and should have lived with felicity unequalled, but that the yoke of the stranger weighed upon my mind. My open murmurs, and still more, the num- bers of malcontents who resorted to my house, disturbed an arbitrary and suspi- cious monarch. One morning I ^ras torn from the arms of my wife, from yours, my child, from my home : you were then only four years old, and your tears flowed not for your own misfortunes, but be- cause you saw your mother weep. I was dragged to the prisons of Peters- burgh : Phedora followed me thither ; where the only favour she could obtain, was permission to share my confinement. We lived nearly a year in those dreadful dungeons, deprived of air, nearly of the light of heaven — but not of hope. I conld not persuade myself but that a just monarch would forgive a private citiz^en for having endeavoured to maintain the rights of his country, and that he would trust to the promise I gave of future sub- mission. I judged mankind too favbur- abl)^ : I was condemned unheard, and banished for life to the deserts of Sibe- ria. My faithful companion would not abandon me ; and in accompanying me, she seemed to follow the dictates of her heart, rather than those of her duty. Yes, had I been condemned to linger out my existence in the frightful darkness of the terrific Beresow, or amidst the undis- turbed solitudes of the lake Ba,ikal, or of Kamptschatka, she would not have for- saken me. In short, had my destiny been rendered even ten times more miserable, my Phedora would still have proved my consoling angel. To her goodness, to her piety, to her generous sacrifice, I shall ever believe I am indebted for ray milder doom. Oh ! my child ! all the solace of my life I owe to her ; while, in return, I have associated her in my mis- fortunes." " Misfortunes ! my father," said Eliza- beth ; '• when you have loved her so ten- derly, so constantly ?" In these words 23 ELIZABETH J OR, THE Stanislaus recognized the heart of Phe- dora, and perceived that Elizabeth, like her mother, could live contented with the man she loved. " My child," resumed he, " returning young Smoloff's letter, which he had kept since the preceding evening, " if I one day owe to your zeal and courage the restoration of that rank and wealth which I no longer desire, but to place you in the bosom of prosperity, this letter will remind you of our bene- factor; your heart, Elizabeth, is grateful, and the alliance of virtue can never dis- grace the blood of royalty." Elizabeth coloured as she received the letter from her father ; and placing it in her bosom, answered, " The remembrance of him, who pitied, who loved and served you, shall ever be cherished by me." For some days the departure of Eliza- beth was not mentioned ; Iier mother had not yet consented ; but in the melancholy of her air, in the deep dejection of her countenance, were visible that the soli- cited consent was in her heart, and that all hope from resistance had forsaken her. One Sunday evening, the family was assembled in prayer, when a gentle tapping at the door disturbed them. Sta- nislaus opened it, and a venerable stran- ger presented himself. Phedora started up, exclaiming, " Oh, heaven I this is he who has been announced to us ; he who comes to deprive me of my child." She hid her face, bathed in tears, with her hands ; her piety could not even induce her to welcome the servant of God. The missionary entered. A long white beard descended to his breast ; he was bent more by long labours than by age ; the hardships of his life had worn his body and strengthened his soul : there was an expression of sorrow in his countenance, as of a man who had suffered much ; but likewise something consolotary, as of a man who feels that he has not suffered in vain. The whole of his appearance in- spired the beholder with veneration. " Sir," said he, addressing himself to Stanislaus, " I enter your dwelling with a joyful heart ; the blessing of God is upon this cottage, for it contains a trea- sure more precious than gold or pearls. I come to solicit a night's lodging." Elizabeth hastened to fetch him a seat. " Young maiden," said he to her, " you have early trod the paths of virtue, and in the spring-time of human life left us far behind." He was preparing to seat himself, when the sighs of Phedora ar- rested his attention ; and addressing himself to her, " Why do you w©ep ?" said he ; "is not your child favoured from the Most High ? Heaven itself con- ducts her steps ; and you should con&f" der yourself blest beyond the common lot of parents. If you grieve so bitterly because the call of virtue separates your child from you, for a short time, what must become of those mothers who see their offspring torn from them, by the ways of vice, and lost to them for eter- nity ?" — '• Oh, father ! if I am to see her no more !" exclaimed the afflicted mother. *' You would see her again," he answer- ed with animation, '•'■ in that celestial Pa- radise which will be her inheritance,.-^ But you will see her again on earth; the^ difficulties of her undertaking are great and various ; but the all-powerful Bein^ will protect her : he tempers the wind to the clothing of the lamb." '" Phedora bowed her head in token of^ resignation. Stanislaus had i\ot yet * spoken; his heart was oppressed; he" could not utter a word. Elizabeth her- self, who had never before felt her coii*'^^ rage relax, began to experience sensa<^''' tions of weakness. The animated hope of rendering service to her parents had hitherto absorbed every idea of the grief of leaving them ; but now, when that'" moment was arrived, that she could say to herself, " To-morrow I shall not hear the voice of my father ; I shall not re- ceive the fond caresses of my mother ; perhaps a year may pass away ere such happiness be mine again." She now felt that the success of her enterprise could hardly make amends for so dis- tressing a separation. Her eyes became dim, her whole frame was agitated, and she sunk weeping upon the bosom of her father. Ah, timid orphan I if already ; you extend your arms to your protector, and on the first approach of thy under- taking bendest to the ground as a vine without support, where wilt thou find that courage requisite to traverse nearly half the globe without guide or assistant I Before they retired to rest, the mis- sionary supped with the exiles. Freedom and hospitality presided at the board, but gaiety was banished ; and it was only by the utmost effort that each of the family suppressed their tears. The good reli- gious regarded them with tender con- cern. In the course of his long travels he had witnessed much affliction, and the art of bestowing consolation had been the principal study of his life. For dif- ferent kinds of sorrow he pursued dif- ferent methods ; for every situation, for every character, he had words of com- fort, and seldom failed to afford relief ; he knew that if it be possible to with- draw the mind from the contemplation of its own sorrows, by presenting the image of soma calamity still greater than the EXILES OF SIBERIA. 23 one lamented, the tears that flow through pity will soften the agony of woe. Thus by relating the long history of his own crosses, and of the various distressing scenes he had witnessed, he by deg-rees attracted the attention of the exiles, moyed with compassion for the sufferings of their fellow-creatures, and led them to, reflect that their own lot had been mild compared with that of many. What had not this venerable old man? What couUJ h^ not relate? who for sixty years, at a distance of two thousand miles from his, country, in a foreign climate, in the mitdst of persecutions, had laboured in- cessantly at the conversion of savages, whom he entitled Brethren, and who were not unfrequently his most bitter perse- cutors ? He had visited the court of Pekin, and had excited the astonishment of the Mandarins by the extent of his learning, and still more by his rigid vir- tue and austere self-denial. He had as- sembled together tribes of wandering savages, and taught them the principles of agriculture. Thus barren wastes changed into fertile lands, savages be- canie mild and humane ; families, to whom the fond titles of father, husband, and. of son, were no longer unknown, raised their hearts to heaven in tributes of thanksgiving ;— all these blessings were the result of the pious labours of one jnan. These people did not condemn the missions of piety ; they presumed not to say that the religion which dic- tates tliem is severe and arbitrary ; and still farther were they from affirming, that men who practise that religion with such excess of charity and love towards their fellow-creatures, are useless and ambitious. But why not pronounce them to be ambitious ? In devoting their lives to the service of their fellow-creatures, do they not aspire to the highest re- wards? Do they not seek to please their Maker, and to gain heaven ? None of the most celebrated conquerors of the earth ever raised their aspiring thoughts so high ; they were satisfiecl with the es- teem of men, and with the dominion of the universe. The good father then informed his hosts, that, recalled by his superior, he was now returning on foot to Spain, his native country. On his road thither he was to pass through Russia, Germany, and France. But he seemed to think lit- tle of the journey: the man who had travelled through vast deserts, which yielded no shelter from the inclemency of weathe;- but a den ; no pillow to rest the weary head but what a stone aff'ord- ed ; and whose only food had been a lit- tle rice flowvmoistcned with water, might well consider himself at the period of his labours, on approaching to civilized nations : and Father Paul fancied him- self in his own country, when he found himself once more among a Christian people. He repeated accounts of dread- ful sufferings he had endured, and of dif- ficulties which he had overcome, when, after passing the wall of China, he had entered into the extensive territories of the Tartars. He