GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, January 1850

IT was late in the afternoon of a day in January, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, that a number of idlers might have been seen collected about the harbor at the mouth of the Vistula, where a Swedish brigantine had just arrived, among other vessels. As she approached the wharf, the uninteresting faces of a thin sprinkling of passengers were discernible in the light of the lamps or the misty shadow of deepening twilight. Here and there was a haughty-looking Swede, with a muffled Pole or two; there were Polish Jews in their peculiar dress, and Dantzic merchants; but the faces of all wore an expression of eagerness to quit the vessel in time to avail themselves of the different conveyances to the city. The bustle and confusion of their landing, the getting out of their luggage, and the exchange of salutations and news between them and the people on the dock, having at length subsided, the crowd gradually dispersed. The idlers took their way homeward; and as a stream of light from the lighthouse flung its broad glare upon the bosom of the waters, and the snow began to fall thickly, the shore was almost entirely deserted.

Here and there, however, a solitary wanderer might be seen slowly passing; and among those who were, perhaps, belated, one lingered on the wharf, of tall and rather imposing figure, closely wrapped in a mantle, and walking to and fro with the air of a person disappointed in the expectation of seeing some one. It was not long before his attention was fixed by observing the owner of the Swedish vessel lead forth a female, whom he assisted to land, and with whom he was presently engaged in a dispute. The stranger drew as near as he could without observation, attracted by the tones of a richly musical voice, to which the mournful earnestness of the speaker gave singular effect. As well as he could discover, the woman was tall and slender, and the voice was evidently that of youth.

The rough tones of the shipmaster suddenly rose so high, that his words could be distinctly heard,

"A strange story enough!" he cried, sneeringly. "If your money was stolen from you on board my vessel, you should have let me known it before the passengers had gone ashore, that search might have been made. Rut you say nothing till the passage money is called for! I ask your pardon, madam but I cannot believe a word of it!"

"I will give you all I possess!" pleaded the soft voice, which was broken by low sobs. "My purse is gone, but here is the bundle of clothes; they may perhaps, be worth what I owe you. Only, I beseech you, make no noise about the matter; it was to avoid that, I waited till all the passengers were gone."

"The surer sign you are an impostor!" answered the man, rudely. " If you had really been robbed, you would have made noise enough about it. I have been suspicious of you since you came on board at Narva, for you seemed like a woman who had something on her conscience. Now that you cannot pay what you owe, it is good reason why you should be given in charge to the bailiff, or taken before the burgomaster of Dantzic."

"Oh, spare me, spare me!" cried the female, in a tone of agonized entreaty, turning so that in the dim light her pale face could be imperfectly seen. "Take all I have – take even these papers!" – and she drew a bundle of folded letters from her bosom. " Take or send these to the Countess Aurora, or Koningsmark, at Quedlinburg, or wherever she may be; she will give you gold for the letters – more, much more than all your passengers together have paid you!"

The man shook his head. "You only increase my suspicions, fair lady," said he. "Who will assure me that these letters are worth what you say?, And you bid me take them to a countess, the favorite of the King of Poland, who is the enemy of the king I serve. Appearances are against you; you are in my power; and be certain, I shall not let you go till you have given a proper account of yourself."

The unhappy woman sank upon her knees, and stretched out her hands in the energy of supplication and despair. Before she could speak, heavy steps approached.

"Base Swede!" exclaimed the deep voice of the stranger, "how darest thou maltreat a lady! Give back the bundle, and let her go, or, by this light! the sword of an officer of the army of the empire shall print in thy flesh some of the marks it has made in French and Turkish carcases!"

Startled' by the martial air and threatening language of this unexpected champion, the Swede retreated a pace or two, and answered, in a deferential tone –

"I an ready to give up the lady's property, sir, as soon as I receive the sum due for her passage "

"And how much is that?"

"Six Swedish dollars."

"A paltry sum, in truth, to vex a lady about," grumbled the stranger, while he drew a roll from his pocket, and counted out the money into the man's hand, taking from him the clothes and papers belonging to his fair passenger. Then offering her his arm, he led the way from the wharf, now covered with snow, to one of the public houses not far distant; where, on entering, he ordered supper; and then conducted his companion to a private apartment, lighted and warmed by a cheerful fire.

