you to arouse the spirit of your ancestry within you; and, by whatever means it may be practicable, and at whatever peril obtained, to avenge your own indignities and your father's wrongs!" "Chowanskoi," replied the youth, "I feel my humiliation, and mourn my unfortunate sire's untimely death, and pledge myself never to dishonour the name and lineage of Solti koff!" The company had dispersed at different periods, and by different ways repaired to the appointed rendezvous. Sobiesky and Chowanskoi were the last who left the inn: with considerable palpitation, the youth followed the guidance of him in whose hands he had placed himself, who conducted him to the dilapidated mansion, amidst the ruins of which the fatal meeting was to be held. Sobiesky's director proved, by the adroitness with which he turned the dark angles, and surmounted the piles of rubbish by which their path was beset, that he was no stranger to the place. indeed, one of the most active agents in the business; and hence, he secretly exulted that their plot was nearly ripe for execution, with every prospect of complete success. He was, The conspirators had already assembled; and when Sobiesky and his companion were ushered into the assembly, every inIdividual was deeply engaged in familiar discussion. The attention of the company, however, was instantly directed to the Count Sobiesky; for by that title he was cordially greeted by the whole conclave. Sobiesky, by a silent inclination of his manly person, acknowledged their reception, and each person resumed the seat from which he had risen. A few moments' pause followed; an awful silence prevailed. The extensive, and but faintly illuminated place, appalling in itself, from the evidences in almost every part of the hand of time being hard upon it, was rendered more chillingly appalling-even breathing seemed suspended; and the hoard of conspirators looked rather like so many frightful bodies from which the spirits had escaped, than living men ;—every eye was fixed, moveless as stone, upon Sobiesky, when, at a signal given, all at once arose, and above a hundred shining daggers were simultaneously brandished above the head, while "The murdered Count Soltikoff, and revenge!" burst from every lip. Sobiesky again bowed with firmness, but spoke not. One of the band, whose appearance and conduct gave full intimation of superiority, gently motioned with his hand, and the fearful weapons were re-sheathed. The company again took their seats, and he who had given the signal of action, thus addressed Sobiesky. "Heir of the valiant Count Soltikoff, you behold yourself surrounded by men whose only crimes are their misfortunes ;you see the remnant of your country's defenders, who have escaped the vengeful tyranny of the Czar. That barbarian, though he put to death, by the hands of the executioner, and even by his own, the greater part of our companions, the Strelitz has not succeeded in extending his fury to us. Heaven has preserved us, to execute its righteous vengeance upon him, and the desired moment rapidly approaches. You shudder, Count Sobiesky!-well may you do so, with strong revenge. I have seen the blood of your unfortunate father shed on the scaf. fold; I followed him to the melancholy spot; but I could not save him! Outcasts from the body of men, myself and brave companions have wandered for years through dreary forests, and made our resting places the lion's lair, or the bear's habitation. The misery of our circumstances has compelled us to seek by fraud, or to obtain by violence, that subsistence to which our rank as soldiers and citizens justly entitled us. But, tomorrow, the tyrant and his courtiers are doomed to fall by our hands. We loved your father; he was our chief. You are now invited to become so. Your resolution and courage will, we doubt not, prove our choice has not been improperly made." Sobiesky listened with astonishment, and at once became fully alive to the dilemma in which he was placed. He had proceeded too far to recede, and yet, more than ever, he detested the contemplated deed of blood. To state his objections, he was aware, would only be to secure his own destruction, while to proceed on the projected plan, would be to act in concert with murderers, whose chief object was to spread anarchy and confusion in every direction. He felt the only alternative left him was, to disguise his feelings, and summon to his aid an appearance of determination, foreign to his heart and understanding. In this he succeeded, and the next night was appointed for their last meeting. The conspirators dispersed, each taking a different direction. Chowanskoi merely conducted Sobiesky to the place at which they had entered the ruins, and then left him to pursue his way to the inn, while himself, to prevent observation, took a more circuitous route. Sobiesky had not advanced many paces, before he felt his arm suddenly seized by an unseen hand, while a stranger addressed him, and requested with earnestness that he would follow him. To distinguish the fea A TALE OF THE KREMLIN tures of the person by whom he was accosted, was impossible; but, as he felt confident in his mind, that he was one of the party from which he had just separated, he conceived that to refuse would be dangerous; hence, making a slight motion with his hand, he whispered-" Lead on," and immediately followed his unknown guide. To whatever part of Moscow Sobiesky might have been conducted, would have been equally indifferent to him, as he had only been in it a few hours in the whole, hence all places were alike strange to him. A few minutes brought them to a narrow