recounted that, at the entrance of the vast deserts of Songria, which appertain to China, and serve it as a boundary on the side of Siberia, he had discovered a country abounding in rich and valuable furs, and through this com- modity able to maintain an extensive commerce with European nations : but no traces of their industry had as yet reached that distant spot ; no merchant had dared to carry his gold, or attempt a lucrative traffic, where the missionary had ventured to plant the cross, and had distributed blessings. So true it is, that charity will stimulate to enterprises from which even avarice recedes. A bed was prepared for Father Paul in the little chamber belonging to the Tar- tar peasant, who slept, wrapped up in a bear-skin, near the stove. As soon as day began to dawn, Elizabeth rose. She approached softly to Father Paul's door, and hearing that he was already risen, and at prayers, she asked permission ta enter and converse with him in private ; as she felt that she dared not speak to him before her parents ; much less to ex- press her wish that they might set out the following morning on their journey. She related to him the history of her life ; — a simple but affecting story, which consisted chiefly of anecdotes of mutual tenderness between her parents and her- self. In the long recital of her doubts and hopes, she had occasion more than once to pronounce the name of Smoloflf ; but it seemed as if this name occurred only to heighten the picture of her inno- cence, and to show that it was not wholly through the absence of temptation she had preserved so entire the purity of her heart. Father Paul was deeply affected at the narration ; he had made the tour of the globe, and seen all that it con- tained ; but a heart like that which Eli- zabeth discovered v^'as new to him. Stanislaus and Phedora knew not that it was their daughter's intention to leave them on the morrow ; but when they embraced her in the morning, they felt that sensation of involuntary terror which all animated beings experience on the eve of the storm that threatens them. Whenever Elizabeth moved, Phedora followed her with her eyes, and 2^ ELIZABETH ; OR, THE often seized her suddenly by the arm, without daring to ask her the question that hovered on her lips ; but speaking continually of employment she had for her on the following day, and giving orders for different works to be done several days hence. Thus did she en- deavour to re-assure herself by her own words : but her heart was not at ease ; and the silence of her daughter spoke most feelingly to it of her departure. During dinner, she said to her, •' Eliza- beth, if the weather is fine to-morrow, you shall go in your little canoe with your father, to fish in the lake." Her daughter looked at her in silence, while the tears involuntarily fell from her eyes. Stanislaus, agitated by the same anxiety as Phedora, addressed himself to her hastily, " My child," said he, *' did you hear your mother's desire V* you are to come with me to-morrow." Elizabeth reclined her head upon her father's shoulder, saying, in a whisper, *' To- morrow you must console my mother." Stanislaus changed colour. It was enough for Phedora — she asked no more. She was certain the departure of her child had been mentioned; it was a subject she wished not to hear : for the moment that it was spoken of before her, must be that of giving her consent ; and she indulged the hope that, till it was grant- ed, her daughter would not dare to leave home. Stanislaus collected all his firm- ness, for he sav/ that on the morrow he must sustain the loss of his child, and the sight of his wife's anguish. He knew not whether he could survive the sacri- fice he was going to make ; a sacrifice to which he never could have submitted, but from the excess of love he bore his daughter ; and, concealing his emotion, he received the intelligence with compo- sure and feigned content, in order to be- stow upon his Elizabeth the only recom- pense worthy of her virtue. How many secret emotions, how many afflicting unobserved sensations, agitated the minds of parents and child on this day of trial ! Sometimes they exchanged the most tender caresses ; at others they appeared a prey to the most heartfelt grief. The missionary sought to rouse their spirits, by reciting all the histories in the sacred writings, in which Provi- dence rewarded in a special manner the sacrifices of filial piety and paternal J^e- signation. He gave hints likewise that the difficulties of the journey would not be so great, as a man of high conse- quence, whom he would not name, but who they easily guessed, had provided him with the means of rendering it easier and more pleasant. Thus passed the day; and, when night arrived, Elizabeth on her knees, in broken accents, entreat- ed her parents' blessing. Her father approached her, the tears streamed down his manly cheeks ; his daughter held out her arms to him ; he beheld in her motion the sign of a farewell ; his heart became too much oppressed to allow him to weep ; his tears stopped while he laid his hands upon her head, recommending her in si- lence to the protection of the Almighty, as he had not courage to utter a word. Elizabeth then, turning round to her mother, said, " And you, my mother, will you not likewise bestow your benedic- tion upon your child?" — " To-morrow," replied she, in a voice almost stifled with the agony of grief. " To-morrow ! And why not to-day, my mother?" — *' Oh ! yes," answered Phedora, running to her, " to-day, to-morrow, every day." Eli- zabeth bowed down her head, while her parents, their hands joined, their eyes raised, with trembling voices pronounced a solemn benediction that was heard on high. The missionary, with a cross in his hand, stood at a little distance, praying for them. It was the picture of Virtue praying for Innocence. If such invoca- tions ascend not to the throne of the Most High, what can those be which lutve a right to attain it ! It was now the end of the month of May ; that season of the year, when be- tween the deepening shades of twilight and the glimmering dawn of the day there is scarcely two hours of night. Eliza- beth employed this time in making pre- parations for her departure : she had provided herself with a travelling dress, and a change of shoes and stockings, in a bag of rein-deer skin. It had been her constant practice for nearly a year to work at night after she had retired to her chamber, that she might get these things in readiness, unknown to Phedora : during the same period of time she had reserved from each of her collations some dried fruits and a little flour, in or- der to defer as long as possible that mo- ment when she must have recourse to the charity of strangers ; but she was deter- mined to take nothing from the dwell- ing of |ier parents, where little was to be found but what necessity required. The whole amount of her treasure was eight or ten kopecks : it was all the mo- ney she possessed, all the riches with which she undertook to traverse a space of more than eight hundred leagues. " Father," said she to the misionary, knocking softy at his door, " let us de- part now, while my parents are asleep ; do not let us awake them; they will EXILES OF SIBERIA. 1t6 grieve soon enough : they sleep tran- qHilly, thinking we cannot go out without passing through their chamber ; but the window of this room is not high ; I can easily jump out, and will then assist you in getting down." The missionary agreed to this stratagem of filial tender- ness, which was to spare the parents and child the agonies of such a parting. As soon as they were in the forest, Eliza- beth, having thrown her little packet on her shoulder, walked a few steps hastily forwards ; but, turning her head once again towards the dwelling she had aban- doned, her sobs almost stifled her. Bathed in tears, she rushed back to the door of the apartment in which her pa- rents slept: *' Oh, heaven!" cried she, *' watch over them, guard them, preserve them, and grant that I may never pass this threshold again if I am destined to behold them no more!'* She then rose, and turning, beheld her father standing behind her. " Oh, my father ! you are here; why did you come?" — *' To see you, to embrace you, to bless you once more ; to say to you, ray Elizabeth, if, during the days of your childhood, I have let one escape without showing convinoing proofs of ray tenderness ; if once I have made your tears flow ; if a look, an expression of harshness, has afflicted your heart, before you go, par- don me for it ; pardon your father, that, if he is not doomed to have the happi- ness of seeing you again, he may die in peace." — *' Oh ! do not talk thus," inter- rupted Elizabeth. " And your poor mother!" continued he, " when she awakes, what shall I say to her ? What shall I answer, when she asks me for her child? She will seek you in the forest, |on the borders of the lake, every where ; and 1 shall follow, weeping with her, and calling despondingly for our child, who will no longer hear us." At these words Elizabeth, overpowered, almost fainting, supported herself a^^ainst the walls of the hut ; her father, seeing that he had affected her beyond her strength, reproached himself bitterly for his own want of fortitude. *' My child," said he, in a more composed voice, *' take courage ; I will promise, if not to com- fort your mother, at least to encourage her to support your absence with forti- tude, and will restore her to you when you return hither. Yes, my child, whe- ther the enterprise of your filial piety be crowned with success or not, your parents will not die till they have em- braced you again." He then addressed the missronary, who, with his eyes cast down, stood deeply affected at a little distance from this scene of affliction^ *' Father," said he, *' I entrust to your care a jewel which is invaluable ; it is more precious than my heart's blood ; far, far more precious than my life ; ne- vertheless, with full