Kozlóv, dressed her hair in her interior boudoir. She wore her hair
low and very simple; it was done up in the old fashion, with small
locks behind her ears. Then she went into the boudoir, where we all
waited for her; our society was then increased by four spinsters who
came to serve the Empress at her toilet. One of them, M. S. Aleksyéev,
passed some ice to the Empress, who rubbed her face with it, probably
in order to show that she did not like any other washes; another, A.
A. Polokúchi, pinned a crêpe ornament to her hair, and the two sisters
Zvyerév handed her the pins. This toilet lasted not more than ten
minutes, and during that time the Empress conversed with some one of
the persons present, among whom there was often the Chief Equerry,
Lev Sergyéevich Narýshkin, and sometimes Count Strogonóv, who were
her favourite society. Having bid the company good-bye, the Empress
returned with her maids into the sleeping-room, where she dressed
herself for dinner, with their aid and with the aid of Márya Sávishna,
while we all went home. On week-days the Empress wore simple silk
dresses, which were all made almost according to the same pattern, and
which were known as Moldavian; the upper garment was usually of lilac
or greyish colour, and without her decorations,--her lower garment
white; on holidays she wore a brocade gown, with three decorations--the
crosses of St. Andrew, St. George and St. Vladímir, and sometimes she
put on all the sashes that belong to these decorations, and a small
crown; she wore not very high-heeled shoes.
Her dinner was set for two o’clock. During the week there were
generally invited to dinner, of ladies, the Maid of Honour Protásov
and Countess Branítski; of gentlemen, Adjutant-General P. V. Pássek,
A. A. Narýshkin, Count Strogonóv, the two French emigrants, the good
Count Esterházy and the black Marquis de Lambert, at times Vice-Admiral
Ribas, Governor-General of the Polish provinces Tutolmín, and finally
the Marshal of the Court, Prince Baryatínski. On holidays there were
invited also other military and civil officers who lived in St.
Petersburg, down to the fourth class, and, on special celebrations,
down to the sixth class. The ordinary dinner of the Empress did not
last more than an hour. She was very abstemious in her food: she never
breakfasted, and at dinner she tasted with moderation of not more than
three or four courses; she drank only a glass of Rhine or Hungarian
wine; she never ate supper. For this reason she was, in spite of her
sixty-five years and industrious habits, quite well and lively. At
times, indeed, her legs swelled and sores were opened up, but that only
served to purify her humours, consequently was advantageous for her
health. It is asserted that her death took place solely through the
closing up of these sores.
After dinner all the guests immediately departed. The Empress was
left alone: in summer she sometimes took a nap, but in winter never.
She sometimes listened, until the evening assembly, to the foreign
mail which arrived twice a week; sometimes she read a book, or made
cameo imprints on paper; this she did also during the reading of her
mail by P. A., or Count Markóv, or Popóv; but the latter was rarely
invited to read, on account of his poor pronunciation of French,
though he was nearly always present in the secretary’s room. At six
o’clock there assembled the aforementioned persons, and others of the
Empress’s acquaintance whom she specially designated, in order to
pass the evening hours. On Hermitage days, which were generally on
Thursdays, there was a performance, to which many ladies and gentlemen
were invited; after the performance they all went home. On other days
the reception was in the Empress’s apartments. She played rocambole or
whist, generally with P. A., E. V. Chertkóv and Count Strogonóv; there
were also card-tables for the other guests. At ten o’clock the Empress
retired to her inner apartments; at eleven she was in bed, and in all
the rooms reigned a deep silence.
Gavrílo Petróvich Kámenev. (1772-1803.)
Kámenev wrote very few poems, and his reputation rests on his ballad
_Gromvál_, which is remarkable for its flowing verse, the first two
lines being in dactylic measure, and the last two lines of each stanza
in anapests. Its main importance, however, lies in the fact that it
was the first successful attempt at Romantic verse in the Russian
language. Púshkin said of him: “Kámenev was the first in Russia who
had the courage to abandon the classic school, and we Russian Romantic
poets must bring a fitting tribute to his memory.”
GROMVÁL
In my mind’s eye I rapidly fly, rapidly piercing the dimness of time; I
lift the veil of hoary antiquity, and I see Gromvál on his good horse.
The plumes wave upon his helmet, the tempered arrows clang in his
quiver; he is borne over the clear field like a whirlwind, in burnished
armour with his sharp spear.
The sun is setting behind the mountains of flint, the evening is
descending from the aërial heights. The hero arrives in the murky
forest, and only through its tops he sees the sky.
The storm, shrouded in sullen night, hastens to the west on sable
pinions; the waters groan, the oak woods rustle, and centennial oaks
creak and crack.
There is no place to protect oneself against the storm and rain; there
is no cave, no house is seen; only through the dense darkness now
glistens, now goes out, through the branches of the trees, a little
fire in the distance.
With hope in his heart, with daring in his soul, slowly travelling
through the forest towards the fire, the hero arrives at the bank of a
brook, and suddenly he sees nearby and in front of him a castle.
A blue flame gleams within and reflects the light in the flowing
stream; shadows pass to and fro in the windows, and howls and groans
issue dully from them.
The knight swiftly dismounts from his horse and goes to the
grass-covered gate; he strikes mightily against it with his steel
spear, but only echoes in the forest respond to the knocking.
Immediately the fire within the castle goes out, and the light dies in
the embrace of darkness; the howls and groans grow silent, too; the
storm increases, the rain is doubled.
At the powerful stroke of his mighty hand the firmness of the iron
gates gives way: the latches are broken, the hinges creak, and fearless
Gromvál goes in.
He unsheathes his sword, ready to strike, and, groping, goes into the
castle. Quiet and gloom lie over all, only through the windows and
chinks the whirlwind whistles.
The knight cries out in anger and in grief: “Ferocious wizard, greedy
Zlomár! You have compelled Gromvál to wander over the world, you have
stolen Rognyéda, his companion!
“Many a kingdom and land have I passed, have struck down mighty knights
and monsters, have vanquished giants with my mighty hand, but have not
yet found my beloved Rognyéda!
“Where do you dwell, evil Zlomár? In wild mountain fastnesses, in
caves, in forests, in murky underground passages, in the depth of the
sea do you hide her from my view?
“If I find your habitation, wicked magician, evil sorcerer, I will drag
Rognyéda out of her captivity, I will pull out your black heart from
your breast.”
The knight grows silent, and sleep comes over him. Fatigue and night
make him a bed. Without taking off his armour, in the breastplate and
helmet, he kneels down and falls into a deep sleep.
The clouds hurry away, and the storm dies down, the stars grow dim,
the east grows light; the morning star awakes, Zimtsérla blooms like a
crimson rose, but Gromvál is still asleep.
The sun rolls over the vault of heaven, at noon glows with its heated
rays, and the pitch of the pines waters through the bark, but sleep
still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
The forerunner of the night with olive brow glances from the east upon
the forest and fields, and from an urn sprinkles dew upon the sward;
but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
Night, with cypress crown upon its head, in a garment woven of darkness
and stars, walks frowning, over stairs, to its throne; but sleep still
keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
Clouds congest in the vault of heaven, darkness grows thick, midnight
comes on; the hero, awakening from his deep sleep, wonders when he sees
not the crimson dawn.
Suddenly peals roar in the castle like thunder; the walls shake, the
windows rattle, and, as lightnings rapidly flash in the darkness, the
hall is made bright with a terrible fire.
All the doors bang loud as they open: in white shrouds, with candles in
their hands, shadows appear; behind them skeletons carry in their bony
hands an iron coffin.
They place the coffin in the vast hall; immediately the lid flies off,
and the wizard Zlomár, O horrible sight! lies breathless within, with
open eyes.
The floor opens wide, and a hellish fire rises up in a howling
whirlwind and thunder, and, embracing the iron coffin, heats it to a
white glow; Zlomár sighs the heavy sigh of Gehenna.
