rienced in their mutual love, feeling disquieted when he reflected that it had not received the sanction of the church.

"Dearest Matilda,' said he, 'you often torment yourself by fancying the possibility of my becoming estranged. Why not then consent to what would effectually set both of us quite at ease on that point. Were you to agree to even a secret marriage between us —'

"That subject again!' exclaimed the Countess in a tone of displeasure, at the same time disengaging herself from his arms. What singular and cold beings you men are. You never know when to be satisfied. What is it you want, Paul? What is it you would fain persuade me to do? Were I not fully convinced that your solicitation arises merely out of the prejudices in which you have been brought up, I should begin to suspect that it was dictated by interested and ambitious motives, if not by something worse. Hear my reply. Hitherto I have always put a stop to your importunate and idle request, either by jesting or caresses; but now, when our opposition to Austria opens a new career to us,—when, perhaps, within a brief week, either you or myself may fall in the contest with our foes, I am compelled to tell you decidedly, and without reserve, that a marriage between us is impossible. My person, my love, my actions, are my own; for them I am responsible to no one but my name, Paul, that belongs to my country and my ancestors. Believe me, I am actuated neither by ambition, nor by selfishness. No, it is a duty even superior to that of love; a duty towards the laws of my country; towards the honour of my forefathers. And should you, Paul, ever have to choose between the claims of your country and those of love, sacrifice the latter to the former, and discharge your duty to your fatherland, though at the cost of all besides.'

"Both continued for some minutes in silence. A feeling perfectly new, and for which he could not account, took possession of Paul. It was astonishment at the loftiness of spirit displayed by the Countess ; yet it served rather to chill him. Nor could he help confessing to himself, that it is better for a woman to remain a woman; and that it would have been infinitely more flattering to him, had the Countess, after so many more important sacrifices, prevailed upon herself to sacrifice her haughty pride to her passion."

The castle is besieged next day by the Austrian General Braun, and after a dreadful resistance taken by assault. The count loses his life, and both his sister and Werner are wounded; the former mortally. The scene now changes to Berlin, where Frederick II. has just succeeded to the throne; his character and mode of living are delineated at considerable length, with anecdotes of many of his associates, including Voltaire ;-all which makes a gap in the story. After serving some time in the Hungarian Guards of Maria Theresa, to whom he had been recommended by the countess, who is related to have expired in that princess' arms, Werner arrives at Berlin, where he is taken into the closest favour by the king, his former companion, and becomes his constant military associate during the Seven Years' War. The various adventures

he now encounters we shall pass over altogether, contenting ourselves with stating that he at length falls into the hands of the Russians at the battle of Zorndorff, and is carried prisoner to St. Petersburg. He is, however, not only treated with all the consideration due to the high military rank he has now attained, but is noticed in the most flattering mauner by the Empress Elizabeth, and by the grand-duke and his consort, afterwards Catherine II., who is here described in all the lustre of youthful beauty. The grand-duke being a warm admirer of Frederick, the death of the empress causes a termination of hostilities, and Paul returns to his former master. Fast verging towards the mature age of fifty, a period of life when a man is quite unfit for service as the hero of a novel, nothing remains for him but to retire to the chateau of Blankenthal, which has been bestowed upon him by Frederick, and there settle tranquilly for the remainder of his days. To be so disposed of, however, without previously qualifying by undergoing the ceremony of matrimony would be contrary to all legitimate precedent. Accordingly, he is married, but at the pains of no longer courtship than a mere meeting and explanation; for on his arrival at Blankenthal he is startled at beholding the Adelaide of his first love restored to him unchanged, in the budding beauty between girlhood and womanhood. This fair vision turns out to be the daughter of Adelaide and General Braun, who, both her parents being dead, is residing with a sister of her father's at Blankenthal. The result, which has already been announced, is summed up in a couple of pages; and the romance concludes with Werner's obtaining for a bride one to whose mother he would willingly have united himself full fifteen years before his second Adelaide was born!

For this very extraordinary and unexpected conclusion the author comprises his apology in the single word sudba (fate!) We should rather ascribe it to the perplexity into which he had brought himself by his own want of dexterity; for he seems to have written without any settled plan, trusting entirely to the chapter of accidents for filling up his narrative, as well as disposing of his actors. Besides this, he seems to have composed his story equally at random in another respect, and without sentiment or instructive tendency of any kind, unless we can bring ourselves to fancy it was his intention to show fate, and not conduct, as the arbiter of human destiny, and men themselves the passive playthings of circumstances. Of artistical power this romance, taken generally, exhibits a very mediocre grade; it being a novel merely of incident and anecdote, with scarcely any attempt at either character or passion. Indeed, the hero boasts no particular merit, unless that of being "a respectable tall youth," so frequently put

forward by advertising footmen. Nevertheless, he cannot be charged with being too perfect-one of those faultless monsters of propriety whose very excellence renders them intolerable bores. In truth, his good qualities are mixed with considerable alloy; for notwithstanding the pious education he has received, he is decidedly a libertine in practice, if not in principle; and his criminal errors in this respect are very gratuitously paraded by the author, not only in scenes that are quite parasitical to the story, but in situations of such imminent hazard, that none but a debauchee would yield to temptation at such times. Thus, just after being liberated by Nicholas, when pursuing his way without knowing in what direction he is journeying, he is offered an asylum for the night by a poor widow; in return for which charitable act, he unscrupulously corrupts the honour of her daughter. To say the least, all this is in very bad taste: for, in the first place, such conduct bespeaks a hardened profligacy at variance with the general character, and almost destroys our sympathy for the fugitive; in the next, this and other scenes of a similar description serve only to disgust the decent reader, without satisfying the more depraved.

