Elizabeth, or, The Exiles of Siberia (Glasgow)

by M. Cottin

For other versions of this work, see Elizabeth, or, The Exiles of Siberia.

NEW AND IMPROVED SERIES,

No. 31.

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ELIZABETH,

OR

THE EXILES OF SIBERIA.

BY M. COTTIN.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

1851.

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Price One Penny.

The Exiles of Siberia.

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Tobolsk, the capital of Siberia, stands on the banks of the river Irtish, and is surrounded on the north by forests extending nearly to the Frozen Ocean, while in the space of 1,100 versts we meet with mountains arid and rocky, and covered with eternal snows—with uncultivated plains, and with streams whose congealed waters have never fertilized a single meadow, nor beheld the expansion of a single flowret. Advancing nearer the pole, the cedars, firs, and larger trees disappear, till at length we see nothing but marshes and moss, beyond which every trace of vegetation disappears. The Aurora Borealis, however, is frequent and majestic, and, while embracing the horizon in the form of an arch, columns of moving light issue forth, affording a wonderful spectacle unknown to the inhabitants of the south. To the south extends the circle of Ischim, which is divided from the Kirguis, an idolatrous people, by heaths covered with tombs. It is bordered to the left by the Irtish, a winding river which loses itself on the frontiers of China, and to the right is again bordered by Tobol, within an angle of which, at the feet of some rocks topped with firs, stands the baronial village of Saimka, distant from Tobolsk more than 600 versts. In the circle of Ischim (considered the Italy of Siberia, from its enjoying some days of summer) the rigour of the winter is extremely severe. The north wind brings with it such intense cold, that from September the Tobol is filled with ice, and snow falls incessantly at this time, continuing to cover the earth to the end of May. After this time, indeed, when the sun begins to penetrate the snow, it is wonderful to contemplate the celerity with which vegetation resumes its verdure, two or three days only being necessary for nature to unfold all her beauties, and storks, wild ducks, and geese disport themselves on the lakes—the white crane is seen plunging in the marshes, and weaves her nest with the rushes—while the flying squirrel, leaping from one tree to another, nibbles the buds of the pine and birch. Hence to the natives of these frozen regions there belong some happy days, but none for the unfortunate exiles dwelling there.

Two or three versts from Saimka, amidst a marshy forest, upon the edge of a circular lake bordered with poplars, lived a family of exiles. This household was composed of three individuals, a man of forty-five, his wife, and their lovely daughter, in the flower of her youth. Enclosed in this desert, this family had no communication with any person, and except a poor Tartar peasant, who waited on them, no human foot was permitted to enter their cabin. No person knew them, or the cause of their punishment, except the governor of Tobolsk. When putting these exiles under the care of his lieutenant at Saimka, the governor only told him to provide them with a convenient habitation, with a little garden, and food and clothing; but charging him, at the same time, to prevent all intercourse between them and others: and, above all, to intercept any letters they might attempt to convey to the court of Russia. Attention so particular on the one side, and so much rigour and mystery on the other hand, made it suspected, that under the simple name of Peter Springer was concealed some distinguished victim of adversity. People now ceased to be concerned for the fate of beings whom they never saw, and whom they at length forgot. Peter Springer had been the builder of his own cabin, which had been constructed of planks of fir, and covered with straw, and protected by rocks from the north wind and the inundations of the lake. Southward of the lake, the forest presented an open coppice, and in the distance extensive heath covered with tombs which had been violated by plunderers, and the bones of the dead scattered in all dircetions. To the cast of this plain the Christians had built a chapel of wood; and it is remarkable, that here the ashes of the dead had ever been treated with becoming awe! In these wilds Peter Springer passed his mornings in the chase every winter: he killed the elks, and sometimes caught the sable, but more frequently the ermine, which is more plentiful there. He sold the skins of the animals, and bought furniture and books for his daughter, who, seated between her parents, read aloud to them passages from history. Springer did not fail to impress on her soul the beauty and glory of heroism, while her mother, (Phedora,) directed her feelings to scenes calculated to produce tenderness of heart, and impressed on her mind the charms of piety and modest goodness. The consequence of such parental assiduity produced a character at once courageous and feeling—combining all that was noble in honour with all that was tender in love.

In the proper season the culture of the garden occupied the family, in the southern part of which he formed a fruit-house, where he cultivated flowers that were strangers to this region, and when their blossoms opened, he would say to his daughter, “Elizabeth, deck thyself with flowers of thy native land, which resemble thee, and are beautiful even in exile!” Frequently would he take her in his arms, and, pressing her to his heart, exclaim, “Take away this child, Phedora, her distress and thine will destroy me!” When the Sabbath came, however, it was the practice of Phedora (who most regretted that she was deprived of participating in the offices of her church), to pass some portion of this holy day in prayer, before an image of St. Bazil, whose character she much venerated. Educated in these savage wilds since her fourth year, Elizabeth knew no other country. She felt amused in ascending the rocks which bordered the lake to search after the eggs of the sparrow-hawk and white vulture; sometimes she ensnared the wood-pigeon in her net, or angled for the fish in the lake, whose purple scales had the appearance of fire, covered with liquid silver. Her growth was accelerated by the exercise she took, while every day, on her lovely and innocent face some new charm was developed. At times, when she perceived that her parents were unhappy, she would inquire the cause of their grief, when they told her they sorrowed for their country, but never uttered the name of that country, or the rank they occupied in it. She often ruminated on her parents’ grief, and implored the assistance of Omnipotence to find a way for their relief, and resolved to tear herself from them, and go on foot to St. Petersburgh, to intercede for her father’s liberation; her confidence in God animated her heart, and assured her of final success.