In his wild, fierce, bloodshot eyes terror is painted, despair and
grief; from his mouth black foam boils in a cloud, but the magician
lies motionless, like a corpse.
The ghosts and skeletons, taking each other’s hands, yell, howl, laugh,
whistle; raving in rapturous orgy, they dance a hellish dance around
his coffin.
Midnight passes in a terrible entertainment, and their groans and
howls thunder ever more horrible. But scarcely has the herald of
morning crowed three times, when ghosts, skeletons and coffin suddenly
disappear.
There is darkness as in the grave, and quiet all around; in the
forest nearby is silence and gloom. Gromvál perplexed, marvels at the
appearance, and wondering does not believe himself.
Suddenly a magic flute is heard, and the sound of the harp strikes his
ears: the vault of the hall bursts open, and a rose-coloured beam, with
its soft light, dispels dense night.
In a light cloud of fragrant vapours, as if a fresh breeze were blowing
and a swan gently gliding high up in the air, a sorceress softly
descends into the hall.
Purer than the lily is her garment; her girdle shines on her waist like
hyacinth; like the twinkle of the gold-gleaming eastern star, merriment
beams in her eyes.
With a pleasant voice Dobráda speaks: “Sad knight, submit to your fate!
Zlomár is no longer; fate has for ever cleared the world from that
wrongdoer.
“Into the abyss of hell he has been hurled for ever; the jaws of
Gehenna have swallowed him; with the gurgling of the lava and the roar
of the fire, the abyss alone will hear his howl and groan.
“Death, transgressing the law of nature, has not deprived the
magician’s body of feeling: the shades of persons by him destroyed
nightly torment him here in the castle.
“Knight, hasten to your Rognyéda! To the south of the forest, in a
sandy plain, in a steel prison of Zlomár’s castle, two winged Zilants
watch her.
“Accept this magic horn from me; it has the power to close the jaws of
monsters. But listen! You cannot save Rognyéda without shedding her
blood,--thus the fates have decreed.”
The magic strings sound again; the cloud is wafted upwards with
Dobráda. Struck dumb by this speech, and beside himself, Gromvál, like
a statue of stone, follows her with his glances.
Holding the emerald horn in his hand, in bitter resentment, the hero
exclaims: “Ill-starred gift of the faithless sorceress, you promise
happiness to me by the death of Rognyéda!
“No! I tremble at the very thought, and my heart flies a sacrifice
to her. But, Gromvál, obey the dictum of fate, and hasten to destroy
Zlomár’s sorcery.
“If you cannot save Rognyéda, lay the castle in ruins, vanquish the
Zilants,--shed your heroic blood for her, and crown your love with an
heroic death!”
A beautiful morning with radiant beam gilds the tops of century oaks.
Turning his horse to the midday sun, our knight leaves both the castle
and forest.
Ravines, cliffs, rapids, crags, groan under the heavy beats of the
hoofs; dense dust like a cloud and whirling in a pillar flies upwards
where Gromvál races.
Through the gloomy pass of a rocky mount the knight rides into a vast
steppe: an ocean of sand spreads before his view, and in the distance,
it seems mingled with the sky.
No wind stirs the sandy waves; heat breathes there its pestiferous
breath; no shrubs rustle there, nor brooks babble: all is quiet and
still as in the cemetery at midnight.
Through that wilderness, those terrible fields, no road leads, no
tracks are seen; only in the east one can discern a steep mountain, and
upon it a mighty castle stands out black in the distance.
Struggling three days with thirst and heat, the hero passes the barrier
of death; on his worn-out steed, and in a bloody perspiration, he
slowly reaches the foot of the mountain.
Over slippery paths on overhanging cliffs that threaten to crash down
into the valley, slowly ascending the narrow footpath above an abyss,
Gromvál reaches the top and castle.
Zlomár has built this castle with the power of Gehenna and the spirits
of Hell. The turrets that tower above black cliffs announce destruction
and evil death.
With Rognyéda in his heart, with bravery in his soul, Gromvál, like a
fierce storm, breaks the hinges of the cast-iron doors, and with his
tempered spear enters the terrible castle.
Furious he advances,--under his mighty heel dead bones and skulls
crack; ravens, birds of the night and bats are awakened in the mossy
crevices of the walls.
They hover like a cloud above the castle, and their terrible cries
shake the air; the Zilants, hearing Gromvál’s arrival, begin to howl
and whistle, and flap their wings.
Opening their jaws, they fly against him; their stings issue from their
mouths like spears; they rattle their scales, bending their tails, and
stretch out their destructive claws from their feet.
The hero blows his emerald horn,--the sound deafens them, and they fall
like rocks; their wings are clipt, their jaws are closed; falling into
a sleep of death, they lie in mounds.
In rapture the knight flies to the dungeon to embrace Rognyéda with
flaming heart; but instead, an enormous door is opened, and a giant,
mailed in armour, comes to meet him.
His furious glances are comets in the dark; brass is his corselet,
lead his warclub; grey moss of the bog is his beard, a black forest
after the storm the hair on his head.
Swinging his club with a terrible might, the giant lets it fall on
Gromvál and strikes his valiant head: the echo shakes, reverberating
through the castle.
The helmet clangs and is shattered to pieces; sparks issue from his
dark eyes. From the stroke the club is bent as a bow, but Gromvál, like
a rock, does not move from the spot.
The sword flashes in his heroic hand, and strikes the wretch like a
thunderbolt; his strong brass would have broken to splinters, but the
blade glides down his magic coat of mail.
The giant roars in evil madness, breathes flames, trembles with anger;
he swells the muscles of his powerful shoulders, and threatens to crush
Gromvál in his claws.
Death is unavoidable, destruction near; his terrible hands touch his
corselet; but Gromvál, seizing his leg like an oak, makes him totter,
and brings him to his fall.
The giant falls like a crumbling tower, and shakes all the castle
with his terrible cry; the walls recede, the battlements fall; he is
prostrate on the ground, and has dug a grave in the damp earth.
Grasping his throat with his mighty hand, Gromvál thrusts his sword
into his jaws; the giant’s teeth gnash against the steel; he roars and
groans, and writhes in convulsions.
Black foam and crimson blood lash and gush from his mouth; furious
with suffering, battling with death, he digs the earth with his feet,
trembles, lies in the agony of death.
Mingling in a boiling stream the giant’s blood wells up; a gentle
vapour, rising from it in a cloud, forms the outline of fair Rognyéda.
The roses in her cheeks, the charm in her eyes, the crimson lips beckon
for a kiss; her hair, falling like velvet over her shoulders, veils her
swan’s breast.
Gromvál marvels at this miracle: does he see a vision or a real being?
Approaching her with hope and hesitation, he presses not a dream, but
Rognyéda to his breast.
Filled with passionate rapture, Gromvál addresses his love with tender
words: “Long, oh, long have I sought you, Rognyéda, and have, like a
shadow, wandered over the wide world!”
Drawing a deep breath, she says: “The evil magician, the cunning
Zlomár, impelled by his despicable passion, brought me to this
enchanted castle.
“Here he touched me with his magic wand, and deprived me of memory and
feelings. Falling immediately into a mysterious trance, I have ever
since been shrouded in deepest darkness.”
Taking Rognyéda by her hand, Gromvál softly descends to the foot of the
mountain. He seats her behind him on his steed, and like an arrow flies
back on the road.
Deep darkness covers the castle; thunders roar furiously in the night;
stormy whirlwinds, tearing themselves away from their chains, howl, and
the flinty ribs of the rock tremble.
With a terrible roar the earth bursts open, and the towers fall into
the bottomless abyss; the Zilants, dungeon, giants are overthrown:
Gromvál has vanquished the magic of Zlomár.
Vladisláv Aleksándrovich Ózerov. (1770-1816.)
