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fessed that with the same views of social evil, he had been no self-indulgent Morn, but an unwearied benefactor of his kind. Yet they were unwilling to give up the cause, but defended Morn, as Rosseau has beed defended, on the score of the excessive susceptibility of his temper. “To speak more plainly, he was a vain man, or, as the phrenologists would say, his approbativeness was strongly developed", said Von Krachen smiling. "Hence he was easily deceived, and the often deceived man is inevitably a mistrustful man. With less judgment than imagination, he was often as much mistaken in himself as in others, adopted opinions upon insufficient grounds, and drew general inferences from particular cases.'

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Engelbert had both head and heart in the right place, and did not abandon a general principle because of a trifling failure in peculiar instances. Many lament and complain of the perversity and corruption of the world, | Engelbert hated the corruption, but he did not whine over it. He attacked it boldly within his own little

world, and reformed it. He made war on the error, but not on the erring. Pity that there are not a few more Engelberts in the world! But the greater part of our world reformers like the theory far better than the practice. They can eulogise virtue freely, but have no courage for the practice of it. They are themselves fettered by the very follies and prejudices against which they cry out so lustily. They are weaklings without heart for that truth and nature they so loudly commend, and hug the chain while they contemn the slavery. Or, if they make a sacrifice, they will have counter sacrifices; praise, honour, popular applause. How many would like to put themselves in Engelbert's place, act the reformer's part, instead of declaiming it; bear all that was repulsive in it, bear to be misconstrued and misrepresented, and never once ask will the world applaud the action? And till people are found willing to do this, take my word for it, though the preachers may be many, the converts will be few.


ACROSS the mountain path, I saw a stately troop wend by; The mutiled drums rolled slowly forth a solemn symphony;

A soldier lay upon his bier with trophies o'er him spread; I heard the distant booming gun when they interred the


Across the mountain path, full soon the glittering band returned;

Whilst clashing music gaily rang with penous all unfurled; Free speech and roving eyes had they, and there seemed nought to tell

The mould had just been thrown on one they all had loved right well.


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"Fellow, you have broken our laws!'

"Yes, your honour; but not until your laws had broken me.' "Sir, that's nothing to the point.'

"No, your honour-nothing whatever."-Justice made Easy.

WELL, sorrow is a simple word,
All meaningless and dead

To him who hears the famish'd cry,
"Oh, Father, give us bread!"

It scares lean Labour from its seat;
A fiercer form is there;

Now, Misery waits so biddingly,

Handmaiden to despair.

"Save well at noon," the wise one says,
"Ye'll better fare at night;"
And where there's anything to save,
The wise one's very right.

Well, Mary saved! Oh, many an hour
She stole from rest and sleep,

To sew and save the o'erworn weeds
Her skill could scarcely keep.

She saved the morsel from her lip
To still the bairnie's din;

The Kirk seat-rent, the beadle's fees,
She saved, for "fear o' sm."

She sought, and saved ilk kindly thought
That near her bosom came;

And held it, hoarded in her heart,
To welcome "father" hame.

She croon'd the cradle lullaby
Sae sorrowfully sweet,

'Tween sob and sang, "He'll come ere lang, Ob, bairnies, dinna greet!"

He never came. Yon dowie law!

If lawfu' deeds they be,

Whan mongers fatten at their will,
An' puir folks left to dee.

"An' maun I leave them helpless now, When maist my help they need? And muun I dree a felon's doom,

Wha ne'er did felons deed?

"I dinna grudge to leave a land
Whaurin I daurna be;

But, oh, I mourn yon drearie hame,
Wi' a' that's dear to me.

""Twas there, in timorous infancy,
My foot first touched the soil,
That air than thirty seasons saw
My willing arm toil.

"Although I held anther's plew,
Or sow'd anither's grain,

I gied a benison as leal

As if they'd been my ain.

"I watch'd and blest the infant briard, In morning glory spread,

And blest the bonnie dew that set,
In pearls, ilka mead.

"We saw it wave in stately ranks,
Our gowden fields aroun',
Each stem a sturdy warrior
To battle famine doun.

"I saw it pass our breadless door,
An' borne unto the sea,
A father's fury rieve my heart-
How could it ither be?"

Well, patience is a silly word,

So meaningless and dead,

To him who hears the sickening cry,


Oh, father, give us bread!”.