confidence I entrust it to you. Depart then together ; and may choirs of angels watch over iDoth, To guard her, celestial powers will arm themselves, and that dust which formed the mortal part of her ancestors will be re-animated ; the all-powerful Being, the Father and Protector of my Elizabeth, will not suffer her to perish." Elizabeth, without venturing to look at her father again, placed one hand across her eyes, and giving the other to the missionary, departed with him. The morning's dawn now began to il- luminate the summits of the mountains, and gild the tops of the dark firs ; but all nature was still wrapped in profound silence. No breath of wind ruffled the smooth surface of the lake, nor agitated with its breezes the leaves of the trees. The birds had not begun to sing, nor did a sound escape even from the smallest insect ; it seemed a« if Nature preserved a respectful silence, that the voice of a father, calling down benedictions on his child, might penetrate through the forest which now divided them. I have attempted to convey an idea of the grief of the father, but my powers are inadequate to describe that of the mother. How could I delineate her sen- sations, when awakened by the cries of her husband, she runs to him, and read- ing in his desponding attitude that she had lost her child, falls to the ground in a state of unutterable anguish, that seems to threaten her existence. In vain does Stanislaus, by recalling to her mind all the miseries attendant upon a life of banishment, endeavour to calm her grief; she attends not to his voice ; love itself has lost its influence, and can no longer reach her heart ; the sorrows of a mother are beyond all human consolation, and can receive it from no earthly source : Heaven reserves to itself alone the power of soothing them ; and if these agonizing sorrows are given to the weaker sex, it is formed gentle and submissive, to bow beneath the hand that chastises it, and have recourse to the only comfort that remains. Tt was about the middle of May that Elizabeth and her guide set out upon their journey. Theyweie a full month in crossing the marshy forests of Siberia^ which is subject, at this season of the year, to terrible inundations. Sometimes the peasants, whom they overtook, per- 1S^ tlLIZABETH ; OR, THE mltted them, for a trifling compensation, to mount their sledges ; at night they took shelter in cabins so miserable, that, had not Elizabeth been long inured to hardship and privation, she would have scarcely been able to take any re- pose. She lay in her clothes upon a wretched mattrass, in a room scented with the fumes of tobacco and spirits, into which the wind penetrated through the broken windows, ill-repaired with paper, and to complete its uncomfortable state, the whole family, and sometimes even a part of their cattle, reposed in the same mi- serable apartment. Forty versts from Tinoen, a town on the frontiers of Siberia, is a wood, in which a row of posts mark the boimdary of the division of Tobolsk. Elizabeth observed them ; and to her it appeared like a second parting, to leave the terri- tory which her parents inhabited. — "Alas!" said, she, " what a distance separates us now!" When she entered Europe, again this melancholy reflection recurred to her. To be in a different quarter of the world, presented to her imagination the idea of a distance more immense than the vast extent of country she had crossed. In Asia she had left the only beings of the universe upon which she had a claim, and upon whose affection she could rely ; and, what could she expect to find in that Europe so cele- brated for its enlightened inhabitants.^ What in that imperial court, where riches and talents flowed in such abundance ? Would she find in it one heart moved by her suffering, softeiKl by her afflictions, or from whose commiseration she might hope for protection ? At this thought, one name presented itself to her mind. Ah ! might she have dared to indulge the hope of meeting him at Petersburgh — but there was no chance. The mandate of the emperor had sent him to join the army in Livonia ; there was not then the remotest probability of finding him in Europe, which seemed to her to be inha- bited by him only, because he was the only person whom she knew. All her dependance then was upon Father Paul ; and, in Elizabeth's ideas, the man who passed sixty years in rendering services to his fellow-creatures, must have great influence at the courts of monarchs. Perma is nearly nine hundred versts from Tobolsk ; the roads are good, the lands fertile, and well cultivated ; young woods of birch are frequently intermixed wcithv fine jextensive fields ; and opulent villages, belonging to the Russians and Tartars, are scattered about, whose in- habitants appear so contented and happy, that it can hardly be conceived they breathe the air of Siberia. This tract of country contains even eli^ant inns, abounding in luxuries hitherto unknown' to Elizabeth, and which excited her as- tonishment. The city of Perma, although the hand- somest she had yet seen, shocked her, from the narrowness and dirtiness of the streets, the height of its buildings, the confused intermixture of fine houses and miserable huts, and the closeness of the air. The town is svirroun4ed by fens^ and the country, as far as Cassan, (intief- spersed with barren heaths and forerSts' 60^ firs,) exhibits the most gloomy aspecfc.*^ In stormy seasons the thunder frequently'''^ falls upon these aged trees, which burtf" with rapidity, and appear like cplumii^ij of the briglitest red, surmounted by "^ crowns of flames. Elizabeth and her^^ guide, often witnesses of these ftamlng: ** spectacles, were obliged to crosftydbiJs^^ burning on each side of them ; somfetihf^''s ^* they saw trees consumed at the roots,^'' while their tops, which the fire had nol"** reached, were supported only by the^ bark, or, half thrown down, formed 'a[ir*7 arch across the road ; others, falling^^* with a tremendous crash one upon anq-^'* ther, made a pyramid of flames like the piles of the ancients, on which p^gnjoi'^^ piety consumed the ashes of its hero&s.-'' -^ Amidst these dangers, and the stilV'^ more imminent ones they encountered in-* the passage of rivers, which overflowed '^ their banks, Elizabeth was never dis--® heartened ; she even thought that the ^ difficulties of her undertaking had been exaggerated. The weather, it is true, was uncommonly fine, and she often tra- velled in the cars, or kibitkis, which were returning from Siberia, whither they had conveyed new exiles : for a few koe- ■* pecks our travellers easily obtained per- "^^ mission of their drivers to ride as far as they went. Elizabeth accepted, without feeling hurt, the assistance of her guide ; for what she received from him, was considered by her as the gift of Heaven. « ELIZABETH; OR, THs z:kz2:.es of szberza. PART II. ELIZABETH and her guide arrived upon the banks of the Thama about the beginning of September, which is but two hundred versts from Cassan, having nearly accomplished half their journey. Had it been the will of Heaven that Elizabeth should complete her enterprise as easily as she had hitherto proceeded, she would have considered the happiness of her parents cheaply purchased ; but it was her destiny to experience a sad reverse ; and, along with the winter season, that period approached which was to put her steadfastness to the se- verest trial, and call forth all the exer- tions of her filial piety, to gain for its reward a crown of immortal glory. The health of the missionary had for several days visibly declined : it was with difficulty that he could walk, even with the assistance of Elizabeth, and supported by his staff; h« was obliged to rest continually ; and when a convey- ance could be obtained in one of the kibitkis, the violent shocks he received from the roughness of the road, which was made of the trunks of large trees carelessly thrown across the marshes, exhausted his little remains of strength, though the firm composure of his soul continued unmoved. On his arrival, however, at Sarapol, (a considerable vil- lage on the northern banks of the Thama,) the good missionary found him- self so extremely weak, that it was im- possible for him to think of proceeding on his journey. He was lodged in a miserable inn, adjoining to the house of the superintendent of the district; the only room he could be accommodated with was a sort of loft, or garret, the floor of which shook under every step ; the windows were unglazed, and the furniture of this wretched apartment consisted of a wooden table and a bed- stead, over which was strewed a few trusses of straw ; upon this the mission- ary reposed his feeble limbs. The wind, which entered freely the broken case- ments, must have banished sleep from his relief, had the pain he unremittingly endured allowed him to enjoy any re- pose. The most desponding reflections now presented themselves to the terrified imagination of Elizabeth. She had in- quired for a physician ; there was none to be had at Sarapol; and, as she per- ceived that the people of the house took no interest in the state of the dying suf- ferer, she was obliged to depend solely upon her own efforts for procuring him relief. After fastening some pieces of the old tapestry, which lined the sides of the apartment, across the windows, she went out into the fields in search of cer- tain wild herbs, of which she made a salutary beverage for the suffering mis- sionary, according to a receipt she had seen of her mother's. As night approached, the symptoms of his malady grew every instant more alarming, and the unfortunate Elizabeth could no longer restrain her tears. She withdrew to a distance, that her sobs might not disturb his dying moments ; but the good father heard them, and grieved for an affliction he knew not how to remove ; for he felt well assured that he should rise no more, and that the pe- riod of his mortal career was fast ap- proaching. To the pious philanthropist, who had dedicated a long life to the ser- vice of his God, and of his fellow-crea- tures, death could present no terrors ; though he could not help regretting at the prospect of being called away while there remained so much for him to do. '* Oh, Most High !