A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE.

THE following extraordinary circumstances actually took place in Russia about the middle of the last century, and however romantic they may appear are undoubtedly authentic. Let those who doubt them, recall to their minds the wonderful vicissitudes common in nations of Asiatic origin, customs, and manners, living under the capricious influence of despotic governments.

Maria Fedorina was the only daughter of a nobleman of distinguished rank and fortune. During the early period of her life, her education was anxiously attended to by the best of mothers, whose soul bore upon it the impression of every noble feeling and virtue. This mother died: and the youthful Russian countess, from the love and care of her mother, from the polite and elegant circle of a court, and from the dear society of a young count, who was enraptured with this amiable female, was hurried by her haughty father to a distant estate amid the wilds of Russia; where, surrounded with deserts, the lovely Maria exhausted her bosom in sobs, and watered her pillow with tears.

The society of her lover count Markoff would have cheered this solitude, and rendered her confinement bearable. Disappointed ambition had occasioned a serious misunderstanding between the two families, and the name of Markoff' was forbid to be mentioned in the house of the baron. His fondness for his lovely daughter could not overcome his abhorrence of the son of his successful rival; nor permit him to entertain the most distant idea of that connection which he knew was the ardent wish of the youthful pair. His brows darkened with rage, when he saw one of his blood who wished not destruction to the house of Markoff.

Maria was kept in perpetual agony by this unfortunate disposition in her parent, yet forced to affect an indifference to all she loved, while she daily drooped and pined in silent melancholy. But no affectation could bring back

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the rosy health which had lately painted her checks; and her languid smiles and actions were but diseased copies of that lively manner which had distinguished her in happier days. That innocent mirth, unmixed with care, born in the lap of childhood and expiring with it, was never again to return. Maria was not even destined to enjoy that happiness to which her virtue entitled her. In vain had a mother inspired her with every noble and virtuous sentiment; in vain had nature endowed her with a person the model of beauty, and with an exalted soul; in vain had fortune lavished riches, extensive domains, and thousands of slaves ready to kneel at her feet whenever she appeared; the meanest of these slaves was to possess Maria.

Count Markoff, disregarding every dictate but that of love, and despising the dangers which his Maria had represented to him as the certain consequence of any attempt to visit her, left his residence near Moscow, and disguised in the habit of a peasant, arrived within sight of the baron's palace, and beheld the roof which contained within it all his heart panted for! With money he purchased the services of some persons who frequented the baron's house, and sent by their means, a letter to Maria. Upon reading this epistle, love overcame every dictate of prudence; she lost recollection of her father's being at that instant in the house; and, hurrying on her cloak, she ran down stairs, and into the fields, then covered with snow. Her recollection returned, her heart failed within her, her limbs refused to do their office, she stood trembling before the wintry storm! She called to her assistance a slave; and pretend ing some other cause for her illness, was assisted to reach her chamber without the knowledge of the awful parent who had occasioned her distress.

Maria, overcome with grief, and now giving up every thought of viewing her beloved Markoff, sunk upon her bed in despair. Reason again resumed her seat: a letter was dispatched to Markoff at a neighbouring village, desiring him, as he valued his own and her life, to leave the place, and return to Moscow, where there might still be a possibility of their meeting. Having signed and sealed this letter, she held it in her hands, without knowing what she did. She broke the seal of her epistle, and seizing the pen, gave that utterance it afforded to her passion; and amid the effusions of ardent love, she mentioned the attempt she had made to see him.

Markoff's bosom could not contain the emotions of his soul on reading this letter. The cool, prudential, first part was overturned by the concluding postscript.

The evening had closed: Maria stood at the window, looking towards the village. A peasant near her held out a letter. Maria anxiously inquired, but with a soft voice, from whom it came. It was count Markoff himself! "Where is the count?" said Maria; and stretched out her hand for the letter. My Maria!" replied the count; and laying hold of the branches of a tree which stood near the window, he climbed up, and entered it.

The young lady stared wildly at him, unable to resist or speak. He assured her, he would instantly depart, when he had once more impressed upon her lips the seal of love. He threw his arms eagerly around her, and held her to his panting breast. The hours glided away unseen; nor were they awakened from their dream, but with the steps of the baron approaching to the chamber door. The imagination of a woman, which is ever quick, either to her relief or to her destruction, suggested to Markoff to hide himself in an empty chest, which happened to be in the room. The baron's visit was to inquire, as he often did, after his favorite child, as he had heard something

of her indisposition. At times, when the recollection of the family of Markoff was lost, he behaved as a fond father, but this dreadful recollection was never forgotten even for a day's continuance.