and decayed staircase, which, with considerable difficulty, they ascended, and entered an apartment, the door of which the Russian closed after them instantly. "Whither are you leading me?" demanded Sobiesky, as the stranger still moved forwards in silence. "Do you fear to follow me?" asked the guide, surveying him attentively, by the light of a lamp which depended from the ceiling. Sobiesky felt awed beyond what he could account for. He gazed upon the tall and robust figure before him, whose piercing eyes looked as if they would read the secret working of his mind; at length, he replied as before, "Lead on, I'll follow you." They entered a second room, of limited dimensions, the door of which was likewise immediately closed; when the Russian turned, and thus addressed Sobiesky. "I perceive you are surprised at what I have done. It is unnecessary-be secret, and all will be well. I have, as well as yourself, just left the ruins in which the death of the Czar has been resolved upon with a solemn oath. Like yourself, I have to-night, for the first time, been among the conspirators. I too have reasons for being the irreconcileable enemy of Peter. But our plot, I fear, is badly laid. For who are our companions? Wretches stained with crimes, outlawed plunderers, who have eluded the arm of justice, and now breathe only murder and pillage. They state, indeed, that the chief men in the empire are in their plot, and yet not one of them was named. But can we suppose any noble would so far disgrace himself, as to mingle with common banditti? They have opened no plot to us. For what, and for whom, do they expose themselves to danger? it is true they name your father, and revenge; but it is only to induce others to become the blind instruments of their enterprise; every thing is, in fact, unknown to us. You, Sobiesky, they have appointed their chief. I cheerfully subscribe to their choice; only make me better informed on this mysterious matter, 179 and you shall not calculate in vain upon the exertions of my arm." Sobiesky had listened with the utmost attention to the stranger during his address; and after he ceased to speak, continued to survey him with mingled emotions. There was a noble boldness in his manner, an independence of look and tone, equally dis. tant from the vaunting of a coward traitor of a cause he had espoused, and the bravolike fiery expression of an assassin. There was a calm dignity about all he said, which, together with the open, fearless confidence he had displayed, charmed Sobiesky, and begat in him a similar spirit. The designing secrecy of a conspirator comported not with his ingenuous temperament, hence, without disguise, he as freely communicated his own, as he had received the sentiments of the Russ. Delicately he adverted to his happiness and contentment in the cottage at Valdai. There, where he knew not the sting of ambition, nor felt the envenomed tooth of envy, nor the fires of malice and revenge; where his wants were few, and easily supplied; he had learned what in courts is seldom known -to be sincere and honest. "And still," continued Sobiesky, "I might have enjoyed, what I now can scarcely hope to possess, happiness, had not my blissful ignorance been removed. And what have I gained by knowledge?—the painful information, that in order to avenge the author of my being, whom I never knew, I must stain my hands in the blood of my sovereign. Whether, indeed, he who is declared to have been my father, was innocent or guilty, I know not; doubts may well agitate me here, surveying the assembly in which I have been. Burdened with these doubts, I am to murder my master. Fear would not weaken my arm, nor hesitancy hold me back, if I knew my cause were good; but I doubt it. I am equally unable to form an opinion even of the conduct of the emperor in reference to my father; nor can I think that Heaven, as some would persuade me, has willed it that revenge should so be taken. I would at once have expressed the indignation of my heart against the plot, and the detestation I felt at its purposes, when first I heard it in the ruins, had not the conviction of my mind assured me, that death would have immediately followed, and without benefit to my sovereign. I shudder at the dastardly proposal-an inward voice seems to address me, 'The life of your sovereign is sacred; love and protect him.' This monitor I am resolved to follow-pity, and save my youth and ignorance-give your advice and assistance-* deliver me from the hands of these insurgents and murderers-point me to a way of escape, and I will follow. For if the emperor must bleed by my hand or consent, or I must suffer, I will cheerfully submit, and perish as I have lived-innocent !" "Noble Sobiesky," exclaimed the stranger, embracing him, "You shall not perish; such heroism demands, and shall have, reward. Behold," continued he, throwing off, as he spoke, the cloak by which he had partly concealed himself—“ behold your emperor before you; he who addresses you is the czar, is Peter your sovereign; he can and will protect you." It was, indeed, the magnanimous monarch. Sobiesky fell at his feet, but was soon raised from that position by his royal master. Every circumstance connected with the plot, from its commencement, had been known by Peter. That terrible tribunal, which was established in Russia during the reign of Czar Alexei Michailowitch, called "the Chancery of Secret Inquisition," was, during his reign, merely a nominal institution. The numerous conspiracies, both of a political and private nature, which were formed against Peter, rendered it necessary in his view