THE room is darkened; not a sound is heard
Sare the clear, cheerful chirping of the bird
Which sings without the window; or the bell
Which sounds a mournful peal-a last farewell.
And she is there, or was; her spirit's home,
Lies far beyond this world of sin and gloom.
I heard the whispers of the parting breath,
And wiped her brow, and closed her eyes in death.
Oh, she was beautiful in health's bright time!
Full of the radiance of her golden prime :

Eyes deep and full, and lips which spoke to bless,
And cheeks which blushed at their own loveliness,
And earnest downcast glances part revealing

The thoughts which lay within, and part concealing.
She knew no guile, and she feared no wrong:
Who trust in innocence are greatly strong.
As some deep stream, reflecting in its course
The pure and limpid clearness of its source,
So her chaste spirit, formed in God's own light,
Pure as a southern sky, and not less bright,
A tender, loving ministrant was given
To raise the soul from earth, and lift to Heaven.
From week to week she faded day by day
We watched her spirits droop-her strength decay;
We scarce could deem that one so young and fair
Should pant for purer light-celestial air!
And still we dared to hope. The hectic hue
Which tinged her cheeks made ours brighten too.

We thought of death, but deemed the Reaper's hand
Removed the weeds, and let the flow'rets stand.
And she the fairest! could he touch a form
Radiant with life-with hope's deep pulses warm?
Vainly we dreamed, and bitter was our pain,
And griefs but vanished to recur again!



Come near, come silently the room may tell
The simple tastes of her we loved so well-
The "Poet's corner,' once so fondly styled;
The harp, which many an idle hour beguiled;
The old, old books of legendary lore,

O'er which, in summer hours, she loved to pore;
And all those thousand nameless charms which skill,
Blended with fancy, fashions at its will.

And proofs of fond affection, too, are there,
And tender tokens of a mother's care-

That care to which the higher task was given,
Of pointing from earth's sunny dreams to Ileaven,

Come near, come silently-ere yet the grave
Closes o'er one we fondly hoped to save.
How changed, and yet how lovely!-meckly there
Her small white hands are folded, as in prayer.
O who that ever heard that dying strain
Could think to mingle in the world again!


J. D.



I lay upon his dying bed,

Broad Scotland's luckless lordWho rode that morning to the fray With many a mountain horde:


With Highland chief, and steel-clad knight,
And yeoman stout and proud,
'Mid clangour of ten thousand swords,
And trump and pibroch loud.

He lay within a clay-built hut,

And moaned around his head

The night wind from the Battle Field
That sighed around the dead;

And doleful voices with it came
Of great and various woe;
The shriek of madden'd agony,
The piteous sob, and low.

Then loudly sounded up the glen
A trumpet's jocund voice;
Came it to cheer on dying men,
Or bid the dead rejoice?

An awful mockery it seemed

When death and blood lay round;

Yet 'mid jest and caroling,

On came the joyous sound.

"Cheer thee, my sire!" a chieftain cried, Defaced with dust and foam

"A child was born to thee this day!

A child smiles on thy home!

A Hope hath dawned upon our land,
A star shines through our woe;

Be reconciled again to life!
Thou 'st yet a joy to know."


"Stand back, stand back!" the dying king, In thrilling accents, said;

"Talk not of joy to one who feels The heart within him dead!

Stand back for thou hast crushed my hope,
The only hope I knew!

The scorets of the time unborn
My dying eyes review.

"My only pleasure was, to think

That, like this mournful wind,

I passed from this rough, troublous world,
And left no trace behind-
That fortune held within her power
Nought loved, nought born of me,
To curse with ill-starred gifts, or hunt
With wild malignity.

"Would I could wrap within my shroud

This scarcely living thing,

And look upon God's face, and cry,

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My child with me I bring!"

The early dead are early blest-
Sprung from a fated race

Is she whose birth thou tell'st me of,
With smiles upon thy face.
"Child of my sorrows! of my woe
The heiress bright and fair-
Joys that I knew not thou shalt know,
And more than my despair.

Thy wrongs and sins let men record,
Thy charms surpass'd by none;
May'st thou find God more merciful,
My lost, forsaken one!

"Much tempted, sorely punished, thou
Adown the cat' ract's wave,
Thou go'st, the brightest, saddest freight
Ere charter'd for the grave.