Some years were elapsed since, during a winter’s chase, upon the summit of some rocks by the Tobol, Springer had been delivered from great danger by the intrepidity of Smoloff, son of the governor of Tobolsk, who came in the winter to combat the bears, and hunt the elks and martins among the heaths of Ischim, and the Ural mountains near Saimka. From this time the name of Smoloff was always held in high esteem by the family. Three years passed when, one morning in December, Springer took his musket, and proceeded to hunt in the Stepp, promising to return before the close of day; but when night approached, he was not returned. In a state of anxiety and grief Phedora and her daughter sect out in search of him; approaching towards the plain, Phedora was unable to proceed, and leant against a tree till Elizabeth made further research. Elizabeth soon reached the plain of tombs, but could not find her father; the darkness began to mingle heaven and earth, when she heard the report of a musket not far off, which revived her spirits,—she hastened to the spot, and perceiving a man stooping, as if looking fur something, she cried. “My father! is it you, my father?” The person looked up, and was surprised at seeing Elizabeth. “I know not your father,” said the stranger, “but I know that, at such an hour, you ought not to be alone on this heath.” “Ah!” interrupted Elizabeth, “I fear nothing in the world to the dread of not finding my father.” Saying this, she raised her eyes to heaven, and their mingled expression of dignity and tenderness, courage and softness, at once portrayed all the emotions of her soul, and seemed prophetic of her destiny. The young stranger was struck—he had never seen any thing like Elizabeth, nor imagined such a being as her. He inquired her father’s name? “Peter Springer,” answered Elizabeth. “What!” exclaimed the stranger, “you are the daughter of the exile of the cabin of the lake! Tranquillize your mind—I do know your father—it is hardly an hour since I parted from him; he then turned to go home, and must by this have reached his dwelling.” She could listen to no more, but hastened to the spot where she had left her mother with cries of joy. However, her mother was no longer there. She now made the forests ring with the names of her father and mother; and happily, at length, voices were heard, hailing her from the borders of the lake. She quickly arrived safe at the threshold of the cabin, where she found her beloved parents, who extended their arms to her, and she threw herself into them. Explanations soon followed, and it appeared each returned home by different ways. Elizabeth now perceived the stranger was approaching. He was recognized by her father, who said to him, with deep regret, “It is very late, M. Smoloff; and you well know I am prohibited from offering you an asylum for a single night.” “Smoloff!” exclaimed Elizabeth and her mother together, “our deliverer! is it indeed he whom we behold?” Both fell at his feet. “Smoloff!” said Elizabeth, “ever since you saved the life of my father, three years ago, we have not passed one day without imploring for you the benediction of heaven!” “Ah! your prayers have been heard, since Providence has directed me here,” said Smoloff, “for the little that I have done merits not a reward like this.” It was now late, and darkness had enveloped the whole forest. For Smoloff to attempt to return Saimka so late at night was dangerous, and Springer could not refuse the rights of hospitality to his deliverer, notwithstanding the strict orders of the governor, and it was at length agreed that Smoloff should remain there till the morning.

In the morning, by day-light, Smoloff prepared to bid adieu to the exiles. It was not without regret Elizabeth saw him about to depart, as she intended to disclose her design to him, and insure his assistance in the prosecution of it, but did not like to do so before her parents. However, addressing him, she said, “Will you not come again, sir? Promise me,” added she, “that to-day shall not prove the last in which I am to behold the saviour of my father!” Her father hearing this, was seized with secret inquietude—he reminded her of the governor’s orders, and assured her he could not disobey them twice. Smoloff here observed, he was certain of obtaining from his father an exemption in favour of his own son, and that he would immediately go to Tobolsk for the purpose. “But, sir,” said young Smoloff to Springer, “while asking this favour for myself, shall I say nothing to my father for you? Have you nothing to ask?”—“Nothing, sir,” replied Springer, with an air of gravity. The youth cast his eyes mournfully down, and then repeated his question to Phedora, who expressed a desire he might obtain leave for herself and daughter to go every Sunday to Saimka to celebrate mass. Smoloff promised to forward this request, and departed, carrying with him the benedictions of the family, and followed by the silent vows of Elizabeth for his speedy return.

Since the visit of Smoloff, Springer’s sadness had assumed a more sombre character; the recollection of this youth, so amiable, so generous, and courageous, incessantly presented to his mind the husband he could have wished for his daughter; but his melancholy circumstances precluded the indulgence of such thoughts; and instead of desiring, he feared Smoloff’s return. Elizabeth, he thought, might be susceptible of tenderness, and fall a prey to the secret sorrows of a hopeless attachment. One night, plunged in these reveries, as he sat by the fire, he breathed deep sighs; Phedora, witnessing his agitation, and fixing her eyes upon him, she implored heaven to inspire her with such consolations as might obliterate the sense of his misfortunes; while Elizabeth indulged the hope, that a day would come when they would cease to weep: young Smoloff, she thought, would assist her to compass her end, yet she dreaded the resistance of her parents. Resolving, however, to make her project known to them, she prayed to God they might listen to her petition; and an opportunity soon occurring, she requested her father to permit her to ask him a few questions; to which he consented. “The other day,” said Elizabeth, “when Smoloff inquired if you desired nothing, you answered him, ‘Nothing!’ Now, is it so, that there is nothing which you want?” “Nothing,” replied Springer, “that he could confer.” “But who can give,” resumed Elizabeth, “that which you wish?” “Equity, justice!” replied Springer. “My father,” demanded Elizabeth, “where shall we find them?” “Doubtless,” said he, “in heaven; but on earth, never—never!” On uttering these words, a gloomy anxiety clouded his face, and he let his head fall between his hands. After a pause, Elizabeth renewed the conversation:—“My father,” said she, “to-day I am seventeen—it was upon this day I received from you that existence which would be dear to me, if I could devote it to you. O, my parents, pardon the boldness of your daughter: but for once, during her life, she wishes to perform that towards you, which you have never ceased to do respecting her since she was born. Ah! deign at length to impart to her bosom the secret which preys within your own?” “What do you require of me?” said Springer. “I require,” said she, “that you would instruct me in whatever it concerns me to learn, for the purpose of testifying my affection to you.” She now fell on her knees, and raised her eyes with all the expressiveness of supplication. So grand, so noble a sentiment now beamed from her eyes, filled with tears, and the heroism of her soul shed something so divine on the humility of her attitude, that Springer instantly saw the part his daughter meant to take. Oppressed at heart, he could neither speak nor weep, but remained motionless, as if in the presence of an angel—and that spirit which kings could not intimidate, became weak at the voice of his child, and could not resume its wonted strength. “Why,” said Phedora to her husband, “do you refuse to confide our secrct to her? Do you apprehend that the soul of our Elizabeth will be affected to weakness by the reverses we have seen?”—“No,” replied Springer, “it is not her weakness that I fear!” Elizabeth, at these words, found she was understood by her father, and she pressed his hand in silence, that she might be comprehended by him only, for she knew her mother’s tender heart, and wished to procrastinate the moment of an afflicting explanation. “Elizabeth,” said her father, “you have this day effaced twelve years of adversity.” “While such sentiments,” replied she, “are expressed here, never say that you cannot find happiness on earth. Speak, then, dear father, and let me know your real name, what your country, and what your griefs?” “Misfortunes,” said he, “are now no more, my country is that where I reside with thee, my name, the happy father of Elizabeth.”—“O, my child!”’ interrupted Phedora, “I can now love you still more; you came to be the consolation of your father.” These words entirely overcame the remaining resolution of Springer; he clasped his wife and daughter in his arms, crying, “God forgive me—I have been ungrateful, but punish me not!”