not only to continue, but to render it additionally active. Its members were found in all ranks, yet known by none, save themselves. Nothing transpired of the most trivial nature, but, through this medium, was almost instantly conveyed to the czar. Thus he had heard of the meeting at the inn, at which Sobiesky and Chowanskoi first stopped; there, in the habit of a slave, Peter was present; he overheard the plot, and determined to be of the party in the ruins. He had there noticed the confusion of Sobiesky, was convinced of his innocence, and determined to save him, and therefore he had led him, by a secret communication, to a wing of his palace. It was determined on the part of Peter, that Sobiesky should return to the inn, where a ready excuse for his absence, if called for, would be furnished, in his ignorance of the streets of the city. Chowanskoi had not, however, returned when Sobiesky reached the place; he had been detained on his way by some of the conspi rators. Shortly after his entrance, each repaired to his chamber, and, in the following night, when the inhabitants of Moscow had retired to rest, they rejoined the conspirators in the place of general rendezvous. The execution of the plot was now finally arranged, each person had his place and work assigned him. The palace was to be fired at various places; and, during the confusion which would ensue, while part of the band were employed in plunder, the others, headed by Sobiesky, were to force the palace, and surround the apartment of the emperor, upon whom, instantly as he appeared, they were to rush, and despatch him with their daggers. The arrangements were completeda dreadful oath had been prepared, to bind them together-an awful silence ensued. The individual who had addressed Sobiesky, on his first appearance among them, rose, and was proceeding to swear the assembly, when a sudden crush shook the dilapidated building, the baracades were forced, gleaming fire-arms and glittering swords struck terror into the hearts of the boldest of the conspirators; to flee was impossible-resistance was in vain; the soldiers of the czar, led by himself, surrounded them. whole were secured; and, on the dawning of the day, which was to have witnessed a flaming palace, a murdered monarch, and a pillaged city, the lifeless bodies of those who had formed the plot, afforded a fresh instance of the knowledge and determination of Peter the Great. The The forfeited estates of Count Soltikoff were, with his titles, conferred upon his son, whose courage and loyalty proved, that the professions he had made to the czar, while in the habit of a slave, were not less sincere than strong. Honour and dignity were in him united; and next to Prince Menzikoff, in power and in influence, stood the once humble Sobiesky of Valdai. His sudden reverse of fortune, and flattering elevation, did not, however, divert his attachment from those to whom, from infancy, he had been united. By his interest the life of Chowanskoi had been spared. He was, however, condemned to perpetual banishment to the regions of Siberia: but this sentence was not carried into execution; a disease which then prevailed in the prison where he was confined, carried him off. He died in the arms of Sobiesky, who had occasionally visited him during his confinement'; and, as his last breath trembled on his lip, commended Eudocia to his care: This was not necessary, his heart was too deeply interested in her welfare to neglect her. Immediately after the interment of Chowanskoi, he flew to Valdai. The cottage of his childhood appeared in sight. The sun had not sunk beneath the waves of the Boristhenes, when he drew up to the gate. Eudocia was walking in the garden. She turned her head as the carriage stopped: the wellknown form of Sobiesky, as he stepped from it, met her eye, and in an instant she was in his arms—" My own Sobiesky !” was REFLECTIONS OF A TRADESMAN. all that escaped her lips, as her lifeless head fell over his shoulder. The scene was painfully interesting. The excess of joy which she suddenly felt had stopped the current of life. Sobiesky bore his lovely burden into the cottage, and then, yielding to all the agony of sorrow, demonstrated by his emotions, that the lacerating wound he had received was incurable, as he deplored his blasted hopes and crushed affections. Eudocia was interred by the side of her father, in the cemetery of the convent of the Holy Trinity; and after sustaining, with honour to himself and profit to his sovereign, the dignity conferred upon him, Sobiesky was, at his death, by his own particular desire, deposited in the tomb which had received his beloved Eudocia. Brigg. To whom it may concern. REFLECTIONS OF A TRADESMAN, FOR THE GUIDANCE OF HIS CHILDREN. MR. EDITOR, SIR,-The following extract from the journal of my late father, you will oblige me by inserting in the Imperial Magazine. X. X. X. Оn, how many families are now in the deepest distress! How many hearts will break, through calamity! Oh that my children may ever be wise-never to wish to make appearances in the world, or indulge their appetites or pride, so as to live above their income. Since the first year after I was married, when the whole of my salary was not more than £40 a year, including my board, I took care my outgoings were not more than £30. After I got into trade, and for many years wanted double the money I had to carry it on, we wore our old clothes till they were threadbare. Instead of riding to the manufactories, I saved horse-hire and expense on the road, and by day and night walked on foot. By this I always forecasted to be ready when