Ózerov entered the military school when a child, left it as a
lieutenant in 1788, and then was made adjutant to the director of the
school, Count Anhalt, who died in 1794. His first literary venture
was an _In Memoriam_ to the director, written in French. He then
tried himself in odes and shorter songs, of which only the _Hymn to
the God of Love_ rises above mediocrity. He scored his first great
success in his tragedy _Œdipus at Athens_, which produced a stirring
effect upon the audience. This was followed by _Fingal_, the subject
being from Ossian. But the drama that most affected his generation was
_Dimítri Donskóy_, which appeared opportunely on the eve of Napoleon’s
invasion, in 1807. The element of tearfulness, or “sentimentality,” as
Karamzín called it, which Ózerov was the first to introduce into the
Russian tragedy, and the patriotic subject which he developed in his
_Dimítri Donskóy_ combined to make his plays very popular, though his
verse is rather heavy and artificial.
DIMÍTRI DONSKÓY
ACT I., SCENE I. DIMÍTRI AND THE OTHER PRINCES, BOYÁRS AND GENERALS
_Dimítri._ Russian princes, boyárs, generals, you who have crossed the
Don to find liberty and, at last, to cast off the yokes that have been
forced upon us! How long were we to endure the dominion of the Tartars
in our land, and, content with an humble fate, sit as slaves on our
princely throne? Two centuries had nearly passed when Heaven in its
anger sent that scourge against us; for almost two centuries the foes,
now openly, now hidden, like hungry ravens, like insatiable wolves,
have been destroying, burning, plundering us. I have called you here to
avenge us: the time has now come to repay the foe for our calamities.
The Kipchák horde has, like a gigantic burden, been lying on Russian
shoulders, spreading desolation and terror all around, but now, heavy
by its own weight, it has fallen to pieces. Civil strife, dissension
and all the ills which heretofore had brought the Russian land to utter
weakness, have now penetrated the horde. New khans have arisen who
have torn themselves loose from it; but the insatiable tyrants, having
barely risen, threaten our land. The most insatiable of them and most
cunning, Mamáy, the accursed ruler of the Trans-Don horde, has risen
against us in an unjust war. He is hurrying against us, and perhaps
with to-morrow’s dawn will appear before our camp. But seeing the
sudden union of the Russian forces, his heart was disturbed, and his
mind misgave him, so he decided to send first an embassy to us. Friends
of Dimítri, do you advise to receive them? Or, remaining firm in our
heroic intention, shall we answer Mamáy in front of our army, when the
first bold onslaught of the Russians would resound upon the earth and
would frighten the Tartars?
_Tverskóy._ Let us give the answer before the army in the field of
battle! None of us, O princes, can be more anxious than I to avenge
ourselves on the inhuman foe. Whose family can compare with the
Tverskóys in misfortunes they have borne? My grandfather and his sire,
after endless tortures, lay their heads in the graves through the
treachery of the infidel, and their ashes groan under the power of the
horde. Grand Prince of Russia, you have called us hither not to enter
into parley with Mamáy, but to decide in battle and end all discord
with him....
_Byelózerski._ Oh, how happy am I to have lived to see this day, to
contemplate here the concord and love among the princes, and the
unanimous zeal in your hearts against the enemy! I, about to bear my
age into the yawning grave, will be able to bring hope to the departed
fathers, that the honour of the Russian land is to be reinstated,
that her power and glory is to return. O shades of Vladímir, and you,
shades of Yarosláv, ancestral heads of princely houses! In the lap
of the angels you will rejoice, as you foresee the blessed time when
the disunited nation of Russian tribes, uniting with one soul into
one whole, will triumphantly appear a threatening giant, and united
Russia will give laws to the world! Dimítri, your victory is certain!
No, never before has such an army been gathered in so far-reaching a
camp, either by your grandfather Iván, or Simeón the Terrible, or your
meek father! I, the old leader of the forces of Byelózersk, have never
seen Russia lead out such numbers of bold warriors. Of all the Russian
princes, Olég alone has remained in idleness at Ryazán, and without
interest in the expedition; his ear alone is deaf to the common groan.
May the memory of those perish whose spirit can with quiet eye see the
country’s woes, or rather, let their name with disgrace and endless
shame pass to late posterity! Yet, my lord, however flattering your
success may be, my advice is to receive the Tartar embassy, and if we
can establish peace by paying a tribute to Mamáy.... (_All the princes
express dissatisfaction._)
_Dimítri._ O Prince of Byelózersk, what do you propose? Fearing strife,
to acknowledge the Tartar’s power by paying a shameful tribute?
_Byelózerski._ To spare the priceless Christian blood. If we conquer
Mamáy, look out, the hordes will once more unite for our common woe;
beware, this temporarily successful exploit will again rouse their
ambitious spirit, and they will perceive at last how injurious for
their ambition their strife is, which separates their khans. The
murders, fire, slaughter of wives and children which the Tartars have
perpetrated against us, in their opinion, give the hordes a right over
us. They deem Russia to be their patrimony. Seeing our bravery, they
will stop their disorders, and will soon, united, bring misery on the
Russians. Rather give them a chance to weaken in their destructive
discord; let us gather strength in the peaceful quiet and, warding off
the chances of war, choose peace instead of useless victory.
_Dimítri._ Oh, better death in battle than dishonourable peace! Thus
our ancestors thought, thus we, too, will think. Those times are
past when timid minds saw in the Tartars a tool of Heaven, which
it is senseless and improper to oppose. In our days honour and the
very voice of faith arm us against the tormentors. That voice, that
prophetic voice of faith, proclaims to us that an immortal crown awaits
the fallen in battle, that through the grave they pass to eternal
joy. O Sérgi, pastor of souls, whom the groans of fellow-citizens
have so often disturbed in your hermit prayers, and whose tears have
so abundantly flowed lamenting the fate of the innocent, O you who
with sacred hand blessed us for the impending battle! In your hermit
cell, where you pass your humble days, listen to my words: inspired
by you, they will inflame the Russian hearts to seek here liberty or
the heavenly crown! ’Tis better to cease living, or not to be born
at all, than to submit to the yoke of a foreign tribe, than with the
name of payers of tribute to flatter their greed. Can we with such
slavery avert our misfortunes? He who pays a tribute is weak; he who
evinces a weak spirit invites arrogant lust to insult. But I am ready
to receive the Khan’s messenger and to bring him before the assembly
of the princes, not to listen to the shameless propositions of Tartar
arrogance, but to announce to him the resolve for war, that he may
read valour in our brows, and, shuddering, bear terror into Mamáy’s
camp.
_Smolénski._ The whole assembly announces assent to your advice.
_Dimítri._ The messenger awaits the decision near the tent. You,
Brénski, bring in the Tartars that have come to us!
Prince Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki. (1764-1823.)
Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki was the grandson of Prince Iván
Aleksyéevich, the favourite of Peter II. (see p. 233). In 1791 he left
the army with the rank of brigadier. He was then made Vice-Governor of
Pénza, where he sought relief from the humdrum life of a provincial
town in reading and in writing poetry. One of the first of his
poems to attract attention was the envoi _To my Lackey_; he became
universally known through his _My Penza Fireplace_. In 1802 he was
appointed Governor of Vladímir. Not long after his return to Moscow
he was forced to retire before the advancing Frenchmen. During his
retreat he wrote his _Lament of Moscow_. His best poem is probably his
_Legacy_. While not a poet of the first order, Dolgorúki displayed
great originality and much depth of feeling. This is what he himself
said of his poems: “In my poems I wished to preserve all the shades
of my feelings, to see in them, as in a picture, the whole history
of my heart, its agitation, the change in my manner of thinking, the
progress of my thoughts in the different ages of my life, and the
gradual development of my small talents. Every verse reminds me of
some occurrence, or thought, or mood that influenced me at such and
such a moment.... That is the key to the originality which many are so
kind as to ascribe to my productions.” _The Legacy_ was translated by
Sir John Bowring.