When the violence of this emotion had subsided, Springer promised to give her what information she wished, after a few days.

Elizabeth now began to try her strength upon the heaths at Ischim; in all weathers she sallied out, and accustomed herself, by degrees, to brave the opposing elements. The winters of Siberia are subject to sudden storms. One morning in January Elizabeth had the misfortune to be overtaken by a tempest of this description. She had reached the plain of Tombs, near a little chapel of wood, which she entered, and knelt before the altar, offering her prayers to heaven to spare her, that she might effect the deliverance of her parents.

This very day Smoloff had returned from Tobolsk, and his first care was to visit the exiles, where he was authorised to communicate to Phedora the indulgence she had asked. On entering, young Smoloff looked in vain for Elizabeth. “Elizabeth!” exclaimed Phedorah, “what is become of my Elizabeth?” This fond mother had thus disclosed what Smoloff was most anxious to learn. Springer in silence took his staff, and opened the door, to go in search of his daughter. Smoloff instantly followed. As they entered the forest, Smoloff inquired on which side they should go? “Towards the great heath,” answered Springer; “it is thither she goes every day, and I hope she has taken refuge in the chapel.” They intrepidly proceeded on their way, bending and turning to avoid the falling branches and the rocky fragments which the tempest hurled round their heads. At length they arrived at the wooden chapel, where they found Elizabeth sweetly asleep at the foot of the altar. Springer bent over the face of his child—the young man modestly kissed her eyes, and then retired, as if not daring too nearly to contemplate such divine innocence. Elizabeth awoke, and threw herself into her father’s arms, exclaiming, “Ah! I was convinced that you would watch over me.” “Unhappy child,” said Springer, “unto what agonies have you plunged your poor mother and myself!” “My father,” replied Elizabeth, “pardon me those tears, and let us hasten to efface them.” Rising up, she saw Smoloff, “Ah!” cried she, with sweet surprise, “all my protectors, then, watch over me—God, my father, and you.” Smoloff was affected at these words; his heart was ready to escape. “You talked of returning to your mother,” observed Springer, “but think for yourself if that be possible.” “Let us try,” replied she; “I have greater strength than you would believe, and I am very glad you have an opportunity to ascertain it, and that you will see what I can do to console my mother.” Leaning on her father and Smoloff, she proceeded homeward. On their arrival, Phedora embraced all three, blessing God they were returned. Smoloff was much affected by witnessing these tender and maternal cares which Elizabeth received, and he felt it impossible to love Elizabeth without being attached to her mother also—and the felicity of being the husband of that lovely girl included the happiness of being the son of Phedora. The night now approached, the storm being past, Springer took the hand of Smoloff, and, with mingled kindness and grief, reminded him it was proper to go. Elizabeth now first discovered that he was visiting them for the last time—“What,” said she, “shall I never see you more?” “Ah!” replied Smoloff, with great vivacity, “as long as I remain free, and you continue to inhabit these deserts, I will not again quit Saimka; I will see you at the church, in the forest, on the plain, and on the banks of the river—I will see you everywhere.” From this Elizabeth foresaw the possibility of being enabled to confide to him her design, and beheld him depart with diminished pain.

The next Sunday Elizabeth and her mother set out to Saimka, guided by their Tartar lad, and the weather being fine, the distance appeared short. On entering the church, all eyes were turned towards them, but their regard was directed to the Supreme object of their devotion. When Elizabeth raised her car, Smoloff was the first object that met her view; he was leaning against a pillar, with his eyes fixed on her. When quitting the church, Smoloff offered to take them back in his sledge, to which Phedora gladly consented; but not so Elizabeth, who was inwardly chagrined at not having an opportunity to whisper her wishes to Smoloff. The sledge soon reached the borders of the forest, when Smoloff declared he could proceed no further. Phedora first alighted, and, while giving him her hand, said, “Do you not walk here sometimes? At this juncture her daughter, who alighted next, added, in a low and hurried tone of voice, “Not here; but to-morrow, in the little chapel on the plain.” The next day she went to the chapel, but found not Smoloff there—she entreated of heaven that her uncertainty might not be prolonged. While supplicating relief from on high, Smoloff hastily arrived, and was surprised to find Elizabeth there before him. When Elizabeth saw Smoloff, she exclaimed—“Ah, sir! with what impatience have I waited for your coming.” These words, her expressive looks, the meeting itself, the exactness of her keeping it, all confirmed the youth in the persuasion that she loved him; so that he was about to declare his affection, had she allowed him; but she prevented him by saying—“M. de Smoloff, hear me! I have need of you, in order to save my father; promise me your support. These simple words confounded the young man; perplexed and confused, he betrayed his mistake, but did not value Elizabeth the less. Falling on his knees, he swore to obey. She then proceeded as follows:—“Ever since I can recollect myself, my parents have entirely engrossed my mind: their love has been my only treasure; their happiness has been the entire object of my life. My parents are miserable. God has called me to relieve them, and sent you here to assist me in fulfilling this destiny. I desire to repair to St. Peterburgh, and solicit the pardon of my father.” His attitude here betrayed his surprise, as if he inclined to discourage her.—“Smoloff,” resumed Elizabeth, “I cannot tell you at what period this idea first took possession of my soul—it appears to me as though I received it with my life—it is the first impression I can remember to have had, and it never has quitted me. It is this that always occupied me when near you, and that has at present conducted me to you. This has inspired me with a fortitude that fears neither fatigue nor rebukes, nor misery nor death.”