** he inwardly exclaimed, '' t [presume not to murmur ELIZABETH; OU, THE at thy decrees • but, had it been thy will to spare me till 1 had conducted this un- protected orphan to the end of her jour- ney, my death would have been more easy." When it grew dark, Elizabeth lighted a rosin taper, and remained seated all night at the foot of the bed to attend her patient. A little before day-break she approached to give him some drink ; the missionary, feeling that the moment of dissolution was near at hand, lifted him- self up a little while in the bed, and taking from her hand the cup she pre- sented to him, raised it towards heaven, saying, *' Oh, my God ! I recommend her to thy care, who hast promised th^t a cup of cold water, bestowed in thy name, shall not go unrewarded," These words carried with them the conviction of that misfortune Elizabeth had till this momeut affected to disbelieve ; she discovered that the missionary felt his end approaching, and that sh-e should soon be left destitute and unprotected ; her courage failed ; she fell upon her knees by the side of the bed, while her eyes became dim, her respiration difficult, and a cold dew stood upon her forehead. *^ My God ! look down with pity on her ; look down with pity on her, Oh, my God!** repeated the missionary, while he regarded her with the tenderest com- miseration. But,^ as he perceived that the violence of her anguish seemed to increase, he said, *' In^the name of God, and of your father, compose yourself, daughter, and listen to what 1 have to say." The trembling Elizabeth stifled her sobs ; and, wiping away the tears that impeded her sight, raised her eyes to her venerable guide, in taken of atten- tion. He supported himself against the board placed across the back of the bed- stead ; and, exerting all his remaining strength, addressed her thus : — " My child, in travelling at your age, alone, unprotected, and during the severe season that approaches, you will have to endure great hardships; but there are dangers more alarming still, which must fall to your lot. An ordinary courage, that might stand firm amidst fatigues and suffering, would be unable to resist the enticements of seduction : but yours, Elizabeth, is not an ordinary courage ; and the allurements of a court will not have power to change your heart. You will meet with many, who, presuming upon your unprotected situation and dis- tress, will seek to turn you from the paths of virtue ; bu^ you will neither put faith in their promises, nor be dazzled by the splendour which may surround them. The fear of G6d» the love of youf parents, will place you beyond all their attempts. To wliatever extremity you may be reduced, never lose sig'nt of these sacred claims, never forget that a single false step will precipitate to the grave those to ^vhom you owe your existence.** *' Oh, father!" interrupted she, "fear not,"—" I do not fear," said he ; " your piety, your noble resolution, have me- rited implicit confidence, and I am well convinced you will not sink under the trials to which Heaven oidains you. You will find, my child, in my cloak, the purse which the generous Governor of Tobolsk gave to me, when he recom- mended you to my care. Preserve this secret with the strictest caution ; his life depends upon your circumspection. The money this purse contains will defray your expenses to Petersburgh: when you arrive there, go to the patriarch, mention Father Paul to him; perhaps the name may not have escaped his me- mory ; he will procure an asylum for you in some convent, and will I doubt not, present your petition to the emperor — he cannot reject it, it is impossible. In my expiring moments, I repeat it to you, my child, tliat a proof of fiUal piety, like that you will display, has no prece- dent. The admiring world will bestow the applause it merits ; and your virtue will be rewarded upon earth before it receives the glorious recompense which awaits it in Heaven — " He ceased ; his breath began to fail, and the chilly damps of death already stood upon his brow. Elizabeth, reclin- ing her head against the bed-post, wept unconstrained. After a long interval of silence, the missionary. Untying a little ebony crucifix, which hung suspended from his neck, presented it to her, say- ing, in feeble accents, " Take this, my child ; it is the only treasure I have to bestow, the only one I possess on earth ; and, possessed of that, I wanted not.'* She pressed it to her lips with the utmost transports of grief ; fv^r the renunciation of such a treasure proved that the mis- sionary was certain the moment of his dissolution was at hand. " Fear no- thing,'* added he, compassion; " the abandons not one with good of the tenderest Pastor, who his flock, will watch over and protect you ; and if he deprive you of your present support, he will not fail to bestow more than he takes from you ; confide securely in his goodness. He who feeds the sparrows, and knows the number of the sands of the sea-shore, will not forget Elizabeth.'* — " Father! O Father!" she exclaimed. EXILES OF SIBERIA. seizing the hand he held out to her ; ** I cannot resign myself to lose thee.'* —'' Child," replied he, *' Heaven or- dains it ; submit with patience to its decrees ; in a few moments I shall be on high, when I will pray for you and your parents — " He could not finish; his lips moved, but the sounds he tried to utter died away : he fell back upon his straw bed ; and, raising his eyes to hea- ven, exerted his last efibrts to recom- mend to its protection the destitute or- phan, for whom he still seemed to sup- plicate when life had fled. So deeply was thre force of benevolence implanted in Ms soul, so habitually, during the course of his long life, had he neglected his own interests to devote himself to those of others, that, at the moment he was about to enter into the awful abyss of eternity, and to appear before the throne of his Sovereign Judge, to re- ceive the irrevocable doom — he thought not of himself. Thij cries of Elizabeth attracted the people of the house ; they demanded their cause, and she pointed to her pro- tector extended lifeless on the straw. The rumour of this event immediately gathered a crowd around the corpse. — Some, who were attracted by idle curio- sity, regarded the youthful mourner with astonishment, as she stood weeping near the deceased ; others compassionated her distress ; but the people of the inn, anxious to receive payment for the mi- serable accommodation they had afford- ed, discovered with delight the contents o^f the missionary's cloak, which, in her grief, Elizabeth had not thought of se- curing. They took possession of the purse, and told her they would restore th6 rest when they had taken enough to reimburse themselves, and to pay the ex- penses of the funeral. The people employed at interments in JR^Ussia, styled popes, soon arrived, fol- lowed by attendants with torches : they threv/ a pall over the deceased ; and the unfortunate Elizabeth, obliged to let go the cold hand of her lifeless protector, which she had not till then relinquished, gave a scream of anguish as she look a last vifew of that venerable countenance, still retaining its expression of serenity and benevolence. She retired to the furthest corner of the apartment, and there, bathed in tears, fell upon her knees, and covering her face with a hand- kerchief, as if to shut out from her sight that desolate world, in which she was now to wander alone, exclaimed, in a voice of stifled agony, "Oh ! thou blessed spirit, who art now reaping the reward of thy virtue in realms of happiness, abandon not the destitute being who still looks up to thee for succour ! Oh, my father! Oh, my mother! where are you at this moment, that your child is bereft of all human aid !" They now began to chaunt the funeral hymns, and placed the body on the bier. When the instant arrived for its removal, Elizabeth, though weak, agitated, and trembling, determined to attend to their last asylum the remains of him who had guided and protected her, and who, when expiring, prayed for her welfare. At the foot of an eminence, on the northern side of theThama, on which are situated the ruins of a fortress, erected during the remote period of the commo- tions of the Baschkirs, is a piece of ground, used as a burying-place by the inhabitants of Sarapol. This spot is at a little distance from the town ; it is enclosed by a low hedge, and in the centre is a small wooden building that serves for an oratory, around which heaps of earth, surmounted by a cross, mark the diff*erent receptacles of the dead ; here and there a few straggling firs extend their gloomy shade ; and from beneath the sepulchral stones, large clusters of thistles with wide-spreading leaves and blue flowers ; and another weed, whose bare and bending stem is divided into numerous slender branches, bearing flowers of a livid yellow, make their appearance as only fit to bloom among tombs. The train that followed the coffin of the missionary was very numerous. It consisted of people of various na- tions, Persians, Turkomans, and Ara- bians, who made their escape from the Kirguis, and had been received into the colleges founded by Catherine the Second. They accompanied the funeral procession with tapers in their hands blending their voices with those of the mourners ; while Elizabeth, following slowly and in silence, her face covered with a veil, appeared as chief mourner, feeling no connexion in the midst of this tumultuous crowd, but with him who was no more. When the coffin was let down into the grave, the pope who oificiated, accord- ing to the rites of the Greek church, put a small piece of money into the hands of the deceased, to pay his passage ; and after having thrown a few shovels-full of earth, he