THE LEGACY
When time’s vicissitudes are ended,
Be this, be this my place of rest;
Here let my bones with earth be blended,
Till sounds the trumpet of the blest.
For here, in common home, are mingled
Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled;
And those whom fortune, fame passed by,
All mingled, and all mouldering;--folly
And wisdom, mirth and melancholy,
Slaves, tyrants,--all mixt carelessly.
List! ’Tis the voice of time,--Creation’s
Unmeasured arch repeats the tone;
Look! E’en like shadows, mighty nations
Are born, flit by us, and are gone!
See! Children of a common father,
See stranger-crowds, like vapours gather;
Sires, sons, descendants, come and go.
Sad history! Yet e’en there the spirit
Some joys may build, some hopes inherit,
And wisdom gather flowers from woe.
There, like a bee-swarm, round the token
Of unveiled truth shall sects appear,
And evil’s poisonous sting be broken
In the bright glance of virtue’s spear.
And none shall ask, what dormitory
Was this man’s doom, what robes of glory
Wore he, what garlands crowned his brow,--
Was pomp his slave?--Come now, discover
The heart, the soul,--Delusion’s over,--
What was his conduct?--Answer now!
Where stands yon hill-supported tower,
By Fili, shall I wake again,
Summoned to meet Almighty Power
In judgment, like my fellow-men.
I shall be there, and friends and brothers,
Sisters and children, fathers, mothers,--
With joy that never shall decay;
The soul, substantial blessing beaming
(All here is shadowy and seeming),
Drinks bliss no time can sweep away.
Friends, on my brow that rests when weary
Erect no proud and pompous pile:
Your monuments are vain and dreary,
Their splendour cannot deck the vile.
A green grave, by no glare attended,
With other dust and ashes blended,
Oh, let my dust and ashes lie!
There, as I sleep, Time, never sleeping,
Shall gather ages to his keeping,
For such is nature’s destiny.
My wife, my children shall inherit
All I possessed,--’twas mine, ’tis theirs;
For death, that steals the living spirit,
Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
No garments of the raven borrow;
’Tis idle charge, ’tis costly pride.
Be gay, through rain and frosty weather,
Nor gather idle priests together
To chant my humble grave beside.
Cry, orphans! Cry, ye poor! imploring
The everlasting God, that He
May save me when I sink, adoring,
Amidst His boundless mercy-sea.
My blessing to my foes be given,
Their curses far from me be driven,
Nor break upon my hallowed bliss;
God needs no studied words from mortals,
A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals,--
He could not err, He taught us this.
No songs, no elegy,--death hearkens
To music ne’er though sweet it be:
When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
Then let oblivion shadow me.
No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
’Tis all parade and shifting glare:--
A stream, where scattered trees are growing,
A secret tear, in silence flowing,
No monument as these so fair.
Such slumber here, their memory flashes
Across my thoughts.--Hail, sister, hail!
I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes,
And soon shall share thy mournful tale.
Thou hast paid thy earthly debts,--’tis ended,
Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended,
The circle of thy being run;
And now in peace thy history closes,
And thy stilled, crumbling frame reposes
Where life’s short, feverish play is done.
I live and toil,--my thoughts still follow
The idle world:--my care pursue
Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow,
And vanities still false, though new.
Then fly I earthly joys, I find them
Leave terror-working stings behind them:
“Beware, beware!” experience cries;
Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty,
One smile of yonder flattering beauty
Would make me waste even centuries.
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part II.
MY MOSCOW FIREPLACE
Scarcely have we seen summer, behold, winter is here! The frosts drive
us into our rooms, and will for a long time keep us within. Nature’s
beauty is changed, and dimmed by the veil of night. Oh, what shall I
do? What begin? I will move up to my dear fireplace, and will share
with it, as before, my melancholy.
Whatever countries I have been in, whether my house was large or
small, whether I paraded in high palace halls, or retired to my
apartments,--the fireplace, my winter benefactor, was everywhere
the witness of my acts: whole days I passed with it alone; pining,
sorrows and annoyances, consolation, pleasure, joy,--my fireplace has
experienced them all.
Whenever I mentally survey all human lots in this world, and by
the fireplace in my study judge of humanity, I with difficulty can
harmonise in my imagination the opinions of happiness that are common
to all. The whole world lives in a noise and din; but what does it find
in place of happiness? New causes for worriment.
Kings, of their own free will, leave the throne and hasten to arms; in
their elevated place they not seldom curse their lives. No matter how
boyárs grow stout, they also pale in their good fortune, like their
lowest slave. He in his unbounded sphere, the other in his earth hut,
or cave,--both are weak against the attack.
Everywhere they have written of happiness, and will always prate about
it, but they have nowhere found it. Yes, ’tis difficult to attain! And
I, though a simple man, can also like a philosopher aver it is within
me; but where, and how to find it?--I do not know! In sorrow I suffer
openly; whenever I am merry, ’tis as if in a dream.
Protesting against the evil of the passions, knitting his brow, like
Cato, when all is quiet in his soul, the philosopher proclaims his law:
“Why be enslaved by passions? We must submit to reason. All our desires
are an empty dream; all upon earth, O men, is transitory: seek eternal
happiness in Heaven, for the world is vanity of vanities.
“If one dish satisfies your hunger, why have three? If you have a
caftan, what is the use of five? What need is there of a pile of money?
When you die, you will not take it with you. Contract the limits of
your necessities, flee from the city into the country, live quietly
your allotted time, with equanimity bear insults, magnanimously suffer
sorrow, be more than man!”
What are you yourself, my teacher? Are you a god, or an angel in the
flesh? Guardian of deep wisdom, permit me to look within you! Reveal
to us not your mind alone, but your feelings, announce to us without
ambiguity: are you yourself? I see, you are a vain hypocrite: you do
not believe your own sermon, you are an empty-sounding cymbal.
Oh, if people all lived as reason bids them! If feelings were more
gentle, if the fount of blood did not boil,--how nice life would be!
All would be peace and security, and love the tie of all the lands;
people would not devour each other; and a Frenchman, an Arab, a
Mussulman would live in harmony together.
Oh, if ... I need but place this word at the head, and my pen creates
at once a new earth, nay, heaven. All kingdoms will flow with
abundance, all men will be equally strong, nowhere there shall be snow,
nor winter, but flowers will grow the year around, and we will not run
to the fireplace,--we shall be regenerated.
Oh no! I am sorry for the fireplace! Let us leave all as it is: we
cannot reproduce what my reason has evoked. Let the sphere circle
around, and let each various chimera disport with every mind! The
Creator will turn all for the best: to-day the chill disturbs us, but
the thunder of the summer does not terrify us.
I hear at all times of the good qualities of countrymen, what beautiful
lives they lead, and how the law of nature is not trampled upon by
them. “Their manners,” they assert, “are coarser, but their amusements
are incomparably simpler than ours: they live in freedom with each
other, do not drink nor eat according to the fashion.” ’Tis not true!
When we listen to serenades on a beautiful summer day, while limpid
waterfalls make a rippling noise, and the shade of cedars protects us
from the heat, the peasant hitches his horse to the plough and tears
up the earth, or hauls a log, or, if it be winter, looks through dim
windows, through which nothing can be seen, at the blizzard without.
Fireplace, I will not exchange you for all the treasures of the lords!
You are often my consolation, and always pleasant and agreeable to
me. Let sorrows be inevitable: joy is coextensive with them. You are
the throne of my amusements; but I am satisfied with my books; I feel
with them neither pain, nor think my room small, and I read them as my
spirit prompts me.
But when I leave my book, and fix my eyes upon the fireplace, with what
pleasure I recall the host of various incidents! I at once reproduce
in my mind the picture of my youth, and the progress and cause of my
cares; I even now, as it were, glance to the north, and south, and the
capital, and the Finland border.