Though the tender hopes of Smoloff had, during this discourse, entirely vanished, still he was bewildered in admiration, and the heroism of Elizabeth drew into his eyes tears scarcely less soothing than those of love. “Happy,” cried he, “ten thousand times happy am I, that you have chosen to reveal your plan to me, in order to assist it, but you are not aware of all the obstacles to its execution.” “There are only two obstacles,” said Elizabeth, “I am ignorant of the route which I should take; and I am not assured that my flight would not injure my father. It is necessary, first, that you should direct me as to the road, point out the towns through which I must pass, the hospitable establishments that will relieve me, and the most certain means of preferring my petition to the emperor; and, before all things, you must answer me, that your father will not punish mine during my absence.” Smoloff now informed Elizabeth, how the emperor was irritated against her father, and promised to communicate the information she wanted. On expressing his doubts of her ability to travel 3500 versts on foot, without aid, she replied, “that Being who sent me to succour my parents will not abandon me!” At these words Smoloff shed tears, telling her she must wait till the fine days ere she set out, as at present it was impracticable, “I know,” said he, “that in your breast there is no place for any other sentiment than that which now engrosses you; but should ever the period arrive when your parents, restored to their country, are themselves happy, and you content, then recollect that in these deserts Smoloff saw and loved you, and that he preferred a residence here, though obscure and poor, with Elizabeth, the daughter of an exile, before all the glories which the world could proffer!” He could utter no more, and Elizabeth stood motionless. She now walked towards the door, and was about to quit the chapel, while Smoloff exclaimed—“Elizabeth! have I offended you? Ah! I call God to witness, that though my heart beats with love towards you, it feels also the most profound respect. How then have I offended you?”—“You have not,” replied she mildly; “but I came here to speak to you only on behalf of my parents—now that you have listened to me, I have nothing more to say, and am going to them.” He then promised to confide to her the following Sunday at the church at Saimka, all the information and documents which she would require for the execution of her plan, and they parted.

When Sunday came, Elizabeth and her mother went to Saimka, but Smoloff was not there: an old woman informed them he was gone to Tobolsk, at which Elizabeth changed colour, feeling much disappointed. Two months elapsed without seeing Smoloff at Saimka, and Elizabeth concluded he had forgotten her. One morning when Springer and his daughter were in the garden, the young Tartar ran towards them, crying out—“M. de Smoloff is here,”—“Oh my father,” said Elizabeth, “thy happy, happy daughter will break thy chains—God has called me to this undertaking, and sent Smoloff to clear the path for me!” On entering the room they were surprised to see a man about 50 years of age, in uniform, and attended by officers. This was the governor of Tobolsk, who, on seeing Springer, bade his attendants withdraw. He now addressed Springer as follows:—“Sir, since the moment you were sent here by the court of Russia, this is the first time I have visited this circle: the occasion is pleasant to me, as it enables me to testify to an illustrious exile how much I sympathise with his misfortunes.” Springer replied, he expected nothing from man—he did not wish for pity, nor hope for justice, but could pass his days in these deserts without complaining. The governor said, “Ah, sir, for a man like you to live so far from your country, is a dreadful destiny.” “It is yet more dreadful,” replied Springer, “to die so far from it.” Elizabeth looked over her mother’s shoulder to ascertain if the air and physiognomy of the governor were expressive of benevolence and goodness that she might speak to him. The governor seeing her, said, “Young lady, my son is known to you—you have made an indelible impression on him.”—“Did he tell you, sir, that she owes the life of her father to him?” interrupted Phedora. “No madam, but he has told me she would give her own for her father and for you.” “She would,” said Springer, “and her affection and tenderness are the only treasure now left.” The governor turned aside to conceal his emotions, and shortly informed Elizabeth that his son had been commanded by the Emperor to join the army assembling in Livonia; at his departure he conjured me to convey this letter to you, but as I could not intrust it with another I have brought it myself.” Elizabeth blushed as she took it. Elizabeth consequently gave the letter to her father to read aloud:—

Smoloff’s Letter.

“One of the most lively regrets that I feel in quitting Saimka, madam, arises from my not being able to explain to you the obligation which compels me to leave you. I could neither see nor write to you, nor send the instructions you demanded, without violating my father’s orders and risking his safety; though, perhaps, I should have done both, but for the example you set me. When, however, I had so recently learned from you how much we owe to a father, I could not hazard the life of my own; yet I freely confess I did not love my duty as you love yours, and returned to Tobolsk with a heavy heart. My father informs me that an order from the Emperor appoints me to a station 1000 leagues hence, and that I must instantly obey it. I am going: you know not what I suffer.—Ah! I do not implore of heaven that you should know.

“I have opened my heart to my father; I have seen his tears flow, as I told him your design: I believe that he will see you, that he will go expressly to visit the circle of Ischim. If he can, he will have this letter conveyed to you. Elizabeth, I depart more tranquil since I have placed you under the protection of my father; but, I conjure you, do not avail yourself of that protection to set out before my return, which I hope will be in less than a year. I will conduct you to St. Petersburgh; I will present you to the Emperor; I will watch over you and guard you during the tedious journey. Do not fear my love for you, I will never mention it again: I will be only your friend. I will be your brother only; and although I shall obey you with all the ardour of passion, I swear never again to speak a language to you which shall not be pure as innocence, as angels are—as you are.”