Her first expressions of gratitude had been choked by sobs; but her tears were dried at the language of encouragement. When her mantle and hood were removed, her protector was almost startled at the beauty that met his gaze. Though not in the first bloom of youth – for she appeared about seven or eight and twenty – the noble yet delicate outline of her features, the lofty, intellectual forehead, the clear paleness of her complexion, and her soft, dark eyes, fringed with long lashes, with an indescribable sweetness of expression about the small mouth, gave her claims to the highest order of loveliness; while the carriage of her tall and symmetrical faire, and the grace of every movement, marked her as one accustomed to an elevated sphere of life. The deep melancholy expressed in her face, and in the tones of her strangely melodious voice, gave still more of interest to her beauty, while it tempered with respect the feeling of admiration which the beholder might otherwise have taken no pains to conceal.

Having rendered her all necessary assistance in uncloaking and disposing of the articles brought from the vessel, he conducted her to the room where supper was prepared. It was not till their return from the meal, that he ventured to ask the name by which he should address her.

The only reply to this question was a burst of tears. Feeling for the mortification he supposed her late misfortune and its vexatious consequences had caused, the stranger begged her to be composed, and offered himself to take any message she might wish to send to her friends or relatives.

"I have no relatives, no friend," she answered, still weeping. "I cannot even give you my name."

Her protector looked surprised and embarrassed. "You are happy, sir," said the lady, more calmly, "never to have experienced what it is to have all the ties broken which link one to home and family."

"Nay, that I have," replied her companion. " Those things, I assure you, are trifles; the greatest evil lies in our imagination. And this seems the case with you, madam. You have been robbed of your present means, but you have elsewhere –"

"Nothing; I am penniless, and an outcast. I know not where to go; despair has driven me thus far. It is like a dream before me, that I meant to seek the Countess of Koningsmark; and if she repelled me –"

"Have you no certainty, then, of being graciously received by her?"

"Alas! I have too much reason to fear the contrary."

"A bad prospect," said the stranger, musingly. After a pause, as if struck with a new thought, he continued: "Permit me, madam, to offer a word of counsel. The world, I see, has dealt hardly with you; but you have yet a property it cannot touch – a noble capital, which may yield a splendid interest. With such a figure and face, with such a voice, you may be at all times independent."

The lady looked at him bewildered.

"Your fate and mine," he proceeded, "exhibit a strange similarity. I, too, am without friends, except those who love my genius. I am an actor; I have found independence and happiness in my profession. Why should not you, who are so fitted to adorn it?"

The lady appeared startled, but not appalled.

"An actress?" she murmured.

"Why not? The profession has many advantages. The world may scorn us; but we can return the scorn, reveling in the delights of an artist-life, and winning the wealth which the world most values. You, madam, as you say, are alone, forsaken, and destitute, having not even a name; you have passed already the gulf that divides us from the favorites of fortune; you have already tasted all the bitterness of our condition. Why refuse the sweets of the cup?"

A few moments of silence ensued.

"But in what theatre could I appear?" asked the fair stranger.

"Leave that to me, lady, if you do but consent. There is a company in Duntzic, under the direction of Master Kunst. I am now on my way to visit him, for the purpose of engaging myself to him; and if you will go with me, we will make common cause. You may pass for my sister, daughter, or niece, if you please; and as an actress, bear the name of Chloris, or Helen, or Isolinda, or whatever you like."

"I will consider of your proposal," answered the lady.

But she listened earnestly to her companion's arguments in favor of his profession; and the evening was not ended, when she signified her consent to join the theatrical company. "You may call me Mademoiselle Schelling," said she; "and I will be known to the public as Chloris."

The stranger expressed his delight at her acceptance of his proposition.

"'Tis time now," said he, "that you knew my name: it is Feigenspan, or Amyntas, as I am called in the theatre. Let us drink a cup of wing to our better acquaintance. I have but a plain name, yet it is quite at your service madam" – With a low bow. "Perhaps, in time, I may persuade you to accept it."

"Sir," said the lady, gravely, "I owe you deep gratitude for your services, but must entreat you to respect the grief of one who is the most wretched of her sex."

Her voice was interrupted by tears; and the actor hastened to assure her that he would never again venture to trangress. Then, having bespoken the attendance of a maid, he bade her good night, and retired to dream of his own prospects.

