tion is sufficiently literal to answer all the purposes, either of the mere .reader for amusement, or of the prying critic. The action of the novel is laid in that most gloomy period of Russian History, which immediately followed the death of Boris Godunoff, a period fraught with all the complicated horrors of internal anarchy and foreign invasion. The powerful grasp with which the writer has converted the treasures of history into embellishments for his fictitious narrative, cannot be praised too highly; the truth of his details, the identity of his characters, and the strong interest which he succeeds in keeping up to the last pages of his work, render him indeed a worthy pupil of the mighty master whose career he has determined to pursue. The Hero, Youry Demetrich Milolasky-the names, by the way, are the only drawback to the pleasure we experienced in the perusal of the bookis introduced to the reader, while on his progress from his native city to Nijni Novogorod, the only strong hold of the empire in the power of the Russian government. The object of his journey is a mission from Pan Goncewski, the Polish Hetman, who has already conquered Moscow and all its territories, to the few determined spirits who have determined to die for the Christian Faith and for Holy Russia, rather than to become the slaves of the cruel and licentious Poles; for the purpose of inducing them to lay down their arms and submit themselves to Prince Wladislaus, the son of Sigismund, king of Poland, who has been already elected Czar by the terrified and prostrate Muscovites. The Boyard Milolasky, a gallant and intrepid youth, burning with patriotism and the love of glory, has reluctantly, but still voluntarily, sworn allegiance to the Pole, in the sad conviction that any government is better for his wretched country than its present anarchy; and mournfully proceeds to bring over his independent countrymen to the same opinion, in the vain hope of re-establishing the peace and happiness of the empire. During his journey, he is convinced by a variety of conflicting evidence, and above all, by the insolent cruelty and avowed perfidy of the Russian Traitors, who had long before joined the Polish faction, that no good can result from the recognition of Wladislaus, a mere tool in the hands of his father. He is satisfied that the only hope of Russia lies in the sword, which he alone is forbidden to draw by his voluntary oath to the Pole. His conduct, under these trying circumstances, is most nobly depicted-the struggle between his honor and his patriotism are fearful, but honor prevails. He addresses the council at Nijni Novogorod as the envoy of the Pole, and conviction almost follows on his words-his duty to his liege lord is performed-the council is divided. At this eventful crisis, Minim, a patriot citizen of Novogorod, and no mean actor in the ensuing struggles, addresses the Boyards thus: "It is not for me, the humblest citizen of Novogorod,"--answered Minim,—" to stand up as a judge before you, distinguished Boyards and Waywodes: it is enough that you did not disdain to admit me, a common man, into your Boyards' council: and that you permit me to speak in the presence of the eminent dignitaries of the Czardom of Russia. No, Boyards! let the empire of your dispute be of the same rank and birth with yourselves. Whether we march upon Moscow or not, let the question be decided by the ambassador and friend of Pan Goncewski." "Art thou mad, Minim ?" exclaimed Tcherkasky. "Youry Demetrich" continued Minim, turning to Milolasky, "thou hast per formed thy duty: thou hast spoken as the ambassador of the Polish Hetman: I now ask thee, as the son of Dimitry, Yourievitch Milolasky, say; shall we go to Moscow or submit to Sigismund ?" A strong hectic flush covered Youry's face: he half arose from his seat, and endeavored to express his opinion: but he suddenly stopped, and with an hysterical motion, covered his eyes with his hands. "Boyard!" continued Minim,-" if thou hadst not kissed the cross to Wladislausif thou hadst prayed together with us in the Great Square this morning-in a word, if thou wert a citizen of Nijni Novogorod,-what wouldst thou advise to be done? Answer, Youry Demetrich!" "What would I advise ?"-echoed Youry, looking at Minim with animation"I would lay down my life for Holy Russia!" "What art thou saying, Youry Demetrich ?" whispered Touremin. "Silence, Boyard!" exclaimed Milolasky, with kindling enthusiasm, "I cannot stifle my feelings, and the words of my heart must be heard. Yes, citizens of Nijni Novogorod, I would fall, blessing the Almighty for permitting me to shed my blood for the Christian Faith! Advance with resolute intrepidity to Moscow, faithful and happy inhabitants of Nijni Novogorod. Save your unfortunate brothers! They wait for you, they anxiously expect you: I now find they are the slaves of the Poles, and not the subjects of Wladislaus. Put not your trust in Sigismund! he is our eternal and implacable enemy! Ye have little to apprehend from the Poles: their few troops are formidable only to the unarmed inhabitants of Moscow. Hasten, then, courageous inhabitants of Nijni, hasten to plant the banner of our Saviour on the humbled walls of the holy Kremlin! You are free; you did not swear allegiance to a stranger, as I have done to Wladislaus!" Here, the young Boyard covered his face with his hands: then, sobbing, he continued," I cannot die with you; but, if not with the sword, with my prayers will I participate in the holy deed!-Citizens of Nijni Novogorod !