ART. XII.-Russian Tales; from the French of Count Xavier de Maistre, Author of the Leper of Aost,' &c. 12mo. pp. 197. Philadelphia. H. C. Carey & I. Lea. 1826.

THE two Tales, which compose this volume, belong to the series of productions, of which a favorable specimen was presented to the American public, about a year since, in the Leper of Aost,' of which an account was given in this journal at the time of its appearance. They are from the pen of the Count Xavier de Maistre, a native of Piedmont, who, after having risen to the rank of general in the Russian service, is now living in retirement at St Petersburg. With two other tales, as yet untranslated, the three which have been now presented to the American public, in an English dress, constitute the Romantic works of the author. They have no pretensions to a rank among works of classical merit, and aim only at the character of short tales of inartificial structure, recommended by simplicity and nature. With the Leper of Aost,' the public is already too well acquainted, to require another allusion to it in our pages. We incline to give the Tales, which compose this volume, a preference over that which preceded them; and we cannot forbear to mention, as an additional commendation, that a beautiful typographical execution is in harmony with the contents of the volume. We confess ourselves so much the slaves of prejudice, as to like a neat volume; and have often thought we could enjoy the Waverley Novels, with a greater relish, if the American press had furnished us the first reprints of them in a style of publication, equal to that of the Russian Tales.'

The great attraction of these Tales (at least of the first of them), though it might not be fair to say the chief merit, resides in the scene. A faithful description of Russian manners, on Russian ground; the wastes of Siberia, the mountains of Caucasus, come to us with a fresh air of novelty. One is glad, at length, to escape from Portman Square and Bromley Park; from the banks of the Garonne and the passes of the Apennines, and all the rest of the traditionary geography, whose charms or terrors have been immortalized, in a hundred novels and romances. The regions, which furnish the local habitation' of these Tales, is not only new ground, but is in itself fertile of interest. Something of Oriental adventure attaches itself to whatever is Russian; while the fairy frostwork' of the North is superadded, with its glittering and brilliant imagery.

The first of the two Tales contained in the publication before us, is called the 'Prisoners of Caucasus.' The scene is laid in the mountain fastnesses of the unsubdued tribes, that inhabit the spots, to which philosophers now trace the whole proud family of the homo sapiens Europæus, and where the most perfect models of female beauty are still supposed to be found. Count de Maistre has sketched this landscape, no doubt, with a faithful, but with somewhat too sparing and rapid a hand. He traversed the region, at the head of his military command, and he has rather torn out a leaf of his book of surveys, than given us an amateur's painting. But we pay him the best compliment in our power by adding, that what he has done in this way, has but increased our wish, that he had indulged himself freely in these delineations. We much mistake, if the few following sentences do not place the reader on a field of action, new, peculiar, and awakening the hope of adventure.

'The Mountains of Caucasus have for a long time been included within the limits of the Russian empire, without forming a part of its jurisdiction. Their uncivilized inhabitants, divided by interests and unconnected by language, form a cluster of small tribes, who have little political connexion, but are equally animated by a love of independence and a spirit of rapine.

'One of the most numerous and formidable of these tribes, is that of the Tchetchengs, who inhabit the great and little Kabarda; two provinces, the high valleys of which extend to the summits of Caucasus. They are a handsome, spirited, intelligent people, but rapacious and cruel, and in a state of continual hostility with the "troops of the Line." Under this latter name are comprehended several military posts, occupied by the Russian troops, between the Caspian and Black Seas, from the mouth of the Terek to the entrance of the Kuban.

It is in the midst of these dangerous hordes, and in the centre of this immense range of mountains, that the Russian government has opened a road of communication with its Asiatic possessions. Redoubts, built at intervals, secure the road into Georgia; but no traveller would be daring enough to traverse alone the intermediate space; twice every week a convoy of infantry, with a few field pieces and a strong detachment of Cossacks, affords an escort to travellers and to the messengers of government. One of these fortifications, erected at the entrance of the mountains, has insensibly assumed the appearance of a well peopled village; and, from its commanding situation, it is called " Wladi-Caucasus (" "Wladeti" signifying in the Russian language, to command, domineer); and it is the residence of the officer who

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commands the troops engaged in the fatiguing service, which has been briefly described.' pp. 13-15.

We have not space to make copious extracts from this pleasing tale; nor is it worth while to reduce it to a skeleton of an abstract. It is, as presented to us by the author, a compressed narrative. The incidents given are enough for a full sized romance, with no greater expansion than the rules of art admit, and, to speak critically on the subject, the story is too full of adventure. The author, in the attempt to embody it in too small a compass, has not allowed himself sufficient room, either for scenery or character, and has been obliged to leave some parts of the story too little motivés to please. Thus the murder of Mamet, as related, seems an unnecessary piece of cruelty, not requisite to furnish out the composition of Ivan's character, nor seemingly required by anything else in the plot. With a little more care in the execution, it could have been avoided or shown to be necessary.