Another month of triumph and success passed; and Chloris, in the new world of music and ideal beauty that opened before her, seemed almost to forget her past sufferings. From public applause she shrank tremblingly; bat the consciousness that admiration and homage surrounded her, that her voice had the power of a spell over the hearts of all who listened, that her presence moved the sympathies of thousands, was not without its charm. She thought not of the danger to her peace that lurked beneath the brilliant flower of her renown; she dreamed not that the art she was beginning to love, which had shed lustre on her darkened life, had placed her in the view of men, and that she must bid adieu henceforth to the quiet and seclusion she had craved as the reward of her toils.

A distinguished-looking foreigner called one day upon the manager, and announced himself as Colonel Menschikoff; in the service of his majesty the-czar of Russia. His majesty had long wished to have a German theatrical company in Moscow: a German engineer had told him much of the players in Dantzic, and he had sent to invite them to his capital. Offers of remuneration were made, the liberality of which exceeded Kunst's most daring hopes; and, dazzled by the prospects opened to him, he promised to consult the members of his company. These were found willing enough, for the novelty of the enterprise gave it charms; but to the surprise of all, Chloris, who had always quietly assented to every measure proposed, refused to go. The Russian officer informed the manager, in confidence, that his object was chiefly to secure her services; and both essayed with her the power of persuasion, doubling the offer of compensation – but in vain. She seemed to shudder- at the very name of Russia. They turned, in despair of prevailing, to Feigenspan; and he begged to be left for a few moments alone with his niece, to whom he said he would offer irresistible arguments to induce her compliance. The actor knew how to work the springs of a generous nature, He painted in exaggerated colors the services he had rendered her,' the pains he had taken to build up her fortunes; his own brilliant prospects and hopes of advancement, which would all be blighted by her refusal to comply with the czar's wish. He appealed to her gratitude, and besought her not to destroy his prospects and doom him to the obscurity out of which he had begun to rise. Again, as he saw her hesitate, he reproached her with ingratitude; and that was more than the tender heart of Chloris could bear.

" No, no!" she cried, weeping; " I may be, must be miserable, but never ungrateful! You shall not suffer loss through me; and if the worst comes, then death shall –

Her voice faltered; but she presently recovered herself.

"I will go to Moscow," she added, resolutely, "but on one condition."

"What is that?" asked Feigenspan, overjoyed at her consent.

"You have called me your niece; and none here doubt that I am so," said the lady. " My condition is, that in Moscow you assert everywhere that I am so – that I am the child of your dead sister, known by you since childhood; and that I have been with you for the last three years. You are to insist upon this in the face of every circumstance that may occur to make you deny our relationship."

"That I will," cried the actor, right willingly." And he hastened with the news of his success to the manager, who presently signified to Menschikoff his acceptance of the czar's gracious invitation.

In due time, the company was established in Moscow. They were received on their journey with cold inhospitality' by the inhabitants of the country, who regarded them almost with superstitious dread, as ministers to unhallowed pleasure, by which the czar was striving to corrupt his people; but in the capital, a welcome awaited them. The agitation and melancholy of Chloris preyed on her health, and a severe illness rendered her unable for weeks to take part in the performances. She prayed to die; but her strength returned, and it was it length announced that the celebrated singer would appear. The public were on the tiptoe of expectation, and the theatre was crowded with the noble and the gay. When she came upon the stage, the murmur that broke for an instant upon the breathless hush of expectation, was a tribute to her dazzling beauty; when her voice rose, filling the house with its rich melody, the very hearts of the audience stood still; and when she ceased, the immense building shook with the loud and repeated thunders of applause. Never had an artiste of such power appeared on those boards; never had those walls resounded to such peals of acclamation.

The opera was over. Chloris, pursued by the shouts of thousands, had quitted the theatre, leaning on the arm of Feigenspan; had entered her carriage, and returned to her dwelling. She had flung the wreath from her forehead, and unbound her long hair; but the gems still, glittered on her arms and bosom, as if in mockery of the sadness no triumph could efface from her brow.

There was a loud knock at the door of the house, in the lower apartments of which lodged Amyntas and another of the company. The door was opened, and two men, wrapped in cloaks, were seen without.

"What would you?" asked the actor.

"Silence," said one of the men, "and let us pass within. We come to thank the fair Chloris for the enjoyment of the evening."

"My niece receives no visitors, especially at this hour," was the reply.

A muttered execration, in Russian, broke from the lips of the person who had not spoken.

" Let us pass. I am Menschikoff," said the other, impatiently.