-I will retire to the monastery of St. Serge, and taking the habit of a monk, I will pray day and night at the grave of the Saint, that the Lord may help you to save the Czardom of Russia from ruin and destruction!" Youry now became silent, and big tears rolled down his face. By the speech of Milolasky the council are determined, the patriots march, while the disconsolate Youry hastens to St. Serge to bind himself forever to the service of the Saints. Circumstances occur by which he is detained; yet he at length accomplishes his object—is admitted as a novice to the order, and instantly receives commands from the Superior, who has only received his vows in order to free him from his allegiance to the Poles, to join the patriots before the walls of Moscow. Milolasky joins his countrymen in time to share the glories of the decisive battle of the Moskwa, and to participate in the honor due to the devoted liberators of their land. This is the historical plot of the first novel of its kind that ever issued from a Russian press, and it would, indeed, be difficult to find a nobler subject. The anarchy of the country, the misery of the natives, the insolence of the invaders, cannot fail to form such a contrast as is most favorable for eloquent and graphic description. In addition to this, a wide field is opened to the writer in the strange habits, the fantastic costumes, the wild and uncouth laws of these barbarous and primitive ages; and, when to this again we add, the glitter of arms, the pomp of war, the noblest cause that can hallow even the horrors of war; with a strain of chivalrous affection and true love running through the whole, mingling itself with all the varied incidents of the tale, yet never clashing with any, we cannot wonder that the author has experienced the good fruits of his labors, in the applause and approbation of thousands. The Love tale is so simple in itself, so pleasingly connected with the more serious interests of the plot, and so ably conducted, that we cannot refrain from sketching it slightly out in order to induce our friends to look more nearly into the original picture. Milolasky had, in happier days, surrendered his affections to a lovely girl whom he had met, but without learning her name or birth, in the cathedral of the capital, and to his unknown beauty, ignorant whether his passion is returned, he has preserved his constancy unshaken, through a thousand trials. During his journey to Novogorod, he learns, by means of Kirsha, a Cossack, whom he has rescued from death in a snow storm, that the object of his love is none other than Anastasia, the daughter of the traitor Boyard Schalonski, and the betrothed of Pan Goncewski. The bold Cossack, whose character of wild fidelity, unshaken courage, and instinctive sagacity, is drawn with a master hand, in the assumed character of a conjuror, is admitted to the presence of the damsel, whose feeble and declining health has baffled the skill of all the conjurors and doctors of the neighborhood. Readily discovering the cause of her complaint, he whispers comfort to the maid, restores her by his words to health and happiness, and conveys to Youry the happy tidings that he is loved with an ardor equal to his own. Schalonski proves to be the bitterest foe of Milolasky, who is preserved by the faithful Kirsha again and again from his foul machinations; still the lover has no hopes of ultimate success, till fortune brings about at last what all his efforts had failed to accomplish. After his admission as a novice to the order of St. Serge, the young Muscovite is detained by the patriots, doubtful of his integrity, on his march to Moscow; is recognised, and admitted to all honors due to his rank and cause, by the clerical leader of his countrymen. While he is in their camp, Schalonski and his train endeavor to cut their way through the lines to join the Poles, are overpowered and cut off to a man; the beautiful daughter of the traitor is dragged to the gallows by the infuriate crowd, and, after vainly striving to appease, the fury of his men, Father Jeremy performs a hasty ceremony, giving her hand to Milolasky, and rescues her from so horrible a fate by leading her forth the bride of the noblest Boyard in the patriot cause. Still the happiness of the interesting couple is in suspense-the vows of her husband render his marriage null, and the maiden bride takes shelter in a nunnery, while her despairing husband fights and conquers before the walls of Moscow. After the battle, however, all difficulties are removed; being a novice only, Milolasky is easily released from obligation, and the fate of the two lovers is rendered happy by the same event which gives liberty and joy to the empire of the Czars. The incidents are well described, and there is much spirit evinced in the ideas, rather than in the language by which they are conveyed. The personages of Milolasky, Kirsha, and his amazon love, are the most original, and our especial favorites, but those of Tiskewitsch, the Polish chieftain, and the braggadocio Kopichinsky are no less admirable in their peculiar line, than those which we have designated as worthy of especial notice. There is an excellent scene in which Youry compels the last mentioned Pole with a jaw-breaking name, to, eat an entire goose as a punishment for his insolence in making free with his property, but it is altogether too long and too much connected with the rest to be extracted. The same remark will apply to the yet more masterly picture of the banquet in the mansion of Schalonski, wherein the calm and serene demeanor of the outraged Milolasky, the generous indignation of the Polish leaders, and the brutal insolence of the traitor lord are so contrasted as to relieve each other in the strongest and most effectual manner. It is to be regretted that the English Editor of the Young Muscovite was not acquainted with the language of his original, and still