I see thy danger, nor can warn ;
God spares thee not thy guide;
Thy flower-deck'd masts and gaudy sails
Upon the tempests ride!

"I've not a prayer for thee, my child!
My soul is numbed with woo.
Thy birth comes o'er me like a curse
The last c'en I can know!"
Then, turning from the weeping crowd
In dull and cold despair,

He laid his face against the wall-
A lifeless corpse was there!


MYSTERY is, according to the constitution of the human mind, the strongest incentive to curiosity; and as a necessary sequence, Russia, her state and doings, are objects of, ceaseless, ever-increasing interest to the rest of Europe, in proportion to the depth and impenetrability of the veil with which her present ruler has surpassed all his predecessors in dexterously wrapping round her colossal form. Even at this moment, the most contradictory reports are in circulation respecting the warlike gatherings, which, according to some, are noiselessly assembling towards the Prussian and Austrian frontiers, (and which, if we credit this on dit, has already excited the watchful observation, and even inquiries, of both Cabinets,) while, on the other hand, travellers are not wanting who affirm the whole an invention, and protest to having proceeded from Warsaw to Cracow, without encountering larger bodies of Russian military than the usual frontier Watch Poits! And yet, not only private letters, but the Posen Gazette, depict the aspect of affairs as threateningly warlike, and confirm the assertion, made some time since by the Constitutionnel, that the naval, no less than the land forces of Russia, are being placed on a footing of unusual activity; that the docks in Sebastopol contain several steam frigates in a state of great forwardness; that the workmen in the arsenals are employed by night as well as by day; and that the Imperial foundries | are busied with the preparation of vast quantities of bombs and cannon balls. But, after all, let other nations talk and conjecture as they may, the veil, if even momentarily blown aside by some casual and accidental | breeze, hangs on the whole so motionless and impenetrably dark over the face of Russian politics, that not even a wandering scrap of information, which might perchance reach the subjects of Nicholas through foreign diplomacy, is suffered to meet their eye. A curious and instructive proof of scrupulous adherence to the Russian principle, that, to its subjects, "ignorance is bliss," was evinced in the recent erasure by the St. Petersburg censorship, of a so wholly inoffensive piece of intelligence as the quotation from a French newspaper, that a treaty of commerce had been concluded between France and Russia! Yet even this was deemed by the Imperial Censor an unwarrantable breach of diplomatic secrecy. Nor do those in other countries, who can boast having intimate friends or relatives residing in St. Petersburg or Moscow, fare a whit the better as to intelligence from that terra incognita, since they are unable to form, far less to convey, an idea of any political contingency, or to draw a conclusion of aught to come, by analogy, with what is past. Nay, it is even asserted that, with exception of the very few initiated, (and dearly is the honour of a confidential position purchased, with the danger of a trip to Siberia, should any stray piece of intelligence-of whose escape they mayhap know nothing-be laid to the charge of their negligence or loquacity,) it is confidently asserted, that the inhabitants of St. Petersburg itself are not only profoundly but contentedly ignorant of all that passes, either in the Cabinet or the Provinces, and receive, with a perfect and unquestioning faith, whatever the Imperial Gazette is pleased to announce, should it