"You cannot, whoever –"

A violent thrust, which sent him to the floor at . some paces distance, interrupted his speech; and the two strangers entered unceremoniously.

A knock, somewhat less imperative, was presently heard at the door of the singer's apartment, and the voice of Mensohikoff, requesting admittance.

"I am sent by his majesty. I must speak with you," he said.

"I can receive no visits. I am exhausted, ill!" pleaded Chloris.

"On pain of his majesty's anger, I must speak with you," persisted the colonel.

The actress made no reply. The intruders essayed the door, and its slight fastenings at. once gave way. Chloris uttered a faint shriek, and covered her face with her hands.

"I crave pardon, fair lady," cried the officer, "that I have been driven to this violence to obtain access to your presence It is not common for those gifted as you are, to seclude themselves thus from the grateful homage due to genius."

"And must I bear this, too?" murmured the singer, in a low tone of anguish.

" You will learn our customs better," said Menschikoff "Permit me now to present to you this young soldier, my friend, who is eager to express to you the profound admiration with which your- performance has inspired him. Not being "versed in your language, fairest lady, he bids me interpret to you his feelings and his thanks."

The stranger approached boldly, and fixed his eyes on the beautiful face of the singer, who regarded him with a wild look of terror, while she trembled violently, and strove in vain to speak. Just then, voices were heard below; and muttering a few words in Russian, the stranger motioned Colonel Menschikoff to go down. Chloris had felt even his presence a protection; and she trembled still more when his companion again drew near.

"Listen to me," he said, in broken German; "I love you –"

"Have mercy upon me, your majesty! have mercy upon a feeble, helpless woman!" she exclaimed, in the Russian language; and falling at his feet, extended her arms with a gesture of supplication.

"Ha! a Russian! and you know me!" cried Peter.

"To whom but the czar would Colonel Menschikoff' speak thus?"

"Who are you'!" asked the monarch. "The Russian tongue is familiar to you; your tools, your air, your manner, your speech, bespeak you above your condition. No mere singer would thus shudder and shrink from royal homage. Declare who you are, and be sure of worthy treatment at the hands of the czar; but do not dare to deceive me!"

"Sire, I am a woman!" answered Chloris, who, with a struggle, had recovered her self-possession. "I claim your protection by that name alone, and by the sacred right of misfortune – for sorrow has a power beyond the power of kings! I claim it as the most unhappy of my sex in all your broad empire!"

"I pledge it to you," said Peter, deeply moved. "But may I not be the confidant of these sorrows? Has the sovereign of Russia no power to relieve, to banish them? Trust me, and I will aid you."

"No .sovereign on earth can aid me," answered the singer, mournfully. "I pray your majesty to receive my thanks; but the secret of my sorrow I will bear with me to the grave."

"Strange being!" exclaimed the monarch, gazing upon her in astonishment. Then extending his hand, which she reverently kissed, he sighed and withdrew, taking with him his favorite Menschikoff who had remained in the room below.

From this time, though the czar took no public notice of the actress, the opinion was generally current that she stood high in his favor; arid this rumor kept all at a distance who might otherwise have intruded their attentions. She was glad of this exemption from the homage usually paid to those of her profession, and grateful for the protection she found so efficient. Matters thus went on, while the more serious business of war with Sweden occupied the monarch's attention, and gave employment to his ministers. The battles and victories that succeeded, form a striking page in history, but belong not to this simple tale.

Again, when all Moscow Was alive with rejoicing . for a splendid victory, the royal favorite, Menschikoff – then advanced to the rank of general – sought the abode of the singer. This time, it was to solicit a favor. Among the Swedish prisoners, who had become his property by law, to be bought and sold at his pleasure, was a young girl, the servant of a provost in Marienburg, who also was taken captive when the city was destroyed. The account given by the provost of the maiden's rare gifts, induced Menschikoff to desire the cultivation of her powers. And what tutor could perform the task so well as the accomplished Chloris? To her care he wished to intrust the girl, and promised to reward liberally the pains bestowed on her education.

The singer professed herself flattered by the confidence of the lord general, and ready to undertake the charge. The maiden was brought to her the same day She was sixteen. Her graceful form, her face of innocent beauty, her childlike confidence in her instructress, won the heart of Chloris at once, and she felt that she had at last found a friend.

The public joy for military triumphs found vent in celebrations of various kinds. One of these was and reproachful tone. "Do I see you thus' I am, indeed, avenged!"