The baron left his daughter, without the least suspicion of the presence of the son of his rival.

Maria approached the fatal chest. She opened it. The count was, or affected to be asleep. He was asleep, to wake no more! The head of the chest had been, in a hurried moment, shut close upon him, or had fallen so. No doubt, but that the count, upon feeling the inconveniency, and want of air, could have relieved himself, and perhaps had gently attempted to do it but finding his attempt attended with some noise, which might have betrayed a woman whom he valued more than life, to the rage of a father, he had submitted, and thus fell a victim to suffocation.

It is impossible to imagine the situation of Maria on finding the lifeless corpse of Markoff. She continued for some time to believe that the count was affecting sleep, and reproached him for playing the fool. At last she pulled him with some violence and anger: the body fell again into the chest. She screamed, and fortunate would it have been had the baron heard this cry of horror. Dreadful as her situation was, the idea of her father's wrath added to her misery mad with agony, she clasped the body of the count, calling upon his name, and at calmer intervals, using every endeavour to restore him to life in vain.

The silence of the night was disturbed with the sighs, the shrieks of Maria, now reclining upon the corpse, now at her window tearing her hair, and imploring heaven to end her existence. The morning began to dawn-she roused herself from her distracted melancholy, thoughtful of what the light of day and her furious father were to discover. The slave, appointed watchman to every house throughout Russia, is the only person readily to be procured during the night, and is generally an elderly man. He is employed in the meanest offices during that part of the day not allotted to sleep.

To this wretched domestic, whose lodging is a sort of crib within the gates, the unfortunate Maria applied. The slave at her coming kneeled, and touched her shoe with his forehead, craving her protection. She desired him to rise, and informed him he should have it, as well as a sum of money, if he would keep a secret, and faithfully serve her: she discovered her misfortunes, and desired that he would remove the corpse, and bury it in the adjoining forest. The slave felt a consequence he had never felt before. She gave him money, but he knew that the baron would give him more to betray her. That slave, who but a moment before had never dared to look up to the daughter of his lord, and who was accustomed to esteem both as deities, on whom his all, his very life depended; that wretch, who was happy to find a bed in the corner of her father's stable, dared at once to form a wish to possess the person of Maria! He began, without much ceremony, to use freedom with the countess. Overpowered as she was with despair and grief, she struck the villain for a moment she forgot her sorrows, and resuming the dignity of her rank, bade him begone. But it was too late; the slave knew her secret, nor was there any other assistance to be had. He was aware of this; and pretending to go to the baron to inform him, was called back by Maria. He obeyed with sullen importance, taking the silver and gold trinkets which was now added to the first present: he then forced her towards her chamber, swearing that if she did not instantly submit to his embraces, he would directly acquaint the baron with all. Maria fell upon her knees to the slave, entreat

ng him with every soothing expression, and promises of freedom and wealth; but he was resolute in his determination, and again endeavoured to reach the baron's bed room: she exerted herself to the utmost to detain him, but fainted in the struggle. The villain turned, beheld his prey, and seized upon it.

Maria awoke to a new scene of woe. The baron observed the melancholy brooding upon her mind, and guessing that the cause related to the detested family of Markoff, abused her with his usual rudeness. The distresses of this ill-fated lady were not to end here. The slave, who had buried the body in the woods, renewed his addresses, and with the same threats of informing the baron, adding that he would not only accuse her of the murder of the count, but with prostitution.

The accusation of murder and prostitution, not merely to the count, but to the vilest of her father's domestics, was a stumbling block that Maria had not strength to pass. To avoid a public, she submitted to a private shame. Familiarity now made the slave insolent: he forced her even to come to his miserable hovel, and dismissed her with contempt.

The wretched Maria never again beheld with a smile the morning dawn. Her eyes dejected, her colour pale, she started from the glass, and throwing her clothes carelessly about her, supported with pain, while with her father, the appearance of ease and happiness.