even be the complete annihilation of the Circassians, a the very moment when unusually large levies would lead less believing nations to suspect a conquered people could not require a reinforced army to receive their submission! Under such circumstances, foreigners must rejoice, when, like Parnell's hermit, either books or swains" come in their way, from whom they may learn something of this "world from which they are shut out;" and as the latter are, generally speaking, anything rather than communicative, (as those who could tell, will not, and those who are willing, cannot,) books prove, after all, the surest as well as most abundant source whereat to slake our thirst for Russian information. Of those, modern times have been tolerably prolific. "Russia, in 1839," by le Marquis de Custine, has excited too much discussion, and been too widely circulated, both in the original and translations, to be more than adverted to here; and, despite the furious attacks which have been made on his statements, and the mistakes or exaggerations which have been occasionally proved against him, the impartial critic must still allow that successive attempts to explore the dark secrets of the "chambers" of Russian “imagery" have shown " greater," rather than less, "abominations" than he reveals. Among the latest writers on Russia, none has assumed a more dignified and credible-because moderate, and yet nobly fearless and decisive-style than the author of a deeply-interesting publication, which appeared in 1816, under the title of "Russia's Internal Life, or the Thirty-Three Years' Experience of a German in Russia; 3 vols.; Brunswick, 1846.” No one can read the book without acknowledging it as one of the most remarkable productions on the subject. The author has striven, and not unsuccessfully, to redeem for the result of his personal observation the defect of anonymous authorship, (the motives for which are neither difficult to divine nor to appreciate,) by the production of documentary and other collateral evidence in support of his assertions. In the preface, he addresses himself to his countrymen in the following terms: The kindliness of my greeting would flow freer and fuller, were it not troubled by the thought that the holiest sentiments and feelings, which fain would throw themselves warm and glowing into the arms of our common fatherland, cannot reach you, except tamed and despoiled of their native fire. Yet, let me simply remind you of the fact that, even so early as 1752, a Russian remonstrance was able to give its death-blow to a Frankfort journal! Learn, then, to know the principles as well as power of the land, whose rustling pine, and whispering birch forests, are forbidden to speak of what occurs under their shade !—whose orators laud absolution and serfship, and exalt the monster fanaticism, until it can hide its horns in the clouds, and fasten its talons in the earth. Be on your guard, dear fellow-countrymen! Man travels by day, but destiny rolls onward in darkness! Russian blasts breathe destruction to every bud and blossom of German growth !I speak the truth! Let the warm affection which dietates this address assure to me your believing reception of my statements." The author proceeds to depict the Northern Colossus under three distinct aspects. Vol.

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I. commences with laying in a bold priming, in which the main colours of the future portrait are pretty distinctly discoverable, and in which he calls upon all Europe, but specially adjures his countrymen, to note his warning voice, as being more than any other free nation, bound by self-interest to watch the approaches of so formidable a neighbour, and build up, betimes, a rampart against his encroachments. He then enters on a pretty extensive discussion of the various authors who have written respecting Russia, whether natives of the Empire or foreigners, and takes decided part with the Marquis de Custine, whose portraiture he identifies as correct in all the main features; and after strong animadversions on Gretsch, Grimm, Tolstoi, & Co.," (the opponents of the Marquis,) enters into a lengthened critique on the censure of a later German Reviewer, who had pronounced the credibility of the Marquis as shaken, if not annihilated, by the counter publications of Gretsch, whose sweeping denials of some facts, and attempted, though seldom successful, sarcastic irony respecting others, the author of **Russia's Internal Life," finds as contrary to sound argument as to good taste. One quotation may serve to show the author's sentiments on this head:-" Once more

him. And assuredly no acknowledged defective finish ever suggested the thought to Alexander's successor, to banish those true and speaking likenesses from his palace! The Marquis de Custine's work produced, as might naturally have been foreseen, a great sensation, and the German-Russian, as well as native Russian, sparrows fluttered and chirped with loquacious astonishment, as if some horned owl had suddenly emerged from his nest, and sitting down, in full day-light, on a lofty oak, had rẻlated all that his piercing eyes had detected in the darkness; while in St. Petersburg itself, alarmed whisperings floated about, as if he were re-risen from the dead whom Russians fear no less than writing described as,—

"Na pole, on perwoi,"

("First and chief in the battle field.") "The general interest with which Custine's book was received, and the avidity with which it was read, both in France and Germany, induced a translation into the latter language, and the newspapers had already announced the German edition as to be had in all circulating libraries, when a report was circulated that the Russian counsellor, D'etat Gretsch, was appointed to travel through France and Germany, in order to disprove its statements. The (says he at page 16,) our German valleys are resounding journey took place, but not the disproof, at least not in

with the old distich:

The Pope, the Devil, and the Russ,
Again in Germany are loose.'

Ought I not, then, to lift my voice too in aid of truth? Do not thirty-three years' experience warrant, no less than enable me, to pay this just tribute to my native land? I have known the Russian Empire in her times of danger and of triumph. I have witnessed her periods of advancement and of retrogression. And though I cannot speak as an eye-witness' of those days of political caprice, when, under Paul I., the phrases, stumpnose,' and baldhead, were banished from Russia's vocabulary, I can bear witness to a time when the words, nature, philosophy, liberty, republic, and revolution,' gave such dire offence, that the censor expunged, and the orator shrunk from using them!