"My lord, you are mistaken," faltered Chloris, coloring.

"Your protector has betrayed you. Fate brings us together after so many years of separation! I am unchanged. Come with me, Amalia, to the czar; disclose all to him, and let' the past be forgotten. Our country shall know us no more, and we shall be happy, elsewhere."

"My lord; I repeat, I know you not!" said Chloris, drawing back, with an expression of scorn on her pale lips. "You mistake me for some other."

"Impossible. I saw you on the stage last evening. Why keep up this deception? You have nothing to fear. Better his majesty should know all, and then you will be at peace."

" Once for all, you are under a mistake: and I pray you to quit this house."

" Will you not come ? Then I will go alone, and reveal all to the czar."

Here Feigenspan, comprehending that it was incumbent on him to do something, began to urge the departure of the unwelcome visitor, who angrily shook off his grasp, with many epithets of contempt; end, with a repetition of his threats, turned to leave the apartment.

As he opened the door, a stranger stood on the threshold; a young man elegantly dressed – no other, in fact, than the young stolnik, the page of the czar, who had started at the first sight of Chloris upon the stage. Heedless of the baron or the others, he advanced towards the singer, who calmly met his gaze; and seizing her hand, exclaimed – "Maria, my father is dead; he fell at the storming of Notaburg. You are free. I conjure you now to listen to me!"

"Pardon me, sir," replied Chloris, coldly; "I have not the honor of knowing you; and must entreat that you, as well as yonder gentleman, who insists that I am somebody else, and threatens me with his vengeance, will leave my house."

" Who dares to threaten you," cried the young man, turning to the baron, "shall answer to me." The dispute which ensued might have provoked a smile, each claiming the lady's former acquaintance by a different name. Each gave the other the lie, and a meeting was appointed as they withdrew.

"Who are these men?" weed Feigenspan, turning to his pretended niece when they had departed. "A couple of fools," answered she, contemptuously.

"And I the third," grumbled the actor.

"Did you not compel me to come to Moscow?" said she, reproachfully.

A trial yet more severe awaited Chloris. The same day, according to her custom, she accompanied her pupil to the house of Menschikoff; who wished to observe her progress by frequently hearing her read and sing. The General was not at home; but they waited for his return, so occupied in the lesson, that they observed not the entrance of a stranger till he spoke to inquire for Menschikoff. Chloris looked up, started wildly at sight of him, and with a cry of distress, covered her face with her hands.

"Is it you, dear mother?" exclaimed the young man, rushing to her. "How came you here? And where is my, father, that I may kiss his hand?" The singer heard him not; she had fallen back in a swoon.

"Oh, Heaven, she is dead!" exclaimed Catherine.

Her first impulse Was to summon assistance; and long it was ere consciousness returned. The blue eyes slowly unclosed; the white lips murmured, "Dimitri!" but as she saw the youth's anxious looks bent upon her, she shuddered, and again closed her eyes. By this time, Feigenspan had come, in obedience to the hasty summons. "What have you done?" he cried to the kneeling stranger. "Begone; your presence troubles her."

"She is my mother!" murmured the young man, in a voice of anguish.

" Your mother? A. stupid jest! She is not older than you Begone! you will kill her if you stay." And he led him passive from the room.

Efforts were now made to restore the unhappy lady; while Menschikoff, who had arrived, was earnestly questioning Catherine as to the cause of her emotion.

"And where is the youth?" he cried " He must go with me to his majesty' he must be secured. The whole court is full of talk about this mysterious lady, now believed to be no other than the electoral Princess of Hanover, imprisoned on account of her intrigue with Count Konigsmark."

Scarcely had the General quitted the room, when Chloris, who had revived from her swoon, turned eagerly to Feigenspan,

"Take me from this place, from Moscow, at once!" she cried. "This instant, let us fly!"

"This instant? Impossible!" replied he. "My interests would be sacrificed." The unfortunate lady sank on her knees before him.

"Refuse me not, Amyntas!" she cried. "Take me to Warsaw; the king shall reward you richly. You brought me hither; now, when the worst has happened, save me – I implore you, save me. Away, this very hour. Order horses immediately, and let us be far on the way before sunset. Every breath I draw in this air, poisons me!"