departed. And thus was consigned to oblivion the man who had never suftered a day to elapse without rendering services to his fellow-crea- tures : like the beneficent wind, which S9 iStJZAnKTH; OR. TitE scatters wide the grains of the earth, producing plenty all around, he had tra- velled over more than half the world, vowing the seeds of wisdom and truth, and by that v^rorld he died forgotten ;— so little is fame attached to modest "smerit ; so little of it do men bestow, ex- jcept on those who dazzle them, or on ^those conquerors who glory in destroy- ing the human race, to gratify their am- bition. Vain worldly glory ! fruitless ^honours ! Heaven would not permit iyou to be thus the reward of human %randeur only, had it not reserved its own celestial glory for the recompense of virtue. Elizabeth remained in the burying- ground until the close of the day : she wept in solitude, and offered up her sup- li)lications to the Almighty, which greatly ^relieved her bursting heart. In afflic- tions like hers, a meditation between heaven and the grave is salutary : a re- flection on deatli will rouse our drooping spirits: a contemplation on the joys of heaven will create and hope consolation : where a misfortune is beheld in its ex- tent, the horror we have conceived of it decreases ; and where such a compensa- tion is presented, the evil annexed to it loses its weight. Elizabeth wept, but she did not re- pine ; she thanked God for the blessings with which the hardships of half her journey had been lessened, and did not feel that she was now entitled to cdiW- plain, because it was the will of heaven to withdraw them. Bereft of her g^uide, of every human succour, her coutag« still sustained her, and the tirtdaunted heroism of her soul was proof against despair. '^ My dear father I rny tender mother !" she exclaimed; "fear nbt, your child will not sink under the trials that await her." Thus did she address her parents in the language of encbti- rageraent, as if they could behold her destitute situation ; and when secret ter- ror, in spite of herself, stole in upon her soul, she would again invoke their names, and in repeating them, her fears were dispelled. ** Oh, holy and now happy spirit!" said she, bending her head to to the newly-removed earth, " art thou then lost to us, before my beloved pa- rents could express their gratitude, could invoke blessings on the kind protector of their child?" When night began to obscure the ho- rizon, and Elizabeth was obliged to quit this melancholy spot, desirous to leave some memorial behind her, she picked up a sharp stone, and inscribed these words upon the cross which was over the grave : The just perisheth^ and no man layeth it to heart;* then bidding a final adieu to the remains of the poor missionary, she left • Isaiah, chap. Ivii. verse 1, fiXTLES OF 81BB1UA**' the buryhig-ground, and returned sorrow- fully to her lonely apartment in the inn at Sarapol, in which she had so dismally spent the preceding night. Next morning, when she was ready to set foji^ard on her journey, the host gave her three rubles, assuring her at the same time that it was all that remained of the missionary's purse. Elizabeth received them with emotions of gratitude and ve- neratioT^ as if these riches, which she owed tocher protector, were sent from that leaven of which he was now an in- habil^it. ** Yes," exclaime^d she, " my guid^;^y support, your charity survives yout; and though you are taken from ine, that-supports me still." Duriiig her solitary route, Elizabeth's tears frequently flowed: every object recalled the bitter recollection of the friend she had lost : if a peasant or an inqttisilive traveller regarded her with impertinent curiosity, or interrogated her in accents of rudeness, she missed the venerable protector who had en- sured respect : if, oppressed by wea- rinessv:sb^ was obliged to seat herself on the road-side to rest, she dared not stop the empty sledge that passed, fear- j^g.JVjf^^usal, accompanied perhaps by jfjjsuU; besides, as &he possessed but three rujjjes, ahe preserved that pittance carefully to delay the period when she ■rtmst have recourse to accidental charity, jaqd denied herself every superfluity. -Thus was she debarred from various little indulgences the good missionary j,f>i'te« procured her : she always selected ^out the mieanest habitation to demand a , ^better, contenting herself with the most wretched accommodations, and the coarsest food. , Tr^-velling by such slow degrees, she could not reach Cassan till the beginning -J^qf;^ October. A strong wind blowing ^,from the north-west had prevailed for /several days, and had collected a quan- , tity of ice upon the Wolga, which ren- dered the passage of that river almost v^irtjpracticable : it could only be crossed jjiy going partly in a boat and partly on Toot, leaping from one piece of ice to another. Even the boatmen, who were accustomed to this dangerous navigation, would not undertake it but in considera- tion of a high reward ; and no passenger ventured to expose his life with them in the attempt. Elizabeth, without think- ing of the danger, was going to enter one of their boats, when they rudely pushed her away, declaring she could not be allowed to cross till the river was entirely frozen over. She inquired the probable lapse of time before that event would take place. Or receiving the an- swer, ** a fortnight, at least," she deter- mined to attempt the passage at present. " In the name of heaven, T conjure you,'* said she, in a tone of the most earnest entreaty, ^^ to assist me in crossing the river. 1 come from beyond Tobolsk, and am going to Petersburgh, to petition the emperor in behalf of my father, now an exile in Siberia; and I have so little money, that if I am obliged to remain a fortnight at Cassan, I shall not have a kopeck left wherewith to continue ray journey.'* This aflTecting appeal softened the heaft of one of the boatmen, who, taking Elizabeth by the hand, *' Come," said he, '' you are a good girl : I will endea- vour to ferry you over : the fear of God and the love of your parents, guide your steps, and heaven will protect you." lie then helped her into his boat, which he rowed half-way over. Not being able to work it farther, he took Eliza- beth on his back, and walking and leap- ing alternately over the masses of ice, attained, by the assistance of an oar, the opposite side of the Wolga, where he set her down in safety. Elizabeth expressed her acknowledgments in the most ani- mated terms her grateful heart could dic- tate ; and taking out her pu-rse, which contained now but two rubles and a few smaller coins, offered a trifling reward for his services. ''Poor child!" said the boatman, looking at the contents of her purse, '" is that all the money you have to defray the expenses of your journey to Petersburgh ? Then believe me, that Nicholas Sokoloff will not de- prive you of a single obol ! No, rather will I add something to your store ; it will bring down a blessing upon me and my six little ones." So saying, he threw her a small piece of money, and called to her as he returned to the boat, '' May God watch over and protect you, my child!" Elizabeth took up the little piece of money ; and regarding it, with her eyes filled with tears, said, ** I will preserTe you for my father ; thou wilt afford a proof that his prayers have been heard, and that a paternal protection has been extended to me every where." The atmosphere was clear, and the sky serene ; but the keen breezes of a north- erlywind chilled the air. After having walked for four hours without stopping, Elizabeth's strength began to fail: no human habitation presented itself to her; and she sought shelter at the foot of a hill, the rocky summit of which jutting over defended her from the wind. Near ^IK ZW^ABUTH ; OR, THE to this hill was an extensive forest of oaks ; trees which are not to be seen on the Asiatic side of the Wolga. Eliza- beth knew not what they were : though they had lost some of their foliage, yet their beauty Mas not so much diminished, and might still have excited admiration : but, noble as they were, Elizabeth could not view these European productions with pleasure ; they recalled too forcibly to her mind the immense distance which separated her from her parents : she rather preferred the fir, which solaced that spot where she had been reared ; which had so frequently yielded shade to the days of her childhood, and under which, perhaps, her beloved parents at that instant reposed. These reflections always brought tears into her eyes : " Oh ! when shall I be blessed again with beholding them !" she exclaimed ; " when shall I hear the sound of their voices ; when return to their fond embraces?" As she spoke, she stretched out her arms towards Cassan, the buildings of which were still distin- guishable in the distant prospect; and raised above them, under tlie summit of high rocks, the ancient fortress of the Chams of Tartary, presenting a view grand and picturesque. In the course of her journey Eliza- beth often met with objects which affect- ed her compassionate heart in a scarcely inferior degree to her own distress. Sometimes she encountered wretches chained together, who were condenmed to work for life in the mines of Nero- zinsh, or to inhabit the dreary coasts of Angara ; at others, troops of emigrants, destined to people the new city building by ;the emperor's order on the confines of China ; some on foot, others on the cars which conveyed the aniirials, poultry, and baggage. Notwithstanding these were crimiaals sentenced to milder doom for offences which might have been else- where punished with deatli, they did not fail to excite compassion in Elizabeth : but, when she met exiles escorted by an officer of state, whose noble mien traced to her remembrance that of her father, she could not forbear shedding tears over their fate ; and would sometimes approach respectfully to offer soothing consolation^ which often relieves the woes ot the