Beneath was the following postscript, in the hand writing of the Governor:

“No, madam; you ought not to set out with my son. I doubt not his honour, but yours ought to be beyond all possibility of suspicion. In exhibiting to the court of Russia virtues too noble, too touching to be unsuccessful, it must not be said that you were conducted by your lover, and thus tarnish the sublimest act of filial piety that ever adorned human nature. In your situation there are no other protectors but God and your father. Your father cannot follow you; God will not desert you. Religion will lend you its torch and its support—trust wholly to it: you know to whom I have granted permission that your cabin shall be accessible. In confiding this paper to you, I render you the arbiter of my fate: for if it were disclosed, if it were suspected that I had facilitated your departure, I should be undone forever. But, I have no fears; I know to whom I trust. I know all that may be expected from the intrepidity and virtue of a daughter, who has learned to devote her life to her father.”

When the letter was read, Elizabeth implored her mother particularly to consent to her undertaking the journey, but Phedora could not be brought to accede to her request. “My mother,” said Elizabeth, “God has given me the power of restoring you to happiness, and do not oppose yourself to the mission that heaven has confided to me. Dangers there are none, and my excursions among the heaths have inured me to the fatigue of long walking, and to bear the cold. Is it inexperience you dread? I shall not be alone; remember the words and the letter of the governor. How many great men, precipitated from the pinnacle of glory, have implored pardon for themselves? Happier than all, I implore it only for my father.” Her noble firmness, that divine pride which glowed in her looks, as she offered to humble herself for her parents, at last subdued Springer, and he felt willing that she should go—but, for the first time in her life, Phedora opposed the authority of her husband in the exclaiming, “Shall I let my Elizabeth depart, to hear that she perished with cold and want in the deserts?” Elizabeth now promised not to go without her mother’s consent; “but,” said she, “perhaps God will obtain from you what you deny my father and myself, and oh, let us implore Him for his counsel, who is the light that guides, and the strength that sustains.” The next day, Springer being alone with his daughter, he related to her the history of his family and misfortunes, which filled her mind with astonishment, and her eyes with tears. “My greatest crime, said he, “was my devotedness to Poland, my dear, dear country, whoso monarchs sprung from the same stock as myself.—I defended her cause against the three great powers, at the head of a mere handful of noble Poles, under the walls of Warsaw, but we were compelled to submit—our feeble hands could not shake off our chains. The possessions of my ancestors were in that part which fell under the domination of Russia, and for my exertions in defence of my country, I was torn from my paternal estate to suffer imprisonment and banishment. Phedora followed me, and the permission to be confined with me was the only favour she could obtain, and what few happy moments I have enjoyed I owe to your mother and you my beloved daughter.”—Springer now returned her Smoloff’s letter, observing, “if I am destined to owe to your zeal and intrepidity the restoration of possessions, which I no longer desire but to heap on you, this letter will call to memory our benefactors; your heart, Elizabeth, should be grateful, and the alliance of virtue may honour even the blood of kings.” The maiden pressing the letter to her heart, said, “The remembrance of him who mourned for you will never quit me.”—During several days no further mention was made of Elizabeth’s journey. Her mother had not yet consented; but from the melancholy of her looks, it was evident that in her heart consent prevailed.

On Sunday evening, the family were at prayers, when they heard somebody knock with a staff, Springer opened the door: Phedora exclaimed, “Ah! my God! here is the person whose coming was announced, and who is to take away our daughter!” She fell, weeping, with her face upon the table. The missionary entered: a large white beard descended upon his breast, his countenance had a mournful expression, and he seemed bent with fatigues rather than with years.

“Sir,” said he, “I enter your cabin with joy: the benediction of God is upon it. I know that it contains wealth more precious than pearls and gold. I come to solicit a night’s repose here.” Elizabeth eagerly placed a seat for him. “Young damsel,” said he, “you are far advanced in the career of virtue, and in your very first steps you have left us far behind.” As he sat down, he heard the sohs of Phedora. “Christian mother,” said he to her, “why weepest thou? May you not say that you are happy among women? And if you shed tears because virtue separates you from your child awhile, what should those mothers feel who are divided from their children by vice, and who lose them eternally!” “Oh, my father! if I should never see her again.” “You would see her again,” replied he warmly, “in heaven, which is already her dowry; but you will also see her again on earth. The fatigues are great, but God will support her—He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb!”—After the evening repast, the good monk surveyed them with tender compassion—he had seen many sorrows, and the art of soothing them was the study of his life. He related his long journeys, and the disasters he had witnessed, making the exiles to consider, that in comparison of such miseries theirs were but light.—During the evening, the good father informed the exiles, that he was returning on foot into Spain, his native country, and had yet to traverse through Russia, Germany, and France. He had for years travelled over deserts, where he found no shelter but a cave, no pillow but a stone, and no food but rice-flour and water. He thought himself at the end of his labours on arriving among civilized nations.

Next morning, Elizabeth arose with the dawn, and found an opportunity of speaking in private with father Paul—she related on her knees the history of her life, a tender recital composed only of her affection for her parents. Her parents did not know it was her intention to quit them the next day. When evening arrived, Elizabeth, on her knees, begged of her parents to bless her. Her father approached while the tears ran down his cheeks: she stretched forth her arms—he understood this as her farewell; the current of his feelings was checked—and placing his hands on the head of Elizabeth, he recommended her to God in his thoughts, but without the power of articulating a word. The maiden then looked at her mother, and said—“And you, my mother! will not you also bless your child?”—“To-morrow” answered she, in a tone of despair. “And why not to-day also, my dear mother?” “Ah! yes,” exclaimed Phedora, rushing towards her, “every day! every day!” Elizabeth bent her head before her parents, who, with united hands, upraised eyes, and trembling voices, pronounced that benediction which Heaven surely heard. Meanwhile the missionary, with his crucifix in his hand, was offering up his prayers some paces off—it was virtue praying for innocence!