Although justly dissatisfied with Zotov's romance for the reason just mentioned, and for its defective story and want of connected interest, we must confess that it engaged our attention from beginning to end. Yet even here we have some misgivings as to its power, and suspect that had it not been in the Russian language and the production of a Russian author we might possibly have laid it aside as mediocre if not tedious. In fact it is less attractive than it would have been had the story and actors likewise belonged to Russia, since as far as they are concerned it reads like an imitation, if not exactly a translation, from the German. Unless they display very superior talent we have no great predilection for works of fiction, either dramatic or narrative, the scene of which is laid in a different country from the writer's own. Whatever ability may be shown in the general conception, there is always something that unpleasantly reminds us, from time to time, that the author is not at home; that, even where costume is tolerably adhered to, betrays the constraint produced by an imperfect acquaintance, and imparts to the whole the sickly feebleness of an exotic. Rather than such transplantations we would have translations; the debilitation produced by transfusion from one language to another being-for those who cannot read the originals, preferable to the selection of a foreign subject. Few of our readers require to be told what strange work Freuch authors make when they lay the scene of their novels in this country, and undertake to represent English society, manners,

and feelings. The Italian dramatists whenever they attempt the same are a degree more absurd, frequently giving us the most farcical caricatures, or else pictures only not contradictory to truth because destitute of the slightest attempt at it. If truth be occasionally reached, it is but by accident and in one or two casual features, with which all the rest is out of keeping.

A writer in the Sovremennik, (one of the publications whose title is prefixed to this article,) is nearly of the same opinion as ourselves; for in speaking of the present state of the drama, where opera and ballet reign paramount, he says,

:

"Most heartily do I pity the condition of our Russian actors, who live amidst a fresh and active population, exhibiting such diversified shades of character and manners; yet instead of having to look at them for models, are obliged to personate beings whom they never encountered off the stage. What can they possibly make of the fantastic heroes it is their lot to represent; creatures who are neither Frenchmen nor Germans, but mere puppets, vulgar counterfeits of humanity, destitute both of physiognomy and emotion. How can it be expected that talent should either display itself or be nourished in such a school? We are Russians for heaven's sake then give us Russian characters. Let us behold our own follies, our own foibles, our own perversities. Drag these on the stage that they may there meet with the ridicule they so well merit. And the authority of ridicule is most powerful: while it takes from offenders neither life nor property, it punishes by humbling, and making them feel like a hunted hare with the dogs just behind her. We, however, have so drilled ourselves by the pattern of French and other exotic scenes that we are now positively scared at the idea of producing any thing strictly our own. Should any one make the attempt and set before us a well drawn resemblance of character such as we are accustomed to, we instantly ask if it be not a personal satire, and for whom it is intended; and this merely because it is not one of those hackneyed theatrical tyrants, bribe-taking judges, or other stale worn-out personages which authors now grown toothless, parade before us just as they do their eternal figuranti-some of whom must have capered on the boards full forty years. It is a thousand pities we should be so exceedingly thin-skinned and so readily take alarm at the least indication of what looks like living character. It is time for us to understand that really faithful delineation does not consist in copying merely the broader and more palpable traits, but in exhibiting also much that shall be specific both in mode and physiognomy, and at the same time bear the stamp of nationality; so as to produce a strong impression by its graphic power, and make us say to ourselves, we have met some one whom this exactly resembles. Such is the system we ought to adopt, as conformable to nature and really instructive. But we, on the contrary, seem to have converted the theatre into an empty rattle for grown up babies, forgetting that it ought to be a school where an audience may be tutored while they go only to be amused."

Much of this would apply to other countries as well as Russia,

for the comedy which reflects the actual habits and interests of society has been expelled from the stage to take refuge in novels. Whether this change be not ascribable to that which has taken place in the habits of society itself, is a question for whose solution we may refer to what was said on the subject of the drama in our 36th Number. Certain it is that even those who do show any power and talent in writing for the stage resort to other times and other lands for subjects. Had M. Zotov not played truant after a similar fashion, but sought his materials on native ground, he would have produced a more interesting story, simply because bearing less resemblance to one of stale pattern and foreign manufacture.

We should therefore unquestionably decide in preference for the historical romance from which a specimen of considerable length is introduced in the Sovremennik. Its title is "Prokopius Liapunov, or the Times of the Interregnum," and its author is a lady who has previously appeared before the public as a novelist in her "Kniaz Skopin Shuisky," to which this new romance is intended as a sequel. Not having seen the former work we can judge of her talent only by the portion here introduced; but if we may estimate the whole from this detached fragment, we should not scruple to say that it possesses strong interest, and exhibits much dramatic power. The most prominent character in the scenes selected, is the Princess Catherine Gregorievna Skopin Shuisky, who, resembling Lady Macbeth, in order to pave the way for her husband to the throne, has removed Prince Michael by poison. The better to clude suspicion she pays a formal visit of condolence to the prince's mother and widow, the latter of whom has become deranged in consequence of her husband's death. Should the story be well conducted to the end it can hardly fail to prove one of the most successful works of the kind to which Russia has yet given birth. At all events, the scene and characters being altogether national, it is so far preferable to Zotov's romance.

The Sovremennik or Contemporary, itself, is not so much a periodical as a work brought out periodically; it having nothing whatever of the character of a journal, excepting a list of new books at the end of each volume, four of which appear in the course of the year. In fact, it is merely a collection of magazine articles in prose and verse, by various contributors, among whom are several of the most popular literary names of the day; and it also contains various, till now, unpublished pieces by the late Alexander Pushkin, for the benefit of whose family the work is brought out. Among these is the fragment of an unfinished historical novel, entitled the Arap, or Moor, of Peter the Great. The plot hinges upon the desire of Peter to secure a bride for