unhappy. Pity, alas ! was the only gift Elizabeth had to bestow ; with that she soothed the. sorrows of those she overtook, and by a return of pity must she now depend for subsistence ; for on her arrival at Voldomir, she was forced to change her last ruble. She had been nearly three months on her journey from Sarapol to Voldomir ; but through the kind hospitality of the Russian peasants, who never take any payment for milk and bread, her little treasure had not been yet exhausted : but now all began to fail ; her feet were almost bate, and her ragged dress ill defended her from a frigidity of atmosphere which had already sunk the thermometer thirty de- grees below the freezing point, and which increased daily. The ground was covered Avith snow more than tWjO feet deep : sometimes it congealed while fallf^ ing, and appeared like a shower of icejj so thick, that earth and sky were equally concealed from the view ; at .ot|ieT times torrents of rain rendered the roads al- most impassable, or gusts of wind arose so violent, that Elizabeth, to defend her-r self from the rude assaults, was obliged j to dig a hole in the snow^ covering her head with large pieces of the bark of ^ pine-trees, which slie dexterously stripti ped off, as she had seen done by the i aha-. | bitants of Siberia. /j One of these tempestuous hurricanes? had raised the snow in thick clouds, an4 / created an obscurity so impenetrable, that Elizabeth, no longer able to discern the road, and stumbling at every St;ep,.j was obliged to stop : she took refuge^' under a high rock, to which she clung as | firmly as she could, to enable her to w4th- stand the fury of a storm which over- threw all around her. Whilst she wasinj this perilous situation, with her hea^.^ bent down, a confused noise, that apri^^r peared to issue from behind the spo]^^^ where she stood, raised her hope thai 2V|* better shelter might be procured. W.itKj\ difficulty she tottered round the rock;,,and,. discovered a kibitki, v/hich had rbe^n^^ overturned and broken, and a hut ? at, no ■'. great distance: she hastened to demand entrance : an old woman opened the door ; and, struck at the wretchedness of her appearance, " My poor child," said she, from v/hence dost thou come, and why are you wandering thus alone in this dreadful weather?'^ To this interroga- tion Elizabeth made her; usual reply; " I am come from beyond Tobolsk, and am going to Petersburgh to solicit my father's pardon." At these words, a man, who was sitting in a dejected posture in a corner of the room suddenly raised his head from between his hands, and regard- ing Elizabeth with an air of astonish- ment, exclaimed, " Is it possible that thou comest from so remote a country, alone, in this state of distress, and during this tempestuous season, to solicit pardon for your father? — Alas I my poor child would, perhaps, have done as much, but EXILES OF SIBERIA. 9t t\ie barbarians tore me from her arms, leaving her in ignorance of my fate ; she knows not what is become of me ; she cannot plead for mercy. No, never shall I behold her again — this afflicting thought will kill me ! Separated for ever from my child, I cannot live ! Now, indeed, that I know my doom,*' continued the unhappy father, '' I might inform her of it ; i have written a letter to her, but the carrier belonging to this kibitkl, who is returning to Riga, the place of her abode, will not undertake the charge of it without some small compensation, and I cannot ofler the most trifling ; not a single kopeck do I possess ; the barba- rians have stripped me of every thing." Elizabeth drew the last ruble out of her pocket, and, blushing deeply at the insignificance of the trifle, asked in timid accents, as she presented it to the unfor- tunatfe^ ^^ile, if that would be enough ? lie pressed to his lips the generous hand held forth to succour him, and has- tened to make a proposal to the carrier. Likef'^to 'the widow's mite, heaven be- stowed its blessing on the offering — the cai-rier was satisfied, and took chargt of theletter. Thus did her noble sacrifice pfoducd a fruit w^Vthy of the heart of Eli^abetjr: it relieved the agonized feelirtgs of % parent, and carried consola- tion tb tl^er wonndied bosom of a child. Wlfen the'sto^rpi" was abated, Eliza- .b^thV before she pursued her journey, embraced the old woman, who had be- stowed upon her all the care and tender- ness of a mother, and said in a low voice, -Jhat she raieht not be heard by the exile, ** I have nothing left to give ; the bless- ing of my [parents is the only recom- pense I have to offer for your kindness ; it is the only treasure I possess." — *' How!" interrupted the old woman aloud, " my poor child, have you then given away your all?" Elizabeth co- loured, and looked down. The . exile started from his seat ; and, raising his bis hands to heaven, threw himself upon his knees before her : *' Angel that thou art," he exclaimed, " can I make no re- turn to you, who have thus bestowed your all upon me?" A knife lay upon the table ; Elizabeth took it up, and cutting off a lock of her hair, presented it to him, saying, " Sir, as you are going into Siberia, you will see the Governor of Tobolsk ; give him this, I beseech you ; and tell him, ' Elizabeth sends it to her parents ;' he will, perhaps, permit this token to convey to them the know- ledge of their child's existence." — "Your wish shall be executed," answered the exile ; *' and if I have my liberty in those deserts, of which I am to be an in- habitant, I will seek out the dwellinjf of your parents, that I may tell them what their child ha^ done for me this day.** The prospect of conveying consola- tion to her parents, created far greater delight in the soul of Elizabeth, than the offer of a throne could have produced. She was bereft of all, except the little piece of money givtn her by the boat- man on the side of the Wolga. She might fancy htirself rich, for the greatest felicity that wealth could have procured had just fallen to her lot ; she had be-i' stowed happiness on her fellow-crea- tures, revived the desponding heart of a father, and converted tears of bitter sad- ness, shed by the orphan, into those of soothing consolation : such blessings could a single ruble produce from the hand of benevolence. From Vol/iomir to the village of Po- kroff, the road lies through fenny low lands, interspersed with extensive forests of oak, elms, aspins, and wild apples. These different trees thus intermixed, present, during summer, a beautiful pro- spect, but afford an asylum to numerous banditti, who infest the roads : in winter, as the boughs, despoiled of their foliage, yield but a baa ambush, these bands of robbers are less formidable. Elizabeth, however, during her journey, heard re- peated accounts of plunders that had been committed. Had she been worth any thing to lose, these narrations might have been a source of terror ; but, ob- liged to beg her daily bread, poverty was her passport, as a shield defended her, and enabled her to traverse these forests in security. A few versts from Pokroff the high- road had been swept away by a hurricane^ and travellers, proceeding to Moscow, were forced to make a considerable cir- cuit through swamps occasioned by the inundations of the Wolga ; these were now hardened by the frost to a solidity equal to dry land. Elizabeth attempted to follow the route which had been pointed out to her : but, after walking for more than an hour over this icy de- sert, through which were no traces of a road, she found herself in a swampy marsh, from which every endeavour to extricate herself was exerted for a long time in vain : at length, with great diffi- culty, she attained a little hillock. Co- vered with mud, and exhausted with fa- tigue, she seated herself upon a stone to rest, and emptied her sandals to dry them in the sun, which at that moment shone m its full lustre. The environs of this spot appeared to be perfectly deso- D 34. ELIZABETH OR, THE late ; no signs, of a human' dwelling were \isible ; solitude and silence prevailed around. Elizabeth perceived she must have strayed far from the road ; and, notwitlistanding all the courage with which she was endued, her heart failed : lier situation was alarming in the ex- treme ; behind was the bog she had just crossed, and before her an immense forest through which no track was to be dis- tinguished. At length day began to close ; and, notwithstanding her extreme weariness, Elizabeth was forced to proceed in search of a shelter for the night, or some being who might have the humanity to procure her one. In vain did she wander about, sometimes following one track, then another: no object presented itself to revive her hopes, no sound reanimated her drooping spirits ; that of a human voice would have occasioned her the greatest joy ; when suddenly that of se- veral people struck her ear, and in ano- ther moment several men emerged from the forest: strengthened by hope, she hastened towards them ; but as they drew near, terror again succeeded to joy ;• theiv savage air and stern counte- nances dismayed her to a still gre?iter degree than the horrors of the solitude in which she had so lately been plunged. All the stories she had heard of the ban- ditti v/ho infesle'd that neiji^libourhood immediately returned to her imagination, and she feared that a judgment awaited her for the temerity with which she h:id indulged the idea that a special Provi- dence watched over her preservation, and fell upon her knees to huqible herself iu the presence of Divine Justice. The troop advanced, stopped before Elizabeth, and regarded her with sur- prise and curiosity, demanded from whence she came, and what accident had brought her there. With a fluttering voi Alexander's youthful mind the great duties annexed to royalty, and the awful, responsibility imposed upon his elevated station, in relurn for the pomp that environed it, and the power with which it was invested. Amidst the as- semblage of nations that thronged the cathedral, he pointed