It was now towards the end of May, when between the twilight and day-break there are scarce two hours of night. Elizabeth being quite ready for the journey, awoke the missionary early in the morning, and to prevent the pain of parting with her parents, she proposed to Father Paul to set off before they arose, which he acceded to. When a short way from the cabin, she fell on her knees, imploring the Almighty to protect her parents. On turning round, she beheld her father near her. “Oh, my father,” said she, “are you here?” “I am here,” said he, “to bless you once again before you depart,” and to the missionary he observed—“I intrust to you a treasure that is dearer than my life. Depart together, and may guardian angels protect you!” A whole month was consumed in crossing the forest of Siberia. About 40 versts from Tinouen they came to a wood, where some posts indicated the termination of the government of Tobolsk. They proceeded to the city of Perm, which is environed with marshes, presenting a melancholy aspect. They sometimes met with empty cars, and obtained leave, for a few copeeks, to ascend the vehicles. They reached the banks of the Kama early in September, and had nearly performed one half of their journey, when the health of the missionary began to decline: he was frequently obliged to rest himself, and if he got into a kibick, he could not hear the jolting. Arriving at Sarapoul, the good man was so weak, he could proceed no further. They were received at a miserable inn; the flooring of his room trembled under the feet—the window had no glass, and there was neither chair nor bench. Elizabeth felt for the first time alarmed, and inquired for a doctor, but there was none at Sarapoul. The people of the house taking no concern for the dying man, she trusted to herself for aid. Night approaching, he grew worse, and Elizabeth could no longer refrain from tears.

“My child,” said he, “you will shortly be exposed to great difficulties, in travelling alone, in the midst of an inclement season—but this will form your least danger—your greatest must be expected at the court. Ordinary courage may struggle against misfortune, yet prove unable to resist seduction. Your courage, however, is not of an ordinary cast; and hence your residence at court may not change you. But should any villain there attempt to avail himself of your situation and your misfortune, in order to corrupt you, confide not in his promises, nor be dazzled by his munificence. The fear of God and the love of your parents are above all things—and never forget, that one single error would be death to those who gave you life.” “Ah, my father,” interrupted Elizabeth, “do not be afraid.” “I am not afraid,” said he, “your piety and virtue demand full confidence. Now, my daughter, take from my garment the purse I received from the generous governor of Tobolsk; keep his secret, for on that depends his life! This money will convey you to Petersburgh; when arrived there, go to the Patriarch, and mention Father Paul to him. Perhaps, not haying forgotten me, he will grant you an asylum in a convent of females; and will doubtless present your petition to the Emperor. At the point of death, I may now be permitted to tell you, my daughter, that your virtue is great, and will receive a recompence here, as well as he rewarded in heaven.” He was now compelled to pause, and Elizabeth wept in silence. He now raised his eyes to heaven, and appeared still in prayer when struck with death.

Elizabeth’s cries brought several persons into the room, who asking her what was the matter, she pointed to her lifeless protector. The news being spread, many came to see what was passing, from mere curiosity, and looked with surprise at Elizabeth weeping over the dead monk. Some there were who contemplated her with pity, while the proprietors of the inn seized the purse, which Elizabeth, in her grief, lad forgotten to secure. They told her, they would pay themselves, and return the residue. In a short time a number of priests came with their torches and attendants, and threw a large pall over the dead body, at which Elizabeth uttered a cry of grief. In the meanwhile the funeral dirges were begun, and they placed the corpse in the coffin. As soon as Elizabeth saw they were proceeding to remove the body, she resolved to attend to the grave the remains of her friend. They proceeded with a torch of straw in their hand, while Elizabeth walked slowly behind, the most sincere mourner on the melancholy occasion. The burying ground was at the foot of an acclivity on the right bank of the Kama, surrounded by the ruins of a fortress. Elizabeth did not retire from this place till the close of the day—she wept and prayed, and found relief. “Father! mother!” she exclaimed, “fear nothing—your child will not despair!” Thus did she, in a state of destitution, console herself. Before Elizabeth left the spot, she pronounced a tender adieu to the ashes of the poor monk. The next day, when she wished to resume her journey, the landlord gave her three rubles, or about twelve shillings and sixpence, assuring her it was all that remained in the monk’s purse. Elizabeth received the trifle with gratitude, thinking it had descended from heaven, whither her friend had me. “Ah!” exclaimed Elizabeth, when about to pursue her solitary journey, “my guide and my support! it is thus your charity survives you, and though you are no longer near me, it is that which still sustains me!”

She journeyed slowly on, and did not reach Cassan till towards the beginning of October. There was much ice accumulated on the shores of the Volga, so as to render its passage dangerous. The watermen would not venture over without a considerable reward, nor would any passenger attempt to go with them. Elizabeth wished to enter one of the boats, but they pushed her aside as if she were insane. She implored them, in the name of God, to assist her in crossing the river: “I have come from Tobolsk, and am going to Petersburgh to solicit my father’s pardon from the Emperor, and have so little money, that should I remain fifteen days longer at Cassan, I should have none left for the remainder of my journey.” These words affected one of the boatmen, who said he would try to get her over. She entered his boat, when he rowed about one half across the river, but not being able to get further, he took her on his shoulders, and walked along the ice, with an oar, till he reached the opposite side of the Volga. Elizabeth thanked him in the fulness of her heart, and drew forth her purse to reward him; but he would not accept of any thing from her little stock—he threw her a piece of money to increase it, and hurried to his boat, exclaiming—“God watch over thee, my girl!”

During her journey, Elizabeth sometimes saw wretched beings, chained two and two, who were being conveyed to the mines of Nertshink, to labour till death. She was overtaken by a tempest; and when stopped by a band of robbers, she showed them the boatman’s piece of money, being all she had then left; she was unharmed, one of the party exclaiming—“Leave her alone, for God is near her.” Elizabeth now hastened on till she came to a convent of nuns, to whom she told her tale of sorrow. Here she found a temporary asylum and assistance; and after returning her grateful thanks, she set off on the road to Moscow, which she found crowded with people, in carriages, sledges, and on foot. Meanwhile the ringing of bells was heard, and on every side the name of the Emperor sounded in the ears of Elizabeth. On inquiring the cause of all this, she as informed, it was on account of the Emperor’s entry into Moscow, where he is to be crowned. Elizabeth now felt overjoyed, while she thought the time was near when she hoped to obtain from the Emperor her father’s pardon.—Elizabeth entered the immense capital of Muscovy in March, 1801, believing herself at the end of all her troubles, and not imagining that she could encounter fresh calamities. As she proceeded along the city, she rested for a moment in the great walk. The people walking there talked much of the coronation. The tumult was great towards the Kremlin, where large fires were lighted—Elizabeth approached one of them, and sat down timidly by the side of it. Exhausted with cold and fatigue, the joy which filled her heart in the morning was turned to melancholy, for, in traversing the streets, she could nowhere find an asylum. She knocked at the doors of some of the meaner habitations, and was everywhere repulsed. The hope of making considerable gain, during the festival, had steeled the heart of the pettiest innkeeper of the place. She consequently returned to the fire in the Kremlin. She wept in silence, and had not strength to eat a bit of bread given her by an old woman.

