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 elude 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

his sable favourite in the daughter of one of his nobles, greatly to the scandal of some members of her family, and to the extreme dissatisfaction of the young lady, she having already provided herself with a lover more to her liking, though not her father's. Another of his pieces is a critique on Chateaubriand's Milton, or rather, observations on Milton and on Chateaubriand, in which he shows himself very well acquainted with both the writings and the character of our great English bard; and in the course of which he takes occasion to animadvert very strongly on Victor Hugo and Alfred de Vigny, for the little respect manifested for Milton in the part they have severally assigned him in "Cromwell" and "Cinq Mars." We may observe, this is not the first time Victor Hugo has been taken to task by a Russian, since his Notre Dame is treated very cavalierly by Baron Brambeus, alias Senkovsky, in his satirical tale intituled Satan's Levee, in which production there are many traits reminding us of Swift's sarcasm and general freedom of speech.

Our regret at finding so few articles of critical disquisition in the Sovremennik is rather increased than lessened by the perusal of the one above referred to, and Prince Viazemsky's literary biography of the dramatist Von Visin. The latter is the more acceptable, because this is a department of literature hitherto almost untouched in Russia; and the biography introduced furnishes an excellent model for an entire series, wherein the characters and writings of all the principal authors should be analytically examined. Prince Volkonsky has contributed an article on the Divina Commedia; but whether Voltaire be correct or not in saying Dante is now never read, we are made to read so much about him and his poem,-upon which every dabbler in Italian has something to say,-that we could very well have spared what is not at all recommended by novelty of any kind. The same may in some measure be said of Byron; nevertheless, as many of our readers may be curious to learn what view is taken of their countrymen's talents and character by a critic so far north, we extract the following picture of him from a tale, which, were we to trust to the initials affixed to it, we might conclude to be by Ivan Bulgarin, though the story itself has too much of German mysticism and mysteriousness in it to allow us to imagine it proceeds from that writer.

Shakspeare," said the baron," comprised in himself a type of all nations and all ages. In him we have the essence of romance and of poetry; of playful song, and of profound philosophy. Since his death, his fame has extended itself immeasureably; accordingly, thousands of commentators have fastened upon his writings, and, after tearing them to pieces with their claws, have employed themselves in attempting to

analyse them chemically, or in examining them microscopically. Yet, up to this moment, they have obtained nothing from all their experiments; their retorts have not been able to extract his essence; and why? because Shakespeare is nature, because his genius took its root in the human heart, while with its topmost boughs it reached the sky.' Yet, what has all this to do with Byron ? It does not follow, because Shakspeare was great that Byron was not so likewise. Shakspeare was not fully appreciated by his contemporaries; neither, at first, was the other, for the Edinburgh Review lashed his first performance very severely."

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And very justly. In fact, his Hours of Idleness betray such feebleness and mediocrity, that on reading them, it is difficult for us to be persuaded they were penned by a writer of talent-and after all, Byron certainly was a man of talent-just that and no more.'

"How!-a mere man of talent—a talented poet and no more! Is it thus you describe him whose genius has excited the admiration of all Europe! Excuse me, baron, but I really did not take you to possess so much prejudice or so much pride, as in contradiction to the opinion of the whole world"

"As for the opinion of the world, that you know has no weight with me; neither can I be said to show myself the slave of prejudice in venturing to oppose it, consequently, you are not very logical in your expressions when you charge me with being prejudiced in opposing the prejudices of other people. But, to return to Byron, how can you pretend to say that he was undervalued by his contemporaries, when there never was a writer whose literary fame stood so high during his lifetime?"

"Yet, was he not persecuted by his countrymen, because he ventured to unmask their hypocritical pretensions to morality? Even now the traditions have not entirely died away which represented him to be a young man devoid of principle, the champion of immorality in his poems, and a nobleman of insufferably bad ton (!) Thus was he judged and spoken of in London society, which, for whatever poetic feeling it may now possess, has to thank Byron himself. Before he appeared it had produced no distinguished talent; for I do not here include eminent political characters, who constitute a class by themselves. Do you, therefore, I ask, side with those public adversaries who endeavoured to cry down the poet of Childe Harold?”

"All this sounds very fine: yet I do not perceive wherefore the London public, or rather the public of Great Britain, ought to be slandered, because Lord Byron was a young man devoid of religious or moral principle; or, what is still worse, desired to pass for such. Englishmen readily concede him very high poetical merit-great power of versification, mastery of language, brilliance of expression, with occasionally a really profound thought, generally borrowed, however, from Shakspeare, who seems to have held the torch to your favourite poet; yet this does not blind them to the extravagances of his conduct, -extravagances he could very well have afforded to dispense with, and which certainly did not add any real lustre to his literary character. On the whole, it is less as a poet than as a man that I judge Byron. Per

haps I am deficient in that warmth of feeling that would enable me to do justice to him in the former capacity: but I must say that his Corsairs, whose flag the sceptre all who meet obey,' strike me as being not a little ridiculous and theatrical withal, because your real corsair trembles in good earnest as soon as he catches sight of the flag of an English frigate, and instantly makes all sail he can, in order to escape from the countrymen of the poet who has described him to be a prodigy of valour and daring hardihood. In my opinion, the warfare of pirates partakes very little of the heroic or poetical, since they invariably reserve their attacks for the weakest foe, and have no higher ambition than to pillage traders and merchant ships, carefully avoiding men of war. Doubtless Childe Harold made in its day a very strong sensation, on account of its being quite a novelty-the first Childe Harold the world had seen; yet since then we have had so many of the race, both in real life and poetry, that I hardly know whether we ought to feel grateful towards the prototype, or anathematize it for having infested the world with its monster brood. Notwithstanding that he had a limping foot, Byron had no little of the fop in his composition, and had cleverness and vogue enough to be able to set new fashions in poetry and in shirt-collars, giving a highly poetical turn to the latter. In the year 1812, Childe Harold made its appearance, and forthwith caused a kind of misanthropical scepticism to be considered good ton: every one, accordingly, affected it, and pretended to hold the whole human race in contemptuous scorn. Such, at least, was then the prevailing mood in England. From that instant Byron began to pour out, one after the other, effusions conceived in the same strain, breathing fierce despair and icy misanthropy in every line; and so far I give him credit for knowing how to avail himself of the foible of public taste. ***** Trust me, the time is approaching when Byron will take his place in the category of the past; and when, although his talent will always command respect, it will cease to have any influence whatever upon literature."

This speaker in the dialogue then goes on to criticise Manfred, which he contends is merely a puny imitation of Göthe's Faust; and otherwise animadverts very freely upon the English poet, both as a writer and a man: giving us a quantity of paltry and mistaken criticism like much of the foregoing, suited only to the poorest capacity.

Of the Russian novel-writers we need merely observe that at present they are pursuing an erroneous course, adhering, as if it were a particular merit, to all the conventional and worn-out forms; falling in consequence into the flimsy and vapid, no less in the serious than in the frivolous; and studiously avoiding, as it would seem, all that bears upon the stronger and more permanent interests of society, and comes home to its feelings and understanding. If this species of literature is incapable of higher aim than furnishing a gossiping kind of reading to the idle and indolent; if, like Scheherzade, its office is to lull us into an agreeable drow