I accuse myself before thee, my Lord! I have in vain killed my youth;
carried on the wave of habit, I have given my days and nights to
dreaming. I, tossed now hither, now thither, hastened to make new
acquaintances, and thought: “This is all a loan I make; some day the
debt, I am sure, will be duly returned to me.”
’Tis time to adapt myself to the custom! I shall soon be forty years
old: it is time to learn from experience that to judge people rightly,
to know this world, to seek friends is a self-deception and vain
endeavour of the heart. The measure of human indifference is in our
days full to overflowing; ask for no examples: alas! there are too many
of them.
In your presence all will praise you, but let there be an occasion for
helping you, and your worth will be depreciated, or without saying a
word they will walk away. If one be cunning, he will so oppress you
that he will compel you to think all your life of him in tears; if he
be foolish, he will, wherever he may meet you, cast a heap of stones
before you and bar your way.
From all such evils my consolation art Thou, only God, God of all
creation! I need nothing more, for I expect no happiness from men. A
hundredfold more pleasant it is, staying at home, and not perceiving in
it the temptations of the world, to live simply with your family and,
modestly passing your time and vigorously communing with reason, to
stir the wood in the fireplace.
Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)
Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where his friend
and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered the army in 1775 as
a common soldier, and did not advance to the grade of commissioned
officer until 1787. During his military service he privately studied
foreign languages and wrote poetry. His first collection of poems,
containing _Ermák_, _What Others Say_ and _The Little Dove_, appeared
in 1795. These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a
number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those of
Krylóv. His shorter songs, like _The Little Dove_, have become very
popular, and are part of every song-book, together with Neledínski’s
“To the streamlet I’ll repair” and other similar songs. Dmítriev did
for poetry what Karamzín was doing for prose,--he purified Russian
from the dross of the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from
the days of Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in
Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of talent, such as
Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until he was made Minister
of Justice in 1810. He retired a few years later to his estates near
Moscow, where he passed his days surrounded by a coterie of literary
men.
The following English versions of his poems have appeared: _During a
Thunder-Storm_, _The Tsar and the Two Shepherds_, _The Broken Fiddle_,
_Over the Grave of Bogdanóvich_, _Love and Friendship_, in Sir John
Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.; _Yermak_, _Moskva
Rescued_, _To the Volga_, _Enjoyment_, “O had I but known before,”
_The Little Dove_, _To Chloe_, _ib._, Part II.; _Counsel_, _The Little
Dove_, in W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_; _Yermak_, _The
Siskin and the Chaffinch_, _The Doctor_, _Sympathy_, in C. T. Wilson’s
_Russian Lyrics_; _The Moon_, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1842 (article,
_Russian Fabulists_).
THE LITTLE DOVE
The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day;
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.
From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept;
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.
His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distant home again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.
She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot she goes;
Ah! charming Chloe’s lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes not from his repose!
--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.
DURING A THUNDER-STORM
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above;
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! Trembling like a child,
I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid,
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.
Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies,
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
There is he lost ’midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost.
Beneath the stormclouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed
In a frail bark, the sport of destiny,
He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast.
Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still.
Thou speakest,--silent the submissive wave;
Man’s shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hushed billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! Compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream,
And Time, when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.
ERMÁK
How strange a sight is this I see,
By thee revealed, Antiquity!
Beneath the gloomy garb of night,
By the pale moonbeam’s cloudy light,
I gaze upon the Irtýsh stream,
Whose waters foaming, whirling, gleam,
As on they rush with angry tide.
Two men I see, exhausted, there,
Like shadows in the murky air;
Their faces in their hands they hide.
One youthful is, the other old,
His beard hangs down with wavy fold;
Each wears a dress whose every part
With awe and wonder fills the heart;
Descending from their helmets down,
The coiling tails of serpents frown,
Mingled with owlet’s bristling wing,
Their coats wild-beasts’ skins borrowing.
Their breasts entire with thongs are hung,
Of flints, and rusty iron, strung;
Within each belt is firmly prest
A knife, whose edge well sharpened is;
Two drums are at their feet, I wis,
And close beside their lances rest:
They both are sorcerers of Siberian race,
And thus the meaning of their words I trace.
THE OLD MAN
“Roar on, old Irtýsh, let our cry
Along thy stream re-echoing fly;
The gods have chastening sent in ire
And poured on us misfortunes dire.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Woes, woes, upon us tenfold lour
In this our most disastrous hour.”
THE OLD MAN
“O thou, whose crown three nations bore,
Their names far-spread from shore to shore!
O mighty, proud, and ancient State,
Mother of many races great!
Thy glory’s past and worn away,
No longer chief, thou must obey!”
THE YOUNG MAN
“As clouds of dust from whirlwinds hie,
So scattered quite thy people lie;
And he, Kuchúm,[166] dread of the world,
Is dead, on foreign deserts hurled.”
THE OLD MAN
“The holy Shamans, forced from home,
Throughout the rugged forests roam;
For this, ye gods of earth and air,
Was it that white has grown my hair?
Tell me, was it for this that I,
Through all my life your faithful slave,
Prostrate in dust before ye lie,
And thousands for companions have?”
THE YOUNG MAN
“And who are they have made thee fall?”
THE OLD MAN
“From Russia come they, one and all;
Why did not plague and famine loom
Upon our land with frightful doom?
Better if elemental wrath
Had fall’n in fury on our path,
And swallowed up Siberia’s fame,
Than bow before this Ermák’s name.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Of Nature’s self the curse and blight,
May curses heavy on him light!
Ye streams, and mountains old, ’tis he
Has flung upon you infamy!”
THE OLD MAN
“As fiery columns passing on,
As icy blasts the land upon,
All fell by his destructive tread;
Where’er his fatal arrow sped,
There life grew pale, and death’s dire smart
O’ertook each timid, cowering heart.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“By him deprived of mortal breath,
Our royal brother met his death.”
THE OLD MAN
“As I looked on, the hero’s might
Shone forth in that terrific fight;
’Twas on Muhammad-Kula’s[167] plain--
Such fight I ne’er shall see again.
His arrows hurtling in swift course,
His breast enkindled with strange force,
He drew from out its sheath his blade--
‘Rather than weary life give death,
Free from captivity,’ he saith,
And fierce assault upon Ermák he made.
Most terrible the sight! as clash
Their swords, the lightnings from them flash;
Blow fell on blow with frightful sounds.
They give and they receive new wounds.
They seize each other in their rage,
And dreadful combat still they wage;
Arm against arm--breast against breast--
They in their struggle know no rest;
The wild woods with their cries resound,
They dig up with their feet the ground:
From brows ran down, like hail, their sweat,
And fearfully their bosoms beat;
Their heads incline from side to side,
And thus they grapple, to each other tied,
Still struggling on; until the weight
Of Ermák seals his foeman’s fate.
‘The victory’s mine!’--’tis thus he cries:
‘The land before me subject lies!’”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Accomplished is the prophecy,
That this our land should conquered be.
But shall the oppressèd sigh in vain,
And never more to freedom rise again?”
THE OLD MAN
“Eternal is the fatal yoke:
Listen, my son! Late yesternight
Into the silent woods I took
My way; and there, while rapturous light
Enkindled all my inmost soul,
Burnt sacrifice I offered whole,
And to the gods made fervent prayer
That they would to our aid repair:
When, suddenly, the winds arise,
From off the trees the fresh leaves fall,
The cedars groan with creaking cries,
The goats away are scattered all.
Down sank I, when, above the noise
Of the dire storm, I heard a voice
Thus speaking: ‘Furious war does wage
Racha[168] ’gainst sinners; to his rage
All those who sin devoted are;
Siberia has renounced my laws,
And righteous, therefore, is the cause
Why she be subject to the fierce White Tsar.[169]
By morn and night ye shall be found
Alike in heavy fetters bound;
But Ermák’s name shall never fade,
Nor of his race an end be made;
They ’neath the moon shall ever be
Eternal in their majesty.’