The crowd began to diminish, and the fires to decay; when the guard of the palace-gates came to her, asking her why she remained there. The maiden said she had come from Tobolsk, to solicit from the Emperor her father’s pardon, and had performed the journey on foot, and, being without money, no person would receive her. The soldiers accused her of falsehood, and the girl being alarmed, wished to escape, but the soldiers held her. Many people coming up, expressed their disapprobation of the severity of the soldiers, while Elizabeth swore by the name of heaven that she had told the truth, and begged they would save her till she had accomplished her errand. Her appeal reached every heart, and a lodging was offered by an innkeeper, who was touched with pity for her. The soldiers offering no further opposition, she followed him to his house, where she was most kindly treated. The landlord offered to assist her in the accomplishment of her purpose on the following day, when the Emperor would be crowned in the church of Assumption. In the morning, discharges of artillery, beating of drums, and shouts of joy announced the commencement of the day’s festivity. Elizabeth, dressed in clothes her hostess had lent her, and leaning on the arm of honest Rossi, (her host,) proceeded till they entered the church where Alexander was to be crowned. Seated on a brilliant throne, surmounted with a rich canopy, were seen the Emperor and his august bride. The princess received from his hands the imperial crown, and with this superb pledge of their union girded her modest brow. Opposite to them, the venerable Platoff, the patriarch of Moscow, reminded Alexander, from the chair of truth, of the duties belonging to kings, and the responsibility which God imposed on them, as countervailing the power and splendour he bestowed. “Master of the greatest empire in the universe,” said he, “thou who art about to swear that thou wilt watch over the destinies of a kingdom containing one-fifth of the globe, never forget that thou hast to answer before God for the fate of so many millions of men, and that any injustice done to the least among then, which thou mightest prevent, will be visited upon thee at the day of judgment.”

Just after Alexander had pronounced the oath, by which he bound himself to devote his existence to the happiness of his people, Elizabeth could no longer restrain herself; but bursting through the crowd with a supernatural energy, she rushed towards the throne, exclaiming—“PARDON! PARDON!” This cry, which interrupted the ceremony, occasioned a considerable murmur, and some guards dragged Elizabeth out of the church, in spite of her friend. Alexander, however, on such an occasion, wished not to be implored in vain; he therefore sent an officer to know what the woman wanted. The officer hastened along, saw her, and knew her, and exclaimed, “It is Elizabeth.” She looked at him in silence, and recognized Smoloff—they rushed into each other’s arms. He now proposed to present her to the Emperor himself, and conducted her back to the church at the very moment the imperial procession was departing through the great door. Directly the Emperor came near, Smoloff approached him, holding Elizabeth by the hand, and throwing himself on his knees, while she did the same, exclaimed—“Sire! deign to hear me—hear the voice of misfortune and of virtue. You now behold the daughter of the unhappy Stanislaus Potowsky, arrived from the deserts of Ischim, where her parents have languished in exile for twelve years. Alone, she has performed the journey on foot, braving every misery to come here, and implore at your feet her father’s pardon!” Elizabeth raised her supplicating hands, repeating, “My father’s pardon!” There was a unanimous cry of admiration among the crowd. Alexander was himself struck, and though he had strong prejudices against Stanislaus Potowsky, they now vanished. “Your father is free,” said he; “I grant you his pardon.” Elizabeth could hear no more—at the very sound of pardon, a sense of joy overpowered her, and she fell senseless into the arms of Smoloff. She was borne away through the crowd of people, who applauded the virtue of the heroine, and the clemency of the monarch, to the house of the good James Rossi, where she recovered her senses, and where the first object she recognized was Smoloff, kneeling at her side. Ina little time she uttered the names of her father and mother—“We shall behold them again,” said she, “we shall enjoy their happiness.” These words penetrated to the young man’s soul. Several days passed before the pardon could be authenticated. One morning Smoloff visited Elizabeth earlier than usual, when he presented a parchment to her, sealed with the imperial seal. “Here,” said he, “is the Emperor’s order to my father to restore your’s to liberty.” Elizabeth seized the parchment, pressed it to her lips, and covered it with tears. “But this is not all,” added Smoloff, “he also restores him to his rank and wealth; the courier who carries this order sets off to-morrow, and I have to accompany him.” “And shall not I accompany him too?” “Doubtless,” replied Smoloff, “what other mouth than thine has the right of telling your father that he is free? Certain of your intention, I mentioned it to the Emperor, and he said, to-morrow you might set off.” She looked at Smoloff, saying, “Ever since I first saw you, you have been the author of all my benefits.” Before she left Moscow, our heroine recompensed the hospitality of Rossi; nor did she, in passing the Volga, forget the benevolent boatman, whom she rewarded with an hundred rubles. When she arrived at Sarapoul, she visited the grave of the venerable missionary; she now felt as if the poor monk, from the height of heaven, rejoiced to see her happy. Tobolsk being the next stage, Smoloff conducted her to his father, from whom she received a most kind reception, and high commendation for her magnanimity. She next went with Smoloff to visit her parents. O, how her heart throbbed as she crossed the forest; seeing her paternal cabin, she springs forward—she hears the voices which she knew—her heart beats—her head swims—she called her parents—the door opened, and she fell into their arms. “There she is,” cried Smoloff, “she brings your pardon with her—she has triumphed over all—she has obtained all.” They were lost in a delirium of joy. Smoloff fell at the feet of the exiles and said, “Elizabeth has hitherto called me her brother, but, at your knees, perhaps, she will allow me to aspire to another name.” Her parents readily consented to the union, pouring their blessings on the virtuous pair, while Smoloff leaned his face, bathed with tears, on the lap of Elizabeth, not thinking that, even in heaven, it was possible to be happier than he was; meanwhile the damsel felt equal felicity in her good fortune.