Her impetuous entreaties might not have prevailed with the selfish actor, but that he doubted not her ability to fulfill her promise of reward; for he had heard the words of Menschikoff. To lay a princess under obligation; to be the companion of her flight; to entitle himself to her gratitude! The czar would forgive him; the monarch to whom she fled would reward him! The star of his fortune was in the ascendant! Promising to make immediate preparation for their flight, he departed; while Chloris hastened home with her faithful friend and pupil.

Meanwhile, the General had sought and obtained an audience of the czar, to inform him of the occurrence that had taken place; that the mysterious actress, according to all appearances, was the fugitive Princess of Hanover; and that the young stranger who had but the day before arrived at the capital, had declared himself her son. Peter sent to command the attendance of the Baron von Hohenstein, who, as he well knew, had been long at the elector's court, and to whom the person of the princess was well known. But he had just fought a duel with the royal page, Matwej Roshin, and had been brought home wounded. Then came the news that the fair singer had fled. Catherine, her pupil and companion, was summoned, and, for the first time, entered the presence of the royal admirer of beauty. She could but confirm the report. The page was dispatched with fleet horses to overtake the fugitives,

"I will be at the bottom of this mystery before I sleep!" cried Peter. "The monarch of Russia may not be deceived with impunity."

Another page here entered, bearing the entreaty of the Prince Ivan Wasemskoi for an audience of his majesty. He came to complain of the detention of his adopted son, Dimitri Roshin, the eldest son of the Stolnik Semenj Roshin, Waiwode of Pleskow, who had just returned from his travels through Europe.

" He had sought General Menschikoff to solicit a presentation to your majesty," continued the aged prince; " and when but now I inquired concerning him, I learned that he had been sent guarded to the Kreml, by the General's order! I beseech your majesty to tell me what has Dimitri, the noblest of young men, done to deserve the loss of your gracious favor?"

" Answer him, Menschikoff;" said the czar. "Whom have you brought from your house?"

"Prince," answered the General, "the young man whom I brought to the Kreml is not Dimitri, ' but the Prince of Hanover."

"The Prince of Hanover?" exclaimed Wasemskoi. "Impossible! Let him be brought hither."

"Let him come," said the czar. "I know the Prince of Hanover, whom I saw four years since."

The young man was led in.

"It is not the prince," said Peter.

"It is Dimitri Roshin," cried the old man. "Why should I not know him, when he has grown up under my eyes ?"

"How then calls he the princess mother? Who shall solve this enigma?" asked the monarch, impatiently.

Two hours passed before the return of the page Matwej Roshin, who had overtaken and brought back Chloris and her companion. They were led, according to the czar's command, immediately to his presence. In the midst of her confusion and the shame of her arrest, there was a stern dignity about the singer, as if, while she ceased to struggle with fate, she had nerved herself to meet misfortune proudly, Her face was pale, but composed; and she met the scrutinizing gaze of the czar without shrinking. Only when he reproached her with the deceit she had practiced, did she show signs of emotion.

"It is you, madam," said Peter, "whom we must question concerning yourself; for others give contradictory accounts of you. The Baron von Hohenstein insists that you are the Lady Amelia von Molck, whom he knew at the court of Hanover; the page Matwej, that you are the widow of his father, the Waiwode of Pleskow; and others of my court, that you are the Princess of Hanover."

"The last I certainly am not," answered the lady. "To your majesty, I will speak freely; but I would fain be spared my confession before all these" – and she glanced around on several strange faces.

" Speak," said the czar, sternly, "and regard them not. They must be witnesses of the truth of what you say. I must not longer be deceived."

A. painful flush mounted to the singer's forehead; but she controlled her emotion, and answered calmly. The necessity of being as brief as possible, compels us to give the reader only the substance of her declaration.

She avowed herself the unfortunate Amalia van Molck, an orphan, recommended by the Count of. Konigsmark to the service of the electoral Princess of Hanover, to whom she was maid of honor. The princess, neglected and ill-used by her husband, and the object of the envy and malignity of some powerful dames of the court, made a confidant of her young attendant; and, through her, concerted with the count a plan for her escape to France. The coil of treachery and court intrigue, however, had involved her too closely; the chain was too strong to be broken, and those who served her were speedily ingulfed in her ruin. The Count of Konigsmark was assassinated; the princess was arrested and sent to prison, as also was Amalia, though not till she had been able to destroy the letters which would have been wrested into proof of the guilt of her innocent though imprudent mistress, preserving only the less dangerous letters of the count, and those which concerned herself. Long and dreary was her imprisonment, and rendered more bitter by the knowledge that her name was branded with disgrace. Having, at length, succeeded in effecting her escape, she fled to Vienna, and claimed the protection of Maximilian.