payments were to be made, and so my credit became established. Had I not taken these steps then, my dear family had not been so well provided for now. If I, like many in my time have done, had set up for gentleman then, I had been a poor man now. Thanks for ever be to that tender Father, who watched over me, and blessed my honest endeavours in almost every thing I put my hands to. Here I am; I stand a wonder, a wonder to myself. I stand, while I have seen others fall, who, at my beginning, would scarcely 181 have suffered me to sit with the dogs of their flocks. I wonder men, from selfish motives, are not more wise. I wonder they will have servants, before they find they can pay them; I wonder they will trust business to the hands of shopmen, when they can do it better themselves. These few things I see, in the course of men's lives, are the causes of their ruin. One lies in bed in the morning till eight, nine, and sometimes until nearly ten o'clock. By this he robs himself of the best quarter of the day, and gives all who are about him an opportunity to rob him. This generally, I think, always ends in poverty, if not in utter ruin. Another gads about every where, attends to every one's business but his own; his customers never find him in his shop, which is left to apprentices. He sets up his horse, and, consequently, has an extra servant, and makes in the street, and on the road, or in the field, a most respectable gentleman-like appearance, when he should be behind his counter, at his day-book and ledger. After some time, his fine horse stumbles, and throws his rider, and so he is obliged to walk on foot all the days of his life after, and has neither day-book nor ledger to turn over, nor horse of his own to ride. A third I have seen enters on trade ; marries a wife with a fortune, and of respectability. He clears £300 a year by trade, and, with an expensive table, and seeing company, lives at the rate of £500. Ruin is as sure here, as if it had already taken place; and, in some instances, I have seen it take place. Another good-natured simpleton is requested by some sinking spendthrift (who himself never knew the getting of money) to lend him his 66 name, as a mere matter of form," to his flying drafts. He does so, until the drawer and the indorser are obliged to go hand in hand to be white-washed at the county gaol; so much for accommodation. Another rises early, late takes rest, eats the bread of carefulness, till he gets rich, and trusts some of these respectable gentlemen. They put it in bags that have holes, and away it is gone at a stroke. Another is avaricious, hard-hearted, cruel, and will help nobody. The curse of God is over the wretch. In out-witting, he is himself outwitted, his villany exposed, and all is blasted. In the midst of all these dangers, and more that I could enumerate, such as unexpectedly falling into some shameful sin, by which I have seen three or four opulent families suddenly ruined; in the midst of "Tis o'er-the pastor and the saint is gone, Yes! Hall is gone! no more to mingle here, The faithful pastor with his much loved flock; No more their souls with richest food to cheer, No more to point them to the smitten Rock, Whence living waters flow; the stream of life, Of fadeless health, of purest joy and love, That flows from heaven to earth, with blessings rife, Then refiuent seeks its wonted source above;No more his flock shall listen to his voice,The shepherd of their love-the guardian of their choice. Around his tomb a mourning train appear, Whose heaving bosoms tell their deep-felt grief; One common sympathy has drawn them here, One common wound that seems to mock relief: Pale Learning in her sable stole is seen; And Eloquence, her eyes bedim'd with tears; Genius and Fancy on each other lean, And mourn the spoil of sickness and of years: One sister-band,-they all conspire to lave, With sad, commingling tears, their Hall's lamenting grave. Yet one there stands more fair than all the rest, Whose lovely visage speaks her heavenly birth; With trembling hand she rends her spotless vest, And seems to tread as if on hallow'd earth; Now rests her eye upon the silent tomb, Then quickly darts it to the seats of bliss, As if she knew the grave's recipient womb, But open'd to a life more blest than this, Where sainted Hall, with unbeclouded ray, Should shine around the throne, through one undy ing day. "Tis Piety, the offspring of the skies, Who mourns in silence o'er the mighty dead; Far more than words that lonely tear may speak, Farewell! no more thy heaven-touch'd lips shall flow With heaven's own eloquence; no more thy prayer Rise from the altar with celestial glow, Of whom on earth thy genius loved to tell, Farewell! we feel, and deeply feel thy loss: Thy orphan'd flock, the church, the world must feel; We lose a mighty champion of the cross. Yet at the throne of heaven submissive kneel; We will not wish thee back to mortal sight From courts of bliss to scenes of haggard woe;, We will not wish thee from the realms of light, Where radiant glories blaze around thy brow: Then vainly Death may vaunt what he has doneEclipsed an earthly star, to light an heavenly sun. Oxford. J. S. B. MAY, WREATHED WITH MISSION FLOWERS, DOING HOMAGE TO THE CROSS OF CHRIST; Respectfully inscribed to the Mission and other Christian Societies, who hold their Annual Meetings in this Month, BY JOSHUA MARSDEN. "The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come; and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."-Solomon. RETURNING bloom adorns the plain, An alphabet in every vale, Each peasant may philosophize, |