When ceased the voice, the thunders loud
Rattled from out each stormy cloud;
On us has fallen Misfortune’s hand,
Woe”----
THE YOUNG MAN
“Woe to us, and our land.”
Then, while they yield to deepest sighs,
They from the moss-strewn stones arise,
And while their arms again they wear,
Along the shore they disappear.
Peace, Ermák, on thine ashes rest!
Thine image of bright silver made,
Which in Siberia’s mines was laid,
Is by the crown of Russia prest.
But why speak I with hasty zeal?
What do my foolish words reveal?
We do not even know the place
Where rest thy bones in earth’s embrace.
The wild beasts trample them upon,
Or Ostiaks, as they hurry on,
Chasing the antlered stag, and roe,
To bring them by their arrows low.
But, hero, from thine anger cease,
And let thy memory know peace!
Poetic genius every day,
When golden morning’s beauties play,
Shall o’er thy corpse still float along,
And greet thee with triumphant song.
What matters it in any case
If to barbaric times we trace
Thy birth? Yet thou such deeds hast done
As have thy land victorious shown.
Although thine ashes disappear,
Though e’en thy sons no likeness bear
To thee, but, their great sire forgetting,
Their livelihood in wild woods getting,
They dwell the wolves and bears amid,
Yet never shall thy name be hid.
Thou shalt with demigods find place,
From age to age, from race to race;
And ne’er shall darken thy bright ray
Until grows dark the orb of day;
When with a crash the heavens fall,
And time shall cease to be, and ruin cover all.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
WHAT OTHERS SAY
“How strange! More than twenty years have passed since we, with mind
intent and furrowed brow, have assiduously been writing odes, yet we
nowhere hear praises sung to them or us! May it be that Phœbus has sent
forth his stern decree that none of us should ever aspire to equal
Flaccus, Ramler[170] and all their brotherhood, or ever be renowned as
they in song? What do you think? I took yesterday the pains to compare
their song and ours: in theirs, there is not much to read! a page;
if much, three pages, and yet what joy to read! You feel--how shall
I say it?--as if you flew on wings! Judging by their briefness, you
are sure they wrote them playfully, and not labouring four days: then
why should we not be more fortunate than they, since we are a hundred
times more diligent and patient? When one of us begins to write, he
leaves all play aside, pores a whole night over a couple of verses,
sweats, thinks, draws and burns his paper; and sometimes he rises to
such daring that he passes a whole year over one ode! And, of course,
he uses up all his intelligence upon it! And there you have a most
solemn ode! I cannot say to what species it belongs, but it is very
full,--some two hundred strophes! Judge for yourself how many fine
verses there are in it! Besides, it is written according to the rules:
at first you read the introduction, then the argument, and finally the
conclusion,--precisely as the learned speak in the church! And yet, I
must confess, there is no pleasure in reading it.
“Let me take, for example, the odes on victories, how that they
conquered the Crimea, how the Swedes were drowned at sea: I find there
all the details of a battle, where it happened, how, when,--in short,
a report in verse! Very well!... I yawn! I throw it away, and open
another, one written for a holiday, or something like it: here you
discover things that a less clever mind would not have thought out
within a lifetime: ‘Dawn’s rosy fingers,’ and ‘lily of paradise,’ and
‘Phœbus,’ and ‘heaven cleft open’! So vociferous, so loud! No, it does
not please, nor move our hearts in the least.”
Thus an old man of our grandfathers’ times spoke yesterday to me in
gentle simplicity. I, being myself a companion of those singers, the
action of whose verse he so marvelled at, was much disturbed, nor knew
how to answer him. But luckily, if at all that may be called luck to
hear your own terrible sentence, a certain Aristarch began to speak to
him.
“For this,” said he, “there are many causes; I will not promise to
unveil one-half of them, but some I will gladly expound to you. I
myself love the language of the gods, poetry, and just as you, am
little edified with ours. In former days I have much conversed in
Moscow with our Pindars, and have watched them well: the greater
part of them are corporals of the body-guard, assessors, officers,
scribes, or dust-covered guardians of monsters in the Museum of
Antiquities,--all of them busy government officials; I have often
noticed that they barely have time in two days or three to make a
proper rhyme, their mind being all taken up with their affairs. No
sooner has a lucky thought struck them, when, lo, the clock strikes
six! The carriage is waiting: ’tis time for the theatre, and then to
the ball, or to Lion,[171] and then ’tis night.... When are they to
call on Apollo? In the morning, no sooner has he opened his eyes, than
there is a note: ‘Rehearsal at five o’clock’.... Where? In fashionable
society, where our lyric poet is to play the part of the harlequin.
Is there any time left for odes? You have to learn our parts, then to
Kroll,[172] then home again, to primp yourself and get dressed, then to
the theatre, and good-bye another day. Besides, the ancients had one
purpose, we another: Horace, for example, who nurtured his breast with
ecstasy, what did he want? Not very much: in the æons immortality, and
in Rome but a wreath of laurels or of myrtle, that Delia might say: ‘He
is famous; through him I, too, am immortal!’ But the aim of many of
us is a present of a ring, at times a hundred roubles, or friendship
with a princelet who all his life has never read anything except now
and then the Court almanac, or praises from their friends to whom each
printed sheet appears to be sacred.
“Considering how different their views and ours are, it may safely be
asserted, without offending those mettlesome gentlemen, the alumni
of the Russian Muses, that they must have some especial taste, and
different means, and a special manner in the composition of a lyrical
poem; what they are I cannot tell you, but I shall announce to
you--and, truly, I will not lie about it--what a certain poet thought
of verses, of whose works the _Mercury_ and the _Observer_[173] and the
book stores and the stalls are full. ‘We are born into this world,’
he thought, ‘with rhymes; is it then not ridiculous for us poets to
waste our time, like Demosthenes, at the sea-shore in a cabin, in doing
nothing but reading and thinking, and relating what we have thought
out only to the noisy waves? Nature makes the poet, and not study: he
is without study learned when he becomes enthused, but science will
always remain science, and not a gift; the only necessary equipments
are boldness, rhymes and ardour.’
“And this is the way the natural poet wrote an ode: barely has the
thunder of the cannon given the nation the pleasant news that the
Rýmnikski Alcides[174] has vanquished the Poles, or that Férzen has
taken their chief, Kosciuszko, captive, he immediately grabs the pen,
and, behold, the word ‘ode’ is already on the paper.” Then follows in
one strain: “‘On such a day and year!’ How now? ‘I sing!’ Oh no, that’s
old! Were it not better: ‘Grant me, O Phœbus?’ Or, better still: ‘Not
you alone are trod under heel, O turban-wearing horde!’ But what shall
I rhyme with it but ‘snored,’ or ‘bored’? No, no! it will not do! I had
better take a walk, and refresh myself with a whiff of air.”
He went, and thus he meditated on his walk: “The beginning never daunts
the singers: you simply say what first occurs to you. The trouble
only begins when you have to praise the hero. I know not with whom to
compare him; with Rumyántsev, with Greyg or with Orlóv? What a pity I
have not read the ancients! For it does not seem proper to compare to
the moderns. Well, I’ll simply write: ‘Rejoice, hero, rejoice, O thou!’
That’s good! But what now? Ah, now comes the ecstasy! I’ll say: ‘Who
has rent the veil of eternity for me! I see the gleam of lightning!
From the upper world I hear, and so on.’ And then? Of course: ‘Many a
year!’ Most excellent! I have caught the plan, and thoughts, and all!
Hail to the poet! All I have to do now, is to sit down and write, and
boldly print!” He hurries to his garret, scribbles, and the deed is
done! And his ode is printed, and already they wrap shoeblacking in his
ode. Thus has he Pindarised, and all his ilk who are scarcely capable
to write a proper shop sign! “I wish Phœbus would tell them in their
dream: ‘He who in Catherine’s loud age of glory cannot by his eulogy
move the hearts of others, nor water his sweet lyre with tears, let him
throw it away, break it and know he is not a poet!’”