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The Love of Home.

It was near the close of an afternoon in the early part of May, that a gentleman, travelling slowly and on horseback in a retired part of the country, observed the decisive indications of an approaching storm which were visible in the heavens, and began to look out with no little anxiety for a lodging which might receive him for the night. For some time his wishes were vain, and he rode several miles over a lone and unfrequented road in which he was travelling, without much prospect of a shelter from the rain, whose drops were beginning to fall, and from the wind which was fast rising into a furious gale. At last, however, he emerged from a long and dreary wood, and his eye sparkled as the view opened upon a beautiful valley, through which his road wound, and in a distant part of which was pleasantly situated a farm-house of unusually cheerful and happy appearance. The numerous and extensive out-buildings with which it was associated, the fields which surrounded it, the forests in the back ground, and the distant hills which completed the view, would, had it not been for the gloomy influence of the weather, have constituted an enchanting picture. As it was, it promised him relief from his uncomfortable situation, and as he approached the dwelling, all the discontented thoughts with which his dreary ride had inspired him, were banished by the bright light which shone from the windows, and the prospect of comfort and enjoyment which it afforded within. He was met in the spacious yard by the master of the household, who gave him a hearty welcome; and the master and his guest entered the dwelling together.

They came into a room which, as appeared from the happy faces of the family, and the preparations for supper which were going forward, was answering the double purpose of kitchen and parlour. The mother of the family and her daughter were busy together at a back part of the room; in a corner were two ruddy-cheeked children, amusing themselves by drawing pictures upon a slate; a third was reading aloud from a little book; and a fourth, younger than the rest, was playing with a dog and a cat upon the floor. These occupations were interrupted by the entrance of the stranger, and all seemed pleased to see him. The traveller sat down by the fire, and began to play with the children, which he gathered around him. Warmth was soon restored to his limbs, and gladness to his heart.

The arrival of a stranger was, in this retired place, one of those remarkable occurrences which occasion an alteration in the usual family arrangements; and after a fire had been kindled in the front room, the traveller, together with the children and their father, resorted thither. The preparations for their evening repast were soon completed. All took their seats, the blessing of heaven was solemnly implored, and the little circle partook of their food in gratitude and love.

The short evening passed rapidly away in this happy domestic circle, and at an early hour the father gave notice that it was time for their customary evening devotions. The family colleeted their Bibles, and gathered around the bright fire which was glowing upon the hearth. The traveller was seated at one corner, at another were the father and mother, reading the sacred volume, and the children arranged themselves together in pairs, with their backs to the fire, that its strong light might shine upon the books they were to read.

At a notice from their father, the youngest began, and in a slow artless manner, read one verse of a chapter; the next and the next continued; the mother, the father, and the guest took their turns, until the chapter was concluded, and they then knelt together, while the stranger, at the father’s request, offered the evening tribute of penitence, thanksgiving, and praise.

A few moments after the exercise was completed, the children came to the stranger one after another, repeated some simple verses and the Lord’s prayer; they then bid him and their father good-night, and followed their mother from the room.

“You have a happy family,” said the stranger, when he found himself, alone with his host.

“O yes, sir,” replied the farmer, “I have every thing to make me thankful. But it is to religion I am indebted for all.”

“I have no doubt that religion is the source of your greatest enjoyment; but you do not mean that religion has placed you in the prosperous situation and circumstances which you enjoy?”

“Oh yes, Sir, I owe every thing I possess to the power which the gospel has had upon me. Ten years ago I was an idle, dissolute man, and my vicious course was fast making my farm a desert, my wife broken-hearted, and myself a wretched vagabond. My wife has always, since my acquaintance with her, been a pious woman; and it is through the grace of God, by her means, that I am not now ruined in soul and in body.”

“But how did she exert so great an influence over you?”

“Oh, sir, by her whole conduct; every action, every word, every look was a meek but powerful reproof to me. You cannot conceive how her kind eye would pierce my very soul, when I came home late at night from some scene of riot and dissipation. There she used to sit in that corner; and when she rose to meet me, there was such an expression of grieved and saddened feeling, that it always filled me with a momentary anguish. And sometimes on the Lord’s-day, when I was sitting in a most melancholy mood, I used to hear her teaching some verses of the Bible to little William; and they seemed sometimes so pointed and full of meaning, that I was sometimes disposed to be angry, from the suspicion that she designed to convey some rebuke to me in this indirect manner. But then I would soon reflect upon the perfect proofs I had almost every hour, that she wished my happiness. I believe, that I could have borne any thing by this mild, forgiving spirit, yet it made me constantly miserable; conscience soon began to upbraid me, and it pleased my heavenly Father to show me my guilt, and the way of salvation through a Redeemer.”

“What was the guilt which you then saw in yourself? the vices and crimes of which you spoke?”

“Yes, sir, I had a much stronger and deeper sense of these; but I soon found that they did not constitute the foundation of the evil. They were rather the signs of the guilt in my heart than the guilt itself. It was my heart, sir, that wanted purifying. I had before thought, that although my actions were wrong, I could at any time alter them, and then I should be as good as my wife. But I soon found that there was something fundamentally wrong in the state of my affections towards God, and that unless these were altered, I should never be holy or happy. I cannot describe my distress, when I found that for the control of these, I was so utterly dependent upon a higher power. I was, however, at last brought to the Saviour, and I hope he has commenced a good work in my soul.”

“Well, how did you recover your affairs from their embarrassed condition?”

“Religion, sir, and industry can accomplish any thing. I made the text. ‘Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord,’ my motto; and every thing soon began to go well, and you see how happy a man I am now.”