out the hunters of Kamptscatka, bringing, tributes of skins from the Thurile Isles, which border on America ; the merchants of Archangel, loaded with rich commodities wMch their vessels had brought from every quarter of the globe ; the Samoyeds, a rude and unpolished people, who come from the mouth of the J«niffer, a country condemned to the rigours of an eternal winter, where the beauteous flower of the spring and the rich produce of harvest are alike unknown; and the natives of Astracandt, whose fertile fields yield melons, figs, and grapes of an ex- cellent flavour: he showed him, lastly, the inhabitants of - tlie shores of the Black -ttnd Caspian Seas, and of the Great Tartary ; which, bounded by Persia, China, and the empire of the Moguls extending from the extremity of the western hemisphere to that of the east, takes in almost half of the globe, and tjearly touches either pole. *' Sove- reign of the most extensive empire of the earth,*' said he, '* wlio art this day to take the awful oath of presiding over the destinies of a state which includes a fifth part of the known world, bear it ever in remembrance, that you have to answer at the tribunal of Divine Just^^e .for the fate of millions of your {,eUp.)v^ creatures; and that an injustice doKie.ijq the meanest among them, through yo\x^ negligence, must be accounted for on tlie final day of retribution." The yo^ag emperor appeared deeply affected a.t,t.hi^ discourse. There was one ^mong th© auditors whose lieart was not less.prQn foundly moved,— the supplicant ppme.^ solicit the pardon of a father. ' ■■^.,v,. ii:r( At the moment that Alexandfir be^^fi to pronounce the solemn oath which ,W,aS to bind him to devote his future Ufe,jjt» the liappiness of his people, fhe f;^" raptured Elizabeth imagined »he heard the voice of mercy requii;ing him to break tlie chains of every u^fortunatf being within his dominions. U»^W any longer to command \i&T. , ,{ee^af\^ assisted by a supernatural strength, she pierced the crowd ; and forcing a passa;ge through the lines of the soldiers, rusli^^ towards the throne, exclainfiiiig^ '* Mef^^^^ mercy!'' Tliis outcry, which ipterf^p^ ed the ceremony, created .a .general commotion throughout the cathedraj. The guards advanced, and, ttotwith- standing her entreaties, and the efib^^ of Jaques, they dragged ElizAbelh-out of the church. The emperox, howevj^r, would not, on such a glorious day, be invocated in vain: he ordered one of ,t|j,e officers of his suite to inquire what the petitioner wanted. The officer obeyed; and on quitting the church, heard tl^e imploring accents of the agonizing ?U]p-» plicant, slill endeavouring tu; prevail upon the soldiers to allow her to return. He started: then rushing impetuously through the guards, beheld her, knew her, and clasping his hands together, ex- claimed, '' It is she ! It is Elizabeth !" Elizabeth turned ; and knew not whether she might believe she was so fortun^,te as to see her former friend : she could not persuade herself that SmolofF was before l>er ; Smoloff,, who could suppli- cate with her, and obtain the pardon she so earnestly desired: neverth-eless» when bespoke, the sound of his voice con-t firmed the evidence of her eyes; she could no longer doubt; joy deprived her of utterance, and she stretched her arins towards him, as to a messenger sent from Heaven to her relief. He rushed forward, seized her hand, and in his turn began to doubt the testimony of his EXILES OF SIOERIA. .w «^cYts of fidmiration arose from among We'ltJr^wd! the emperor himself joined in it : and, deeply rooted as his preju- dices had been against Stanislaus Po- towsky, in an instant they were totally ^ Waced : he could not hesitate to believe 'fhattbe father of a daughter so virtuous 'must be innocent of the crimes alleged against him : but had it been otherwise Alexander could not have withheld for- giveness. " The pardon is granted !" said be ; ** your father is free." Eliza- beth heard no more ; at the words of pardon, joy overpowered her, and she fell senseless into the arms of Smoloff. In this state she was carried through immense crowds of the populace, (who opened a passage, shouting with joyful acclamations of approbation at the transcendant virtue of the heroine, and the clemency of the monarch,) and was conveyed to the house of Jaques Rossi. The first object that met her eyes upon recovering her senses was Smoloff, • kneeling beside her ; the lirst sovmd she heard was a repetition from his lips of the words used by the emperor, when h« accorded pardon: *' Elizabeth, the pardon is granted; your father is at liberty." For some minutes it was by looks only that she could expiess her joy and gratitude : but they expressed more than language could ha.ve imparted. At length, turning to Smoloff, she pro- nounced, in a faltering voice, the names of her father and mother ; ** We shall behold them again then!" said she; "" we shall enjoy the sight of their hap* piness !" These words sunk deep into the heart of him, to whom they were address- ed. Elizabeth had not said she loved him, but she had associated him wijh the first sentiment of her soul, with that object of felicity, in which her ideas and hopes had so long centered. From that happy moment be ventured to in- dulge the hope, that she would, on a future day, consent to ratify the union she had thus involuntarily made. Several days elapsed before the deed of pardon could be drawn up and signed. Previous to its final accomplishment, it was requisite in the first instance to take a review of the causes of Stanislaus Potowsky's condemnation : and this in- vestigation proved so very favourable to the noble Polander, that Alexander was convinced that equity alone ought to. have broken the chains of the illustrious patriot ; but he had listened to the dic- tates of clemency before he knew what those of justice required ; — and act of generosity which those, whom he had thu3 nobly pardoned, never forgot. One morning Smoloff entered Eliza- beth's apartment earlier than usual : he presented her with a scroll of parchment sealed with the imperial signet. '* Be- hold," said he, " the mandate, in which the emperor commands my father to restore yours to liberty." Elizabeth seizetl the scroll, and, pressii»g it to her lips, bathed it with tears. '* This is not all," continued Smoloff, "' our magnani- mous sovereign performs a noble action in a manner worthy of himself; with liberty, he likewise restores to your fa- ther all his dignities, the high rank he formerly held, and all his large posses- sions, honours, and wealth, sources of the grandeur which exalts mankind in general, but can have no influence over the superior soul of Elizabeth. The courier who is to convey the order to my father departs to-morrow, and I have obtained leave of the emperor to accom- pany him."—'' And may I not likewise accompany him?" eagerly interrupted 4t> ELIZABErrH OR, TitE Elizabeth. ** You may," resumed -Hitioloff; ** and from your lips only your father must learn that he is free. Pre- Sdmlns? upon my knowledge of your sen- "^timents, I told the emperor that it was your wish to be the bearer of the joyful intelligence yourself: he approved the design, and charged me with the com- mission of informing you, that you have leave to depart to-morrow in one of iiis •carriages, attended by two female do- mestics ; and he sends a purse of two thousand rubles to defray the expenses of your journey." Before Elizabeth returned an answer, she regarded Smo- lofF some moments with an air of re- flection ; then addressing him in a tone expressive of her feelings, " Since the first day I saw you," said she, " no favourable circumstance has forwarded my enterprise of which you were not the instigator ; without your assistance, I could not have obtained my father's par- don : without your generous interference, jSever would he have beheld his country again : to you then it belongs to tell him he is free : this glorious recompense alone is adequate to your benefits." — *' No, 451izabelh," replied Smoloff, '* that happiness must be yours-, the recom- pense which I aspire to is greater still." — ;*'Oh, Heaven! ' exclaimed Elizabeth, ♦* what can that be?" Smololt was on the point of answering in terms ex- pressive of the rapture he felt ; but, re- pressing his emotion, he coloured, and looked down : and interval of silence ensued : at length in a faltering voice Smoloff answered — '* Elizabeth, I must not tell you but in the presence of your father.*' Smoloff, having now recovered his Elizabeth, did not allow a single day to pass without spending part of it in her company. His love increased every hour : but never for an instant did he deviate from that respect and reserve which he felt, at present, to be her due. At such a distance from her parents she looked to him alone for protection ; and the valuable deposit, thus intrusted to lus charge, he considered as so sacred, that he could not have prevailed upon himself to utter a sentiment that had the least tendency to excite the smallest amotion eithef in her countenance or heart. ^ 5 During the long journey they had to perform, he preserved the same respect- 4^1 silence. Constantly seated by her, beholding her, hearing her, his passion continued to increase, but never over- ^me his T^splution. He bestowed upon her always the appellation 6f Sister,; i^tld though his attentions were more assiduotis than those of the fondest brother, they were not less innocent! they were most calculated to inspire confidence In the most scrupulous delicacy, and must haVe satisfied expectations the most unbound- ed. His sentiments were only perceptf- ble in tlie attempts he made' {ajhijl^e them ; friendship seemed to prompt atl he uttered ; in his silence aloiie couhi love be dij^covered. ->oiq[ ^/la ii^siT Before she quitted Mosa'dkv'i'^miW^ liberally rewarded her generotis hosts : and as she recrossed the Wolga, before Cassan, she did not forget her friend, the boatman. L^pon inquiry after Ihi|J, she was