FOOTNOTES:
[166] Yermák defeated Kuchúm Khan in 1579; Kuchúm Khan fell into the
hands of Calmucks, who killed him.
[167] The translator misunderstood the passage. Mehmed-Kul was the
King’s brother, whom Ermák made prisoner and sent to John the Terrible.
[168] God of the Ostiaks.
[169] The Tsar of Russia; the origin of the appellation is not certain.
[170] A German poet who translated the odes of Horace and wrote odes of
his own.
[171] Master of masquerades at St. Petersburg.
[172] St. Petersburg tailor.
[173] Magazines.
[174] Suvórov.
END OF PART I.
INDEX
Ablesímov, A. O., his comic opera, 36;
biographical sketch and extract, 370 _seq._
Academy founded, 316 _seq._
Achronism, of Russ. literature, 9;
of legends, 14
Addison’s influence on Russ. literature, 30 _seq._, 291, 327
Alexander the Great in legend, 14
Alexander I., 304 _seq._, 378
Alexis Mikháylovich, school established during his reign, 17;
and the theatre, 26;
_and see_ 35
_All Kinds of Things_, 272, 326
American interest in Russ. literature, vii. _seq._
Anacreon, translated, 224
Andover, see _Biblical Repository_
Anglo-Russian Literary Society’s studies in Russ. literature, x.
Anthologies of Russ. literature, viii., x.
Apocrypha, 12 _seq._;
legends, 114 _seq._;
stories, 152 _seq._
_Aprakos_, 11
Apuleius, 33, 358, 374
Athenæum, yearly reports on Russ. literature, xi.
Bain, R. N., translation of fairy tales, 189
Baldwin, Prince, and Daniel the Abbot, 57 _seq._
Barlaam and Josaphat, 14
Bátyushkov, 395;
translated, viii.
Bazán, E. P., on Russ. literature, x.
Beccaria, 30
_Bee, The_, Russ. literary collection, 100;
English periodical, 272
Beggar-songs, 178, 186 _seq._
Benfey’s theory, 20
Bible, its influence on early Russ. literature, 8;
in Russian, 11;
in historical literature, 15;
quoted in literature, 100 _seq._;
and Iván the Terrible, 121
Biblical Repository, The, of Andover, on Russ. literature, ix.
Bogdanóvich, I. F., at Court, 31;
his _Psyche_, 34, 263;
first collector of proverbs, 199;
biographical sketch and extracts, 374 _seq._
Bohemia, its political status, 3;
its ancient literature, 4
Boileau’s influence on Russ. literature, 29, 30, 230
Borrow, G., translations from the Russian, viii.
Bowl-songs, 178, 179
Bowring, Sir John, his translations from the Russian, vii., 178, 242,
291, 306, 379, 392, 395, 398, 422, 429;
his imitators, viii.
Boyán, 22, 81
Boyár, 46 (note)
Bradford, Mrs. W., editor of Princess Dáshkov’s _Memoirs_, 316
Brandes, G., on Russ. literature, x.
Brockes, 378
Bulgaria, its political status, 3;
its ancient literature, 4;
its language in the Church, 6;
in Russia, 7;
apocrypha travelling over, 13;
its legends, 14
Bylínas, of Vladímir’s cycle, 9 _seq._;
their development, 21;
their relation to the Word, 22
Byzantium’s influence on Russia, 5;
Greek tradition, 8;
apocrypha in Russia, 13;
legends, 14;
repression, 22;
chronographers, 65
Calilah-wa-Dimnah, 14
Catherine II., and French literature, 29;
and comedy, 36;
biographical sketch and extracts, 405 _seq._, _and see 28 et passim_
Catholic, contamination, 5;
religion in Russia, 134
Ceremonial songs, 24
_Chanson de Roland_, 80
Charms, 178, 188 _seq._
Child, Prof. F. J., 20, 163
Christianity, its influence on Russia, 4 _seq._
Chronicles, 15
Chrysostom in Russ. literature, 11, 116
Church, its opposition to popular literature, 16, 19, 23, 24;
its contact with the West, 17;
its reform, 212 _seq._, 219;
union of Churches, 17, 135 _seq._
Church fathers, their influence on Russ. literature, 8;
and Iván the Terrible, 121
Church-Slavic, its relation to Bulgarian, 7;
and see _Bulgaria_
City songs, 24 _seq._
Collections, literary, 11 _seq._;
of Svyatosláv, 11
Comedy, 36, 211, 272 _seq._, 308, 311 _seq._, 342 _seq._, 370 _seq._,
397 _seq._
Constantinople, in pilgrimages, 14;
and see _Byzantium_
Cox, G., on Russ. literature, ix.
Coxe, W., account of Russ. literature, vii.
Curtin, J., on fairy tales, 189
Cyril of Túrov, his sermons, 11, 62 _seq._
Cyril and Methodius, preaching in Bulgarian, 6
Dal’s proverbs, 199
d’Alembert, 29, 272
Daniel the Abbot, his feeling of Russ. unity, 3;
his pilgrimage, 14;
extract, 56 _seq._
Daniel the Prisoner, 100 _seq._
Danílov, Kírsha, 163
Danílov, M. V., extract from his _Memoirs_, 269 _seq._
Dante, in Servian literature, 4;
his _Divine Comedy_, 13, 96
Dáshkov, Princess, 308;
biographical sketch and extract, 316 _seq._
_Demetrius the Impostor_, Sumarókov’s, translated into English, 255
Derzhávin, G. R., at Court, 31;
his lyrics, 34;
biographical sketch and extracts, 377 _seq._, _and see_ 33, 241,
272, 358 _seq._, 405
Destouches, 308
Diderot and Russ. educational system, 29;
_and see_ 272, 316
Dietrich, A., Russ. fairy tales, 189
Digenis Akritas, 14
Dmítriev, I. I., his odes, 33;
his lyrics, 34;
biographical sketch and extracts, 428 _seq._
Dole, N. H., his translations from the Russian, x., 50, 379
Dolgorúki, I. M., biographical sketch and extracts, 422 _seq._
Dolgorúki, Princess, biographical sketch and extract, 233 _seq._
_Domostróy_, 12, 126 _seq._, 219
“Double faith,” 16, 19
Drama, 35 _seq._, 150, 254 _seq._, 308 _seq._, 418;
and see _Comedy_
_Drone, The_, 327
Druzhína, 46 (note)
Dupuy, E., on Russ. literature, x.
Eastern Church separated from Rome, 6
Eastman, S. C., translator of Brandes, x.
“Ecstatic” poetry, 33
Edmands, J. L., translator of Vogüé, x.
Edwards, S., on Russ. literature, ix., 306
Elizabeth, Queen, appealed to by King Sigismund, 5
_Emerald, The_, 11, 100
Émin, F., 327
Encyclopedias on Russ. literature, xi.
English, interest in Russ. literature, vii. _seq._;
influence on Russ. literature, 30, 36, 291;
Masons in Russia, 32
Englishmen, in Moscow, 26;
speaking Russian, vii.;
reading Platón’s theology, 300
Ermák, 372 _seq._, 431 _seq._
Esop’s fables in Russian, 34
_Esprit des Lois_, in Russia, 29
Eusebius, 116
F., J. G. A., translation from Lomonósov, 242
Fables, 34 _seq._
Fairy tales, 25 _seq._, 189 _seq._
_Felítsa_, 3, 33, 241, 272, 358 _seq._
Feofán, biographical sketch and extracts, 211 _seq._;
_and see_ 12, 28, 219, 224, 233, 300
Folklore, 18 _seq._;
bridging chasm, 20;
connected with that of Europe and Asia, 21
Folksongs, ix., 177 _seq._
Folktales, ix.
Fon-Vízin, D. I., biographical sketch and extracts, 341 _seq._;
_and see_ 31, 36, 269
Foreign Quarterly Review on Russ. literature, viii.