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"But Europe has not long since received a portrait of Russia from the pencil of a Frenchman. The artist is the Marquis de Custine, and all, even superficially, acquainted with Russian physiognomy, must acknowledge a striking resemblance to the gigantic original. I, at least, recognised the likeness at a glance; and had the wellknown features been sketched with charcoal 'on a mud wall, I must have exclaimed, that is Russia !' What though closer examination may compel the observation, the complexion is rather high or rather pale; what though the colours used to pourtray the social landscape may now be too thick, now too thinly laid on, still it is a strikingly like portrait, and that not of what Russia might or ought to be, but, as it gives out, of what Russia is. The true merit of a portrait does not depend on its gilded frame, the sumptuousness of the costume, nor even the scientific adjustment of its colouring, but on the accuracy of its likeness to the original. The portrait gallery of Russian Generals, painted at the Emperor Alexander's desire, by the English artist, Dawe, betrays, when closely examined, much coarseness of execution, and many an inequality of surface; yet when viewed in the properl ight, and from the due distance, cach spectator is tempted to imagine the Generals as they lived and moved, drawn up before



Paris, where it would have been most in place; and that for the alleged reason that the Marquis de Custine's book was already forgotten in the French capital when the Russian counsellor reached it! The appearance of a second edition relieved the French author from the onus of rebutting this disparaging report, and the deeply-mortified Gretsch left the intractable Parisians to bestow the valuable gift of his contradictions on the more teachablo Germans. It must, therefore, have been peculiarly disagreeable to the honest defender of Russia's maligned honour, to find Germans quite as difficult to convince as Parisians." As criterion of the probable fairness of the contending testimonies, our author states, (at page 35,) We need but to reflect, that, even under the mild sway of the Emperor Alexander, Gretsch received a strong personal lesson on the danger incurred by uttering one single word which runs counter to the sentiments held by government; that he was, moreover, aware of the expulsion of his intimate friend Bulgarion for an offence of the tongue, as well as of Counsellor C's imprisonment in a fortress, for having (whilst holding the office of Censor) admitted one single number of Brockhan's Conversation Lexicon into the Empire, in order to judge of the conscience with which this same Gretsch can trumpet forth in the ears of Germany, that freedom of thought and speech is as great in St. Petersburg as in Berlin or London!" Let him put it to the proof! Let him avow openly -as Gans once did from his Professor's Chair in Berlin, "Gentlemen, the French Revolution was an unavoidable necessity!"-and where would we find the Russian Counsellor of State before the year was out? In his present post, or hunting the sables? Can he complain of injustice, then, when a German journalist exclaims, "May Russia never boast a better advocatus diaboli than he'!'' The coup de grace having been thus bestowed on the Russian antagonist of the French Marquis, our author enters on a lively episode, entitled "Reminiscences of East Prussia," where evil impressions of Russia assailed

* Napoleon.

which a number of others were piled before and behind, while a corporal stood by, and occasionally shoved the instruments of torture backward or forward, to restore the equilibrium. I was directed to a door at the extremity of the stable. I entered, and perceived four

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him even before crossing its sinister border; and he ex- | stood a non-commissioned officer in a stooping posture, a patiates with brotherly affection on the loyal and patriotic carbine placed horizontally on each shoulder, across sentiments which he everywhere met, among the Germanhearted inhabitants of that frontier land. Proceeding onward towards Russia, by way of Poland, he, as might be expected, pauses a moment to express a kindly sympathy for the subjection and present hopeless prostration of that ill-fated country. Chapter iii. describes his jour-officers engaged at cards. I proceeded into an inner ney to St. Petersburg, and the motives which led to his final establishment in Russia. His first initiation into Russian manners might, indeed, we should think, have well rendered very powerful arguments needful to produce such a resolve. It is thus described, (p. 105.) "Where am I? Oh, the reply is sufficiently furnished by the appearance of a posse of Cossacks round my carriage, who conduct it, sabre in hand, as if escorting a dangerous criminal to the Douane. At a short distance from the dwelling of the Inspector of Customs stood two young Russian officers, apparently occupied with some very amusing subject of conversation, for they were laughing immoderately. Full in their view, a couple of soldiers were belabouring a motionless object before them with platted thongs of leather. The strokes followed each other with the rapidity and regularity of clock-work, and I, in my simplicity, conjectured the object of this tanning process to be a grey goatskin, which the soldiers were thus trying to limber, and which they had, or it seemed, spread for that purpose on a block of wood. How long they might have been so occupied before my arrival, I cannot say, but about ten minutes after the clock-work ceased playing, and I was amazed to perceive the supposed block of wood set itself in motion, and creep towards one of the laughers, who received it with a vigorous kick! I now learned from a byestander that this was a Dentschnick, or soldier, in the service of an officer, who had been guilty of the unpardonable offence of forgetting to carry his master's smoking pipe to a neighbouring house; in consequence of which, the officer had been necessitated to fetch it himself! What I had taken for a goatskin was the shirt of the poor wretch, which was now red with blood; and yet not a cry of pain, not even a convulsive tremor, no attempt to obtain mitigation or cessation of punishment. Was this, then, a man, or an automaton? It was one of those indomitable beings, a slave! The sluggish ox will be roused to rage and resistance by the first blow of the mallet on its brow, but this bleeding wretch crawled to utter his thanks for a merciful punishment at the feet of his termentor! What a docile animal is man!

"I was then bona fide within the boundaries of Russia! I could no longer doubt it! and my not wholly iron nerves responded somewhat painfully to the conviction. I had been hungry, but appetite was banished by the scene I had just witnessed, and as a German recommended to me an inn some six miles in advance, kept by a native of Courland, I resolved to proceed. My trunk was not opened. My effects remained unexamined. The custom-officer felt more pleasure in gazing on the countenance of William III., impressed on a shining Prussian dollar, for which he held out his hand with the most complacent naiveté. Having reached the inn to which I had been directed, I descended from my carriage, and leaning with all my weight against a door, it opened with a loud jar, and I found myself in a stable large as the Augean, but filled with hussars instead of oxen. In the midst

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room, where my dinner was served. When it was dis-
cussed, I prepared to return to my lumbering vehicle, but
found the tortured soldier lying at full length on the steps
which led from the stable to the sitting apartments, with
all the carbines scattered around him. He was unable
to stand. His shoulders were so swollen that it was per-
ceptible through his uniform, and he fell over at every
attempt to bring himself to an upright position. He has
been already two hours under this martyrdom,' whispered
the German innkeeper to me. 'He must sink under it,
and his Captain has most likely forgotten him in his
game.' Some of the hussars spoke to the host; I asked
what they said, and learned they were urging him to
apply to their officer in favour of their comrade. But
it is no business of mine,' observed the innkeeper; ‘be-
sides, the Captain is very passionate.' 'Were he Bel-
zebub himself, we must try,' cried I, returning to the
sitting rooms; and with mine host for interpreter, I re-
lated what I had just seen, and implored a termination of
the punishment. Who are you?' demanded the Cap-
tain. I gave my name and rank. Since you are a
foreigner, then, what right have you to meddle? Cor-
poral, bind the brute to a tree if he will not stand"
Indignant at this brutal disregard of my request, I mut-
tered in French, regardless whether I were understood or
not, Il 'est affreux que ce n'est que le Russe qui ait le
droit de solliciter pour un malheureux Comment
osez vous parler d'affreux,' shouted he with vchemenec.
When I was in Köningsberg, Count de X. had given me a
paper with these words, Should you chance upon any
difficulties in your journey, shew this; in our country
protection is never superflous! I now, therefore, quietly
drew this sheet of paper from my pocketbook, and handed
it to the captain. No sooner had he glanced his eye over
it, when he started up, exclaiming, Why did you not
tell me at once to whom you were going? I am de-
lighted to make your acquaintance! Corporal, let the
fellow at liberty; he can go to the village! And then
turning to me with the blandest of smiles, he continued:
You will surely spend the day with us? The weather is
uninviting, and to-morrow my own horses shall convey
you to the next post-horse station.
Well, then, at all events, you cannot refuse a glass of
Madeira to your safe journey?
I declined all with
thanks, which, in my secret soul, were all devoted to the
provident kindness of the Count de X.
"From the Prussian frontier to St. Petersburg, neither
hill nor valley greet the eye.
On one monotonous level,
120 German (600 English) miles hold on their weary
course; and throughout its whole extent, one does not
encounter above four places which deserve the name of
cities, viz., Mittau, Riga, Darpat, and Narwa. No won-
der if strange feelings arise in the bosom of the traveller
from civilized regions!

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You will not?

"Thirty German miles of soil, subject to Russian dominion, had been passed through, and no city or even

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