We have indulged ourselves in these strictures, because we fear we shall have to bestow unqualified praise on Prascovia Lopouloff; a tale every way meriting the attention of the reader, and sure to reward it. This is the name of the heroine, whose adventures form the subject of Madame Cottin's charming romance. The incidents related in Count de Maistre's work were matters of notoriety in Petersburg; the residence and connexions of the author at that capital put it in his power to become acquainted with them, and the use made of the names of the imperial family, by a person of rank and character, is a sufficient guaranty for the authenticity of the facts. Here, then, is the real exploit, which, though it seems in Madame Cottin's novel to go beyond the bounds of possibility, is yet, in the authentic narrative, far more astonishing; inasmuch as an humbler education, than that ascribed to Elizabeth, makes the conception of her design more extraordinary, on the part of the wonderful girl, who undertook and achieved it. It appears from this narrative, that when she left her home, to traverse the Russian empire, a distance of three thousand wersts, to ask her father's pardon of the emperor, this poor female was unable to read or write.

We freely confess, that 'Prascovia Lopouloff,' although inferior in mere literary execution to Elizabeth,' is, in our opinion of the matter, infinitely before it in character and interest. In all the points of difference, the advantage is decidedly in favor of Prascovia.' Madame Cottin, fearing that the simple truth was neither

quite dramatic nor quite elevated enough, has given us rather more plot and a good deal more sentiment; and it would be certainly churlish to quarrel with her elegant performance. But what could be added to the truth of such an adventure? There were but two possible ways, in which a severe taste could admit of the treatment of this subject. It must either be told in its pure Doric simplicity, as Count de Maistre has told it, or it must be transfigured, by some Shaksperian power, beyond the reach of any common genius. Madame Cottin, of course, could not think of this way of proceeding, and she has, therefore, sacrificed the stern and chaste character of the truth, by adding to it the ordinary appendages of a novel. She has made of her subject a performance, which stands in somewhat the same relation to the reality (and that is the work, not of Count de Maistre, but of Truth and Fact), as one of Ducis' translations stands in, to the original of Shakspeare. As Quintilian tells his pupil, that he may be sure of having made good progress, who delights in Cicero, we would say to all our youthful readers, into all whose hands the Russian Tales' we trust will pass, that unless they prefer Prascovia' to 'Elizabeth,' their taste needs correcting.

The ingenious and distinguished translator, who has favored the American public with the version of these Tales, has, in his Preface, alluded to another heroine as a conception unquestionably suggested by the adventures of Prascovia. He expresses himself in the following manner.

A comparison of the "Heart of Mid Lothian," and of " Prascovia Lopouloff," may, at once, illustrate the difference between the texture of mere imaginary tales, and romantic stories which have the recommendation of truth, and place in a strong light the distinctive and preeminent talent of the author of the Waverley novels. Both heroines are represented as uneducated, and are alike lovely in their native excellence. Their undertakings are the noblest display of female heroism; they come into contact with almost every class of society; they address monarchs and ministers, encounter numerous toils and dangers, experience a great variety of fortune, and succeed beyond their hopes. Yet, how different are the two works! Had the great novelist undertaken to write the history of the Russian heroine, he hardly could have avoided introducing probable though not actual events, fictitious incidents merely for the sake of their dramatic effect, and characteristic but extensive dialogues. Count Maistre was either conscious that he could not be successful in such amplifications of feeling, such developments of character, and such an unravelling

of action, or, confining himself to the simple duty of a biographer, he preferred to interest by mere sketches, chalked out with a vigorous and steady hand. Perhaps Retsch might not, in so masterly a manner, have illustrated some scenes of Göthe's Faustus, in finished engravings, as in his outlines. Yet, to real talent alone is it given to know the compass and strength of its own powers. pp. 8-10.

These observations of M. de Wallenstein are just; and the allusion to Retsch's Sketches remarkably happy. Another inference also may be made from the comparison of Jeannie Deans with Prascovia, either in Count de Maistre's or Madame Cottin's personation. The enterprise really achieved by the Russian heroine, was incomparably more arduous, than that ascribed to Jeannie Deans. The difference in point of distance, between the journey from Siberia to St Petersburg and that from Edinburgh to London, vast as is that difference, is but a single circumstance, in which the true exploit exceeds the fictitious. But how different is the effect of their treatment; for more, far more than Count de Maistre has excelled Madame Cottin, does the purely fictitious Jeannie surpass even Prascovia. This is the triumph of creative, or as we have just called it, Shaksperian genius; and though the simple and devoted heroism of the forlorn Siberian girl was unquestionably the model, on which Jeannie's character was constructed, the production of the master mind exceeds even that of nature, in all the difference between an idealized statue and a portrait. To express all that we would say on this topic, we might compare Prascovia to a vigorous and faithful painting from life; Elizabeth to what is called a flattered likeness; and Jeannie Deans to one of those creations of the chisel or the pencil, where nature herself is outdone by the genius of her great lord, selecting, combining, and ennobling her most lovely features.

We would not entirely dismiss this work, without a well deserved compliment to the success, with which the translation has been executed. Let the reader, who wishes to judge of this, and we will suppose him to be one of the well educated, accomplished young men, who talk of knowing French, Italian, and Spanish, on the score of being able to exchange a salutation in those tongues, let him make the experiment of translating an English book, into either of them, and submit his performance for revision to a native Frenchman, Italian, or Spaniard. The defects in language, in this version, are neither so numerous nor