informed, that in consequeftc^ of an accident he had been reduceditb the greatest distress, and was lying in h garret, surrounded by six children, in the want of bread. Elisabeth refqu^st§l to be immediately conductect to his habi- tation. When he saw her formerly, it was in poverty, in dejection, and cldtlteil in rags: now that he beheld llej:;& splendour, with joy and animatlori^^]papK- ling in her eyes, and diffusing a lyriUjan^ cy over her Whole figure, he did not r|(- member her. Elizabeth took ottt ol^ liiej' p u r s e th e I i t tl e co i n wh i ch ii e h ad ^i Vteji her, and, showing it to him, brbught tb his memory the act of kindness £e haj pel formed : theh\ -^ laying^ ic: ' hundr^ rubles upon hisbedyshe added, **Ch^rf( fails not to reap its rewitid;"^' Behold what you gave me in the name of Gqi 1 leaven now returns an liundT'eQiif oli^*^^ ' Elizabeth was so ea'gerto meetli^i' parents, that she travelled night and dav^. On her arrival at Sai-apol,notwithstandint her haste, she stopped to visit the toinb of the missionary : as this was a trrbute'of grateful veneration, almost equivalent,tp an act of filial duty, Elizabeth could n6t let it pass unfulfilled. She beheld once more the cress, with the itiscription sire had engraven upon it : again did she weep over the grave where she ha^ formerly shed so many bitter tears ; bx^t those she now shed were of a soothing consolation: she imagined, that in tbat celestial paradise, of which he was iip^ a blessed inhabitant, the missionary pa^,- took of her felicity : and that in his sptil., so full of benevolence, her happiness still added to that which he enjoy^ed til the bosom of his God. ' But, as 1 am desirous of bringing my tale to a conclusion, and, with. Elizaf beth, to reach the dwelling where ifie days of her absence were irumb€sred"wHh such anxiety^ I will not attemptJa;de|crW EXILES OF SIBERIA. 41 lion of the scene of joy exhibited at To- liolsk, when young Smoloff presented Eli- "^aheth to his father ; and she, in all the ef- Viusions of her grateful heart, acknowledg- 'edthe blessings she owed to his assistance. Elizabeth would not consent to let her parents be informed of her approach : she heard at Tobolsk that they were well, which was still further confirmed at Saimka ; and, wishing to give them an agreable surprise, with a palpitating heart she proceeded to their cottage, at- tended only by Smoloff. What varying eniotions agitated her as she crossed the forest, drew near the banks of the lake, and recognized every tree, every rock, adjacent to the habitation of her parents ! j^^^ last she caught sight of the parental ir^^ : she rushed forward ; but the vio- lence of her feelings obliged her to slop. ■jVlas ! behold the state of human nature ! we seek for happiness in excess of joy ; which excess, more violent in its effects than that of misery, we are not able to j^ear. Elizabeth, leaning upon the arm •W Smoloff, faintly uttered, '' If I should nqd my mother ill ?" The idea of such a "calamity tempered the felicity that over- whelmed her, and recovered all her strength. Again she rushes on, reaches the threshold, hears the sound of a well- known voice, and calls her parents in an ecstacy that almost deprives her of sense ; the door opens, Stanislaus ap- pears: at the cry he utters, Phedora Tushes forward ; and Elizabeth, unable to support herself, falls into their ex- tended arms. "Behold your child!" exclaimed Smoloff, " and in her the bearer of your pardon : she has tri- umph over every obstacle, and as at- tained even more than she expected from the generosity of the emperor." These words added nothing to the joy of the delighted parents : every sensa- tion was absorbed in that all-powerful one of happiness the sight of their child produced : she is restored to them ; she IS never to leave them ; this was to them the greatest blessing on earth. For a length of time they remained in a delirium of joy that can admit of no in- crease : a few unconnected sentences es- caped from their lips, but they know- not what they uttered : in vain did they seek for words to express the feelings that overpowered their senses ; by tears and looks only could they make them understood ; and their strength, as well as their reason, began to fail under ex- cess of joy. Smoloff prostrated himself at the feet of Stanislaus and Phedora. " Ah !" he exclaimed, '' condescend, in this moment of bliss, to regard me also as your child. Hitherto, Elizabeth has condescended to distinguish me by the affectionate name of brother ; but now, perhaps, she will permit me to aspire after a title still more endearing.*' Elizabeth seized the hand of each of her parents, and 'regarding them with looks of the tenderest affection, thus spoke : " Without the aid of M. Smoloff, I should not perhaps have been here : it was he who conducted me into the pre- sence of the eniperor ; who advocated my cause ; who solicited your forgive- ness, and who obtained it. It is he whp has been so zealously instrumental in restoring you to your rights, and who has re-conducted me to the bosom of my beloved parents. Oh I ray mother, in- struct me how to convince him of ray gratitude ! Teach me, oh, ray father, how to requite it!" Phedora, embracing her daughter, an- swered, " You must convince him of your gratitude by bestowing upon him your love ; a love like that you have seen me bear your father." Stanislaus, interrupting her, exclaimed in an accent of enthusiasm, " Oh ! my Phedora, who can appreciate the gift of a heart like thine! It is above all value. But on such an occasion as this, the ge- nerosity of our Elizabeth cannot be too great.'' Our heroine, upon this, uniting the hand of Sraoloff with those of her pa- rents, said to him, with a look of the most fascinating innocence and modest timidity, *' Will you then promise me — never to leave them ?" — *' 0\\ heaven l"^ he exclaimed, " am I awake? Her pa- rents give her to me, *nd she consents to be mine !" c ic,n His rapture was such as to deprive him of further utterance ; and such was the enthusiasm of his love, that at this moment he could scarcely imagine there was, in the disposal of heaven, a happi- ness more unmingled and supreme than that he now enjoyed. The transports of the mother, in again beholding her child ; the exultation of the father, who owed the recovery of his liberty to the unprecedented efforts and magnanimity of his daughter : even the inexpressible satisfaction of Elizabeth herself, who had already fulfilled the most sacred of human dutieat, and who had evinced a virtue unparalleled, did not, in the esti- mation of Smoloff, appear in any degree comparable to the happiness for whieh he was indebted to love. Were I to attempt a description of the days that followed, I would represent the 43 ELIZABETH; OR,«THE EXILES OF SIBERIA. fond parents informing Iheir child of q,ll tlie apprehensions, alarms, and anguish, they had felt during her long absence ; t would represent them listening, with the alternate emotions of hope and fear, to the recital she gave of the diversified adventures of her long and perilous journey ; I would recount the blessings which her father invoked on all who had been the friends and protectors of his child, and show the tender Phedora exhi- biting the lock of hair sent by Elizabeth, which she wore next 'her heart, and which enabled her to divert the painful solicitude of many a tedious hour ; I should attempt to convey to my readers some idea of their feelings on that day when the exile, who brought it, present- ed himself at the door of the cottage, to inform them how greatly he was indebt- ed to the generosity of their daughter ; I should endeavour to paint the grief excited by the narrative of her suffer- ings •, and the joy which they felt upon the recital of her virtues ; and, finally, I would describe their departure from their rustic habitatipn, and from tjie land qi exile, where they had encountered so many evils, but where they had lijiewise experienced the greatest happiness, en- hanced by the sorrows which had pre- ceded It, and by tears which its acquisi- tion had cost them; — like the sun, whose rays are never more vivid and refreshing than when they penetrate the vapours which envelope him, and reflect their bright beams upon the fields and foliage bespangled with dew. Pure and spotless almost as the angeU who environ the throne of the Omnipo- tent, Elizabeth was destined to partici- pate on earth a happiness resembling theirs, and, like them, to live in innocence and love. Here I shall conclude ; — for, when re- , presentations of human happiness are prolonged beyond a certain period, they become fatiguing, because they become unlikely; and the moment we lose sight of the probability, the narrative ceases to interest us ; for we all know from expe- rience, that a perpetuity of bliss is not the lot of humanity ; and even lan- guage, so copious and varied in its ftX' pression of sorrow, is poor and inade- quate in the delineation of joy. One day of felicity is sufficient to exhaust every demonstration of happpiness. I have restored Elizabeth to her pa- rents ; by them she is conducted into Poland, the place of her nativity, and reinstated in the exalted ranK occupied by her ancestors — by them she is united to the man she prefers — to the man whom even they esteem worthy of her* Here then let us close, and leave h€!r completely happy ; for, were 1 to add one page more to my story, I should be apprehensive, from my own knowledge of the vicissitudes of human life, from t]\e crosses, the fallacious hopes, and fugacious as well as chimerical felicity Avhich mark its tenor, — that I should have some misfortune to recount ; sinc« temporal happiness can never be of long duration. THE END. li. JOHNSON, Printer, Beaufort Buildings, Strand. ~^ 1 DESK FROM Vmjm r.^ I rk A ».■ ^J*"^ BORROWED lOAN DEPT. ""s book is due on the I j J2!^''iecttoimn,ediatere (G4427sl0)476B General Librarv ye 50063 M 3873 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY