sons, are to be taken away from her, and it may be she will never see them again. Who can tell, but that in the first battle some Tartar may cut off their heads, and she not even know where to find their corpses, and those dear bodies, for each morsel of which, for each drop of whose blood she would gladly give the world in exchange, be cast away for wild ravenous birds to tear in pieces? Sobbingly she looked on them, while heavy sleep began to weigh down their eyes, and she thought, 'Ah, perchance, Bulba, when he awakes, will delay his departure for a day or so, and it may be that it was only in his drink he thought to set out so quickly.'

The moon had risen in the heavens, shining down on the yard covered with sleeping Cossacks, on the thick sallows, and on the high grass which had overgrown the palisade that surrounded the court. But the mother still sat beside her dear sons, not once taking her eyes off them, never thinking of sleep. Already the horses, scenting the dawn, had lain down on the grass and ceased to feed; the upper leaves of the sallow began to wave gently, and the wind's murmuring breath softly touched the branches beneath. But the mother still sat watching till dawn; she felt no weariness; she only prayed that the night might not come to an end. The shrill neighing of steeds was to be heard from the steppe, and the red streaks of the rising sun brightly illumined the sky.

Bulba was the first to awake and spring to his feet. He well remembered all that he had ordered the evening before. 'Now, lads, no more sleep: it is time to get up and feed the horses. Where is the old woman? Quick, old woman, get us something to eat, but quick, for we have a long march before

Three saddled horses stood before the door of the hut. The Cossacks leaped on their steeds, but when the mother saw that her sons had also mounted, she rushed to the younger, whose traits wore a somewhat tenderer expression, caught his stirrup, clung to his saddle, and with despair in her every feature, refused to free him from her clasp. Two strong Cossacks gently loosened her hold, and carried her into the hut. But when they had passed under the gateway, in spite of her age, she flew across the yard swifter than a wild goat, and with the incredible strength of madness stopped the horse,

and clasped her son with a wild rapturous embrace. And once more they carried her into the tent.

THE COSSACK FATHER.

ANDRE saw before him nothing, nothing but the terrible figure of his father. "Well, what are we to do now?" said Taras, looking him full in the face. But Andre could find nothing to answer, and remained silent, his eyes cast down to the ground. "To betray thy faith, to betray thy brothers. Dismount from thy horse, traitor." Obedient as a child, he dismounted, and unconscious of what he did remained standing before Taras. "Stand, do not move," cried Taras: "I gave thee life; I slay thee." And falling back a step, he took his gun from his shoulder. Andre was deadly pale; his lips moved slowly as he muttered some name; but it was not the name of his mother, his country, or kin; it was the name of the beautiful Polish girl. Taras fired. The young man drooped his head, and fell heavily to the ground without uttering a word. The slayer of his son stood and gazed long upon the breathless corpse. His manly face, but now full of power and a fascination no woman could resist, still retained its marvellous beauty; and his black eyebrows seemed to heighten the pallor of his features. "What a Cossack he might have been," murmured Taras: "so tall his stature, so black his eyebrows, with the countenance of a noble, and an arm strong in battle."

Not long after Taras had thus sternly vindicated the honor of his race, he and Ostap are waylaid and surrounded by a body of Poles. Long and desperately they fight, stubbornly they dispute each inch of ground, to the last they refuse to yield; but what can two effect against a score? Taras is struck senseless to the earth, and Ostap is taken prisoner and carried off. The bereaved father awakes only to discover his heavy and irreparable loss; the days henceforth pass wearily, and he no longer finds pleasure in battle or in warlike sports.

He went into the fields and across the steppes as if to hunt, but his gun hung idly on his shoulder, or with a sor

rowful heart he laid it down and sat by the seashore. There with his head sunk low he would remain for hours, moaning all the while, 'Oh, my son, Ostap. Oh, Ostap, my son.' Bright and wide rolled the Black Sea at his feet, the gulls shrieked in the distant reeds, his white hairs glistened like silver, and the large round tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks.

But this agony of uncertainty is too great to bear; at all cost he will seek out his son, weep for him if dead, embrace him if living. With the assistance of a Jewish spy, named Yankel, he makes his way in disguise to Warsaw, where they arrive only to learn that on the evening of the same day his brave boy is to suffer an ignominious death. He proceeds to the place of execution, takes up his stand in the midst of the crowd, and watches in silence the hideous formalities by which the sharpness of death is made more bitter.

Ostap looked wearily around him. Gracious God, not one kindly look on the upturned faces of that heaving crowd. Had there been but one of his kin there to encourage him. No weak mother with her wailings and lamentations; no sobbing wife, beating her bosom and tearing her hair; but a brave man, whose wise word might give him fresh strength and solace. And as he thus thought, his courage failed him, and he cried out, 'Father, where art thou? Dost thou not hear me?' 'I hear, my son,' resounded through the dead silence, and all the thousands of people shuddered at that voice. A party of calvary rode hurriedly about, searching among the crowd that surrounded the scaffold. Yankel turned pale as death, and when the soldiers had riden past, looked furtively to where Taras had been standing, but Taras was no longer there; no trace of him was left.

APOSTROPHE TO RUSSIA.

RUSSIA, Russia! My thoughts turn to thee from my wondrous beautiful foreign home, and I seem to see thee once more. Nature has not been lavish in her gifts to thee. No grand views to cheer the eye or inspire the soul with awe; no glorious works of art, no many-windowed cities, with their lofty palaces, no castles planted on some precipice, embowered in

groves and ivy that clings to the walls, amidst the eternal roar and foam of waterfalls. No traveler turns back to gaze on high masses of mountain granite, that tower in endless succession above and around him. No distant, far-stretching lines of lofty hills ranging upwards to the bright blue heavens, and of which we catch faint glimpses through dim arches entwined with vine branches, ivy, and myriads of wild roses. All with thee is level, open and monotonous. Thy low-built cities are like tiny dots that indistinctly mark the centre of some vast plain, nor is there aught to win and delight the eye. And yet, what is this inconceivable force that attracts me to thee? Why do I seem to hear again, and why are my ears filled with the sounds of thy sad songs, as they are wafted along thy valleys and huge plains, and are carried hither from sea to sea? What is there in that song, which, as it calls and wails, seizes on the heart? What are those melancholy notes that lull but pierce the heart and enslave the soul? Russia, what is it thou wouldst with me? What mysterious bond draws me towards thee? Why gazest thou thus, and why does all that is of thee turn those wistful eyes to me? And all the while I stand in doubt, and above me is cast a shadow of a laboring cloud, all heavy with thunder and rain, and I feel my thoughts benumbed and mute in presence of thy vast expanse. What does that indefinable, unbounded expanse foretell? Are not schemes to be born as boundless as thyself, who art without limit? Are not deeds of heroism to be achieved, where all is ready, open to receive the hero? And threateningly the mighty expanse surrounds me, reflecting its terrible strength within my soul of souls, and illumining sight with unearthly power. What a bright, marvellous, weird expanse !

IVAN S. TURGENIEFF.

IN that region of Russian fiction which Gogol opened, Ivan Sergeyevitch Turgenieff achieved a marvellous success, which resulted in a social revolution. He was born near Orel, November 9, 1818, only nine years after the birth of Gogol. He not only took up the new type of fiction, but

achieved the preliminary work for the emancipation of the serf in which Gogol had only half succeeded. While Gogol stopped short with his terribly realistic revelation of what the owners of the serfs were, Turgenieff forced the gaze of all Russia to the wretched and cruelly oppressed serfs themselves. His "Annals of a Sportsman," which appeared in 1846, may be regarded as having been the "Uncle Tom's Cabin" of Russia. It undoubtedly contributed much to Alexander II.'s decree (1861), abolishing serfdom.

This curse of serfdom dated from the sixteenth century, and had become consecrated as a legal institution in 1609. Denis von Visin had in "Nedorosl" (The Minor) touched upon the ill-treatment of the serfs; but the condition of the French peasant in his day was even more terrible. It was by a strange decree of fate that Turgenieff came into such appreciative contact with the Russians of the yoke. His grandmother was just such a choleric baruina of the old school as he afterwards painted in his story, "Punin and Baburin.” Her cruel treatment of her serfs was extreme. As might be expected of such an old-style Russian lady, she forbade her grandson the study of the native Russian tongue. It was only spoken by her servants. The young Ivan was not to be hindered, however, in his childish thirst, and he learned not only the old Russian legends, but the Russian speech from one of his grandam's serfs. In later years his memory returned to one of these unfortunates when he drew the character of the dumb giant porter, Mumu. Turgenieff's grandmother never forgave him for adopting the degrading vocation of literature-he, a son of an heiress of the Litvinoffs! Perhaps it was the contrast of the innate human virtues of the serfs with this cruel nature of his ancestress that quickened Turgenieff's appreciation of the real humanity of these chattels of the Russian estates.

He conceived a profound affection for the muzhik, or peasant. As he afterward declared, he "swore a Hannibal's oath" never to compromise with the barbarous system of serfdom, but to fight it even to the death. And he accomplished his lofty purpose by opening the eyes of the Russian court, as his own eyes had early been unveiled, to the true