The hour shortly arrived when Maria was to be freed from contamination : she had before entertained the idea of extricating herself, and this idea had supported her sinking mind, and had prevented her from delivering herself by suicide. Reflection had painted the shameful course that she walked in, and she saw no end to her sorrows. The pride of rank, roused with repeated insult, determined her upon revenge. Female nature yet revolted, and she allowed several opportunities to escape. But the moment of vengeance came at last. Her tyrant, overwhelmed with liquor, slept upon the bench of the hut. Maria saw, and her good angel approved the period of freedom and justice. She trembled as she approached the slave. She invoked heaven to give her resolution, and pulling the knife from the belt of the slavae plunged it in his heart.

The idea of having committed murder often threw her into fits of despair. She thought to ease her conscience by making a confession. The astonished priest had never witnessed such a confession, and betrayed the secret to his wife. The relation spread throughout all the empire, and the minions of justice were soon in search of Maria. Her Imperial majesty, having ordered a strict examination into the particulars, acquitted this unfortunate lady, and took her under her immediate notice.

Tired of life, now that her shame was public, she would have preferred death to all other protection. The empress allowed her to retire to a monastery; where, secluded from the world, she endeavoured to forget all but her God and her Markoff.

SHOCKING DEATH OF SANTEUIL.

Santeuil, Canton regular of St. Victoire, has been very celebrated in the Republic of Letters; he was the greatest Latin poet of his time, likewise a man of great genius and facetious manners; which rendered him more excellent company: he was a bon vivant, and a lover of wine, but not of depravity;

and though he possessed genius and talent unfit for a cloister, he supported with credit the character of his profession.

The Duke of Burgoigne invited him to all his parties, and he was honored with the friendship of the House of Conde, who esteemed him much; he frequently furnished them with his sallies replete with wit and pleasantry; and this intimacy, though with the great, was of long duration.

The Duke pressed Mons. Santeuil to go with him to Dijon: he excused himself, and alledged his reasons; however, he was compelled by solicitations, and S. attended there as a constant guest in every company with him. One night at supper they diverted themselves in pressing forward the champagne to Santeuil; and being all gay, they emptied a box of Spanish tobacco into a large glass of wine, with an intent to make him drink it, at the same time to know what effect it would have on him; they were soon informed of the consequences by a continual vomiting and fever which seized him: in forty-eight hours the unfortunate Santeuil died in horrid agonies, but with the most pious sentiments, which served as a lesson to those about him, and to his inconsiderate companions, who bewailed his loss.

CAPTIVITY AMONG THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

In 1719, M. de Crozat put Louisiana into the hands of the West India company, who sent a thousand men to people it. M. de BelleIsle embarked in one of their ships at port L'Orient, with some other officers and volunteers, for the new colony. The winds and currents carried the ship to the bay of St. Bernard in the Mexican gulph. The captain sent his boat on shore in order to fetch water. M. de Belle-Isle and four of his companions went into the boat with the captain's consent. Whilst the boat returned to the ship, the officers went a hunting: the boat came on shore again, and having taken in the necessary provision of fresh water, returned on board without the young officers, who were not yet returned.

The captain is impatient, weighs anchor and sets sail, leaving the five passengers on shore. Their agitation and anxiety, when they returned to the shore and found the boat and ship gone, may well be imagined. Thus being abandoned in an unknown country, they erred for a long time on the desert coast, having the sea on one side, and a country inhabited by a nation of cannibals on the other. They did not venture to quit the marshy shores of the sea; they were in such despair of finding a remedy for their misfortunes that they knew not what to do: this alone was capable to make them lose their senses; and then the thought of falling into the hands of the cannibals, troubled the imagination of these young Europeans. They went along the shore in the mistaken opinion, that the ship was gone to the west, imploring divine mercy, and complaining of their unhappy fate. They lived upon insects and herbs, not knowing whether they were good or bad; what was most troublesome to them was the abundance of gnats in that place, as they had nothing to defend themselves against them. They continued several days in this situation. M. de Belle-Isle had taken a young dog from the ship, which was very fond of him. His companions were often tempted to kill him; their hunger was extreme: M. de Belle-Isle gave the dog up to them, but would not kill it himself: one of his companions seized the dog; but he was so weak, that as he was going to strike with the knife, the dog escaped, and ran into the woods. The four unhappy officers died with hunger one