Foreigners in Moscow, 26
Formalism of Russian life, 12
Franklin, 361
Fraser’s Magazine, Turner on Russ. literature, 224, 242, 272, 379, 429
_Free Russia_, translations from Russian, x.
French influence on Russ. literature, 29 _seq._, 34, 230
Gardiner, F. H., translation of Bazán, x.
Gaussen, W. F. A., on Russ. literature, x.
Gellert, in Russian, 34, 306
Geography in ancient Russ. literature, 189
German Suburb, 26
Gílferding, 163
Gillies, R. P., on Russ. literature, viii.
Gógol, 35, 36, 397
_Golden Beam, The_, 11
_Golden Chain, The_, 11
Grahame, F. R., ix., 242, 306, 398
Great-Russians of the South, 9, 10;
exterminated by Tartars, 23
Grech, on Russ. literature, viii.
Greek traditions in Byzantium, 8;
taught in Russia, 17;
treaties with the Greeks, 4
Gribóvski, A. M., biographical sketch and extract, 405 _seq._
Griboyédov, 36, 397
Grimm’s mythological theory, 20
Griswold, M. W., bibliography of Russ. literature, x.
Günther, 29
Gundulić, his epic, 4
Hakluyt Society, translation of Nikítin, 111
Haller, 378
Hamartolos, 15
Hansa, 21
Hapgood, Miss I. F., translator of epic songs, 163
Heard, J. A., 233
_Hell’s Post_, 327
Henningsen, C. F., on Russ. literature, ix.
Herzen, 272, 287
Historical songs, 23, 172
History in Russ. literature, 15, 36 _seq._, 219 _seq._
Hodgetts, E. M. S., translation of fairy tales, 189
Holy Land, visited by Russians, 8, 56 _seq._
_Holy Virgin’s Descent into Hell, The_, 96 _seq._
Homer, a Russian, 298
Horace, in Russ. literature, 34, 397
Humour, in translation, x.
Ígor, see _Word of Ígor’s Armament_
Ilarión, eulogy of Vladímir, 11, 48 _seq._
Ilyá of Múrom, 165 _seq._;
known to the West, 9, 24
_Index librorum prohibitorum_, 13
Instructions in literature, 12;
Catherine’s, 30;
Vladímir’s, 11, 50 _seq._;
Tatíshchev’s, 219
Ipáti manuscript, 71
Isidor, at Council of Florence, 15, 17
Istómin, Karión, 26
Iván the Terrible, 17, 23, 26, 115 _seq._, 121 _seq._, 126, 172
_seq._
Jacob, gospel of, 13
James, Richard, collector of songs, vii., 23, 130 _seq._
Johnson’s Cyclopedia, on Russ. literature, xi.
Journey to Europe in literature, 15
Kámenev, G. P., biographical sketch and extract, 411 _seq._
Kantemír, A., biographical sketch and extract, 223 _seq._;
_and see_ 26, 28, 35, 211
Kapníst, V. V., his lyrics, 34;
biographical sketch and extracts, 397 _seq._
Karamzín, 34, 36, 255, 395, 418, 428
Khémnitser, I. I., biographical sketch and extracts, 306 _seq._;
_and see_ 34
Kheráskov, M. M., biographical sketch and extract, 298 _seq._;
_and see_ 33
Khorovód, 178
Kíev, metropolis of Russia, 9;
its poetic tradition, 10;
has no bylínas, 22;
chronicle, 15, 71 _seq._, 80;
cycle, 24, 163;
its contact with Poland, 6, 12, 33;
clergy and scholasticism, 26;
intermediary of Western culture, 17
Kiryéevski, 163
Klopstock, 378
Knyazhnín, Y. B., biographical sketch and extracts, 308 _seq._;
_and see_ 30, 36, 316
Kolyádas, 177 _seq._
Kostróv, E. I., biographical sketch and extract, 358 _seq._;
_and see_ 31
Kotoshíkhin, G., biographical sketch and extracts, 136 _seq._;
_and see_ 18, 178
Kozítski, G., 326
Kozlóv, 233
Krehbiel, H. E., on popular songs, 178
Krizhánich, Y., biographical sketch and extracts, 134 _seq._;
_and see_ 15
Krylóv, 34, 306, 429;
translated, ix.
Kúrbski, A. M., biographical sketch and extracts, 115 _seq._;
_and see_ 15, 18
La Fontaine, in Russ. literature, 34, 306, 374
Lamentations, 178, 187
Language, under Peter I., 27
Latin, in the Western Church, 6 _seq._;
taught in Russia, 17;
translations from, 150
Latins, hatred of, 6, 17
Laurentian manuscript, 65
Legends, in ancient Russia, 8;
apocryphal, 12 _seq._;
profane, 14 _seq._
Lewis, W. D., his translations from the Russian, viii., 379, 392, 429
Liberation of the serfs, 361
Lineff, Mrs. E., translations of popular songs, 178
Literary coteries, 32
Literature, in Russia, of recent growth, 3 _seq._;
rarely produced outside the Church, 12;
in Slavic countries, 3 _seq._
Little-Russians, their characteristics, 9;
whence come, 10
Lomonósov, M. V., biographical sketch and extracts, 241 _seq._;
_and see_ 28, 29, 33, 150, 378, 429
Love songs, 178, 179 _seq._
Lowell lectures on Russ. literature, x.
Lucidarius in Russia, 8
Ludolf, author of first Russ. grammar, vii.
Luká Zhidyáta, biographical sketch and extract, 44 _seq._;
his style, 9
Lyrics, in Russ. literature, 34
Maksím the Greek, 116
Malalas, source of history, 15
Marlowe’s _Tamerlane_ in Russian, 26
Martinists, 32, 361
Martinof, J., translator of Tatíshchev, 219
Masons and Russ. literature, 32, 272, 327
Máykov, V. I., biographical sketch and extracts, 263 _seq._;
_and see_ 34, 374
Medvyédev, 18
Meshchérski, Prince, 375 _seq._
Metastasio imitated, 308
Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ translated, 291
Modern Language Association, on fairy tales, 189
Molière in Russia, 26
Montesquieu, 29, 30, 272
More, Sir Thomas, 287
Morfill, W. R., translations from the Russian, ix., x., 130, 172
Moscow, as a political centre, 3, 10;
chronicles, 15;
its foreign colony, 17;
influenced by the West, 17, 26, 33;
cycle of songs, 24;
_et passim_
Mozharóvski’s stories of the Fox, 26, 198 _seq._
Munro, H. H., translator of the _Word_, 81
Muravév, M. N., 395 _seq._
Músin-Púshkin, A. I., discoverer of the _Word_, 81
Mysteries and Moralities, 35
Mythological theory of folklore, 20
Naake, J. T., translations of fairy tales, 189
Nekrásov, 233
Neledínski-Melétski, Y. A., his lyrics, 34;
biographical sketch and extracts, 392 _seq._
Néstor, his style, 9;
his chronicle, 15, 41 _seq._, 50 _seq._, 65 _seq._, 71 _seq._;
its discovery, 81
New Testament apocrypha in Russ. literature, 13
Nibelungenlied, 80
Nicodemus, gospel of, 13
Nikítin, Afanási, his _Travel to India_, 15, 111 _seq._
Nikón’s corrections, 12
Norse, influence in ancient Russia, 4;
tradition in Kíev, 9;
acquaintance with Ilyá of Múrom, 21, 24;
laws, 45
Novels, 36
Nóvgorod, its relations with Germany, 21;
cycle of songs, 24, 163;
its laconic style, 9, 44 _seq._;
its chronicles, 15;
_Domostróy_, 126
Nóvikov, N. I., imprisoned, 30;
and Catherine, 31 _seq._;
and the Masons, 32;
his satires, 35;
his historical investigations, 36;
biographical sketch and extracts, 326 _seq._
Odes, 33;
and see _Ecstatic poetry_
Odoévski, 362