By the advice of this prince, she assumed the name of Maria von Isensee; but lived in perpetual fear of discovery, till, on a visit of the czar to Vienna, one of the gentlemen in his train, Semenj Roshin, sought for a governess to his daughters; and, at the suggestion of Maximilian, offered her the situation. Her life in Russia was a happy one; and when, in a few months, her master offered her his hand, the deep gratitude she felt prompted her acceptance.

Both the sons of Semenj, then grown to manhood, were invited to his wedding with his young bride. Dimitri, the eldest, educated by the care of his adopted father, the Prince Wasemskoi, was a noble youth, uniting the highest virtues to his manly gifts and graces; the younger, Matwej, was violent, headstrong, and unprincipled. It was a mournful task to her who had been his father's wife, to detail, in the royal presence, the persecutions she had suffered from his cruel passion; and relate how, when maddened by her resistance to his importunities to fly with him, he had poisoned the mind of his father against her. The waiwode's affection for his young wife was not proof against the arts employed for her ruin. Life grew a torment to her; till at length, weary of suffering and scorn, she became once more a fugitive and an outcast. Having reached Narva, alone in her flight, she went on board the Swedish brigantine bound for Dantzic. Her half-formed plan was to throw herself on the protection of the Countess Aurora, sister to the murdered Konigsmark; and, through her, obtain admission to some cloister, where she could be hidden for ever from the world. The countess, she hoped, would aid her for her brother's sake, and his letters would be her passport. The loss of her money on board the vessel; the interference of Feigenspan to protect her from the shipmaster; his payment of her debt, and proposal that she should appear in Dantzic as a public singer; her adoption of the profession, and reluctant journey to Moscow – where, however, she hoped to remain unknown – with the other adventures already related, need not detain the reader.

"You have omitted, madam, one important part of your confession," said the Prince Wasemskoi. "It is the love, unacknowledged, but deep and constant, that existed between you and Dimitri, the late waiwode's eldest son."

A deep blush covered the face of the unfortunate lady, mounting to the very temples; and receding, left it pale as marble.

"Heaven forbid! It could not be so," she exclaimed, faintly.

"What else," cried the aged prince, "but the consciousness of this, gave such bitterness to the sorrow you endured, which drove you forth from the house of your lord? What else has stamped such melancholy on his brow? What occasioned the. emotion, the agony of both, when you met again? Or what caused your eagerness to fly from Moscow? Nay, madam, hide not your face, for there is no cause of shame. Nobly did you bear the trials now ended. Dimitri is not the son of the waiwode. He is my son, and proud am I to claim him!"

"How is that?" demanded the czar. "I shall tell your majesty anon how, when my wife died, I gave the infant to Roshin, who had lost his own; for I thought the sight of the orphan would be henceforth pain to me. When my love revived, I adopted him; and few in Moscow know that he is really my son." Then turning to the lady – "Be my daughter, Amalia von Roshin! The widow of Roshin may honorably wed the son of Ivan Wasemskoi!"

"My blessing shall be theirs!" cried the czar, who read in the countenances of Amalia and Dimitri the joy of both. "For thee, Matwej, who didst so cruelly conspire against thy father's wife, be henceforth the slave of her thou hast wronged." **

"Mercy, mercy for him," pleaded the lady. "He is punished – let him go free."

"Go, then," said the monarch; and having knelt to kiss the hem of Amalia's robe, the discarded page withdrew.

The nuptials of Dimitri and Amalia were celebrated with great magnificence, the czar himself bestowing the bride. By way of favor to her, he appointed Feigenspan superintendent of the royal theatre. At his request, Madam Wasemskoi continued her lessons to her beloved pupil Catherine, whose beauty had greatly pleased the monarch. On his return from laying the foundation of a new city, in honor of his victories – to which he gave the name of Petersburgh – he crowned the favor he had shown the fair girl, by a secret marriage; and after she had borne him children, acknowledged publicly his marriage with her, and elevated her to share his throne and power. It is well known that, through the good offices of her friend, General Menschikoff; Catherine rose to be the first Empress of Russia. The highest office under the sovereign was filled by the Prince Dimitri Wasemskoi, whose wife, having once been the teacher of the empress, always remained her friend.

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