touching groups, making us conscious, after
all, of the bond of common brotherhood
which urges us individually to fraternise with
individual members even of a hostile nation.
Other scenes are simply astounding,
compelling us to lift our hands and eyes in
wonder that such monstrous things should be
possible in a land which protests that it is
eminently a member of true Christendom.
But the whole series of pictures, great and
small, confirm the accounts previously
current of the barbaric civilisation, the feudal
tyranny, and the many instances of personal
merit which characterise the multitudinous
nation that bows itself down and is irresponsibly
driven before him by the world's arch-
enemy, the Emperor Nicholas.

Although the volume is written in a form
that might seem to denote a highly artificial
mode of composition (for it consists of twenty-
two chapters, each complete in itself, like
articles that might appear in the pages of
this journal, and sometimes contains minute
descriptions that remind us of Balzac's most
finished pictures), on reading it, the effect
produced is rather that of listening to an
eloquent improvisitore, or Red Indian orator,
than of perusing the work of a practised
writer. M. Tourghenief is familiar with
nature, loves her, courts her in her coyest
moments, and often betrays the secret charm
of out-door life with a passionate warmth
that would do honour to Audubon himself;
while his social position as a bârine, or
territorial lord, enables him to give us traits of
Russian high life with the same readiness
that his sportsmanship introduces him to the
interior of rustic huts. The writer is
unpractised, inexperienced, new: and his
random leaves, thrown out from time to time in
a Moscovian literary periodical, excited
attention by their truth and freshness.
United, they prove to constitute one of those
bold, popular volumes, which reflect the tone
of public feeling, and which succeed, making
their way to the hearts of all, because the
national mind volunteers itself as their instigator,
accomplice, and judge. M. Tourghenief
shall speak for himself in an eminently
suggestive visit to a neighbour.

About twenty versts from my estate, he
writes, there resides an ex-officer of the
Guards, a handsome young gentleman, with
whom I am acquainted. His name is Arcadi
Pavlytch Péenotchkine. His domain has
the advantage over mine, in being, amongst
other things, well stocked with game. The
house in which my friend Péenotchkine
resides was built after the plans of a French
architect; his people, from the first to the
last, are clad in liveries according to the
English style. He gives excellent dinners.
He receives you in the most amiable manner
—and with all that, you do not visit him
with hearty goodwill. He is fond of the
prudent and the positive: he has received a
perfect education, has served in the army,
has received the polish of high society, and
at present devotes his attention, with marked
success, to matters of rural economy. Arcadi
Pavlytch, according to his own proper statement,
is severe, but just; he watches closely
over the welfare of his vassals, and if he
chastises them, it is the best proof of his
affection for them. "They are creatures
whom you must treat exactly like children,"
he says on such occasions; "for in fact they
are grown up children, my dear fellow, and
we must not forget to bear that in mind."
As to himself, when he happens to be placed
in what he calls the sad necessity of acting
rigorously, he abstains from any abrupt or
angry movement, or even from raising his
voice: he simply extends his forefinger, and
says coldly to the culprit, "I begged you, rny
dear man, to do so and so," or, "What is the
matter with you, my friend? Recollect
yourself." His teeth are slightly clenched; his
mouth contracts imperceptibly, and that
is all.

He is above the middle height, well-made
and very good-looking; he takes the greatest
care of his hands and nails; his cheeks and
lips are resplendent with health. He laughs
frankly and heartily. He dresses with
infinite taste. He procures a great quantity of
French books and publications of all kinds,
without being a great reader the more for that,
and it is as much as he has done if he has
got to the end of the Wandering Jew. He
is an excellent partner at cards. In short,
Arcadi Pavlytch passes for a highly civilised
gentleman, and, with mothers who have
daughters to marry, for one of the most
desirable matches in our whole "government."
The ladies are mad after him, and,
above all things, extol his manners. He is
admirably reserved, and has the wisdom of
the serpent: never has he been mixed up
in any current bit of gossip. He spends his
winters at St. Petersburg. His house is
marvellously well managed; the very coachmen
have felt his influence so completely,
that they not only clean their harness and
dust their armiaks, but they carry their
refinement so far as to wash their faces
every day, including the back of their ears
and neck. Arcadi Pavlytch's people have a
somewhat downcast look; but in our darling
Russia it is not very easy to distinguish
moroseness from mere sleepyheadedness.

Arcadi Pavlytch has a soft and unctuous
way of speaking; he cuts up his phrases with
frequent pauses, and voluptuously strains
every word, curling it between his puffed-up
moustachios. He is fond of seasoning his
dialogue with French expressions, such as
"Mais c'est impayable! Mais comment
donc!" In spite of all that, he has no
attractions for me; and were it not for the
game of his woods and heaths, and fields,
the probability is that we should forget each
other.

Notwithstanding the slight sympathy which