more so, that the Russian lady who was the first translator, was not sufficiently skilled in our tongue to have precluded the necessity of having an editor. For it is manifest throughout, that the strength of the language by no means corresponds with the strength of the thoughts expressed. We frequently meet with speeches, wherein ideas, warm as the living fire, are tamely clothed in expressive words; descriptions wherein the picture is conveyed to our mind rather by the entire context than by the language. It is to be regretted that the English Editor should have either altered the over-literal and idiomatic style of the foreign translator so feebly, if he have altered it; or that he should not have had discretion to substitute forcible words and energetic phrases for the tame and prosaic expressions, which have probably arisen from an imperfect knowledge of English. In order to translate well, a writer should not study to give the literal signification in the one language of the identical word employed in the other, but to make use of terms which shall convey the same impression to the mind of his-as the terms of the original on its-reader. It will not unfrequently happen that a word, which in its own tongue is powerful and poetical in the highest degree, can only be literally rendered by one in the same measure weak and frivolous; it then clearly becomes the duty of the translator to vary the phrase so as to give the same force to his translation which is to be found in his text; and this is a quality in which Captain Chamier has not proved himself strong. The language of this work is for the most part meagre, dry, and tame, while the sentiments are, in as remarkable a degree, eloquent, rich, and noble. Notwithstanding this drawback, the Young Muscovite is a book which is in every way calculated to call forth attention and to awaken interest ; whether it be considered merely as an agreeable and entertaining fiction, or as the harbinger of a new era of literature and polite acquirement in one of the largest and most important portions of the world. For, although it may be objected, that, as one swallow does not make summer, so one novel cannot constitute an Augustan era-we yet feel confident that such a novel, as that before us, could only originate from such an alteration in the public mind of Russia, as must proceed hereafter to results far more important; and which, we dare prophecy, will set the empire of the Czars in a very different position, as regards civilization and science, from that which it has held in by-gone ages, or indeed, from that which it at present occupies. LINES FROM THE ÆNEID.-BOOK IV. LINE 441. So, with fierce strength, when Alpine blasts contend, E. F. E. THE HAUNTED HOF. CHAPTER I. Or all the quiet, old-fashioned, drowsy little villages that nestle among the valleys of the Rhein-gau, there is not one more lovely than LangenSchwalbach, in the duchy of Nassau; nor, withal, one more difficult to disCover. The curious traveller might ride or ramble for days together within half a German mile of it, and never detect any token of its proximity, so ingeniously adapted for concealment is the deep and tortuous ravine in which it lies. In shape it resembles a long-handled, two-pronged fork; and all the houses it contains are ranged along three narrow streets, one of which, representing the handle, is nearly a thousand yards in length, and the other two, serving for the prongs, have something less than half that longitude to boast of. But this inordinate extension-to which, by the way, the village is indebted for its name of Langen, or Long, Schwalbach-is made to appear to the utmost advantage, by the extreme narrowness of the valley in which the place, as it were, lies buried; for the space between the opposing sides of the hills by which it is formed, is barely sufficient for the street, the houses of the inhabitants, and the small kitchen-gardens from which they derive their yearly supply of cabbages. All the houses are of an apparent and venerable antiquity, save two or three; and there is something exceedingly picturesque in their aspect. At the time when they were built, there was no scarcity of timber in the vicinity; nor indeed is it a rare commodity at the present day. An immense dark forest of noble oaks and vast beeches towers above the village on every side; and the ravine through which one of the prong streets runs, leads directly to a hill, the sides and summits of which are covered with huge pines. The effect of this abundance of material may be seen in the construction of the houses; the builders seem to have exhausted their ingenuity in devising ways and means for the introduction of beams and pieces of all conceivable forms, uses, and sizes. The whole fabric, indeed, has the appearance of a net-work of timber, the interstices of which are filled with brown, diminutive, unburnt bricks, such as in our climate would crumble to nothing in a single winter, and whose duration for centuries proves the dryness of the mountain air to which they are exposed. As we have already said, the village is one of the quietest little hidingplaces in the world; it contains neither ruins, caverns, cataracts, or great men, to be stared at; has no opera, picture-gallery, race-course, or battlefield, to win the presence of the tourist for fashion's sake; and is in all respects one of the most unpretending, sensible, sleepy little villages that ever throve in indolence and contentment at the bottom of a valley. How long it will so continue, Heaven alone can tell; for within a little space, a restless Englishman has found it out, as he was burrowing in search of something new among the odd and out-of-the-way corners of Germany; and as |