onship.

"No," said he, "I have business now; we shall meet again; what's your
name?"

"Certainly," thought I, "no man ever scrupled so little to ask plain
questions:" however, I answered him truly and freely.

"Devereux!" said he, as if surprised. "Ha!--well--we shall meet again.
Good day."

CHAPTER III.

THE CZAR.--THE CZARINA.--A FEAST AT A RUSSIAN NOBLEMAN'S.

THE next day I dressed myself in my richest attire; and, according to
my appointment, went with as much state as I could command to the
Czar's palace (if an exceedingly humble abode can deserve so proud an
appellation). Although my mission was private, I was a little surprised
by the extreme simplicity and absence from pomp which the royal
residence presented. I was ushered for a few moments into a paltry
ante-chamber, in which were several models of ships, cannon, and houses;
two or three indifferent portraits,--one of King William III., another
of Lord Caermarthen. I was then at once admitted into the royal
presence.

There were only two persons in the room,--one a female, the other a man;
no officers, no courtiers, no attendants, none of the insignia nor the
witnesses of majesty. The female was Catherine, the Czarina; the man
was the stranger I had met the day before--and Peter the Great. I was
a little startled at the identity of the Czar with my inquisitive
acquaintance. However, I put on as assured a countenance as I could.
Indeed, I had spoken sufficiently well of the royal person to feel very
little apprehension at having unconsciously paid so slight a respect to
the royal dignity.

"Ho! ho!" cried the Czar, as I reverently approached him; "I told you
we should meet soon!" and turning round, he presented me to her Majesty.
That extraordinary woman received me very graciously: and, though I had
been a spectator of the most artificial and magnificent court in
Europe, I must confess that I could detect nothing in the Czarina's air
calculated to betray her having been the servant of a Lutheran minister
and the wife of a Swedish dragoon; whether it was that greatness was
natural to her, or whether (which was more probable) she was an instance
of the truth of Suckling's hackneyed thought, in "Brennoralt,"--"Success
is a rare paint,--hides all the ugliness."

While I was making my salutations, the Czarina rose very quietly, and
presently, to my no small astonishment, brought me with her own hand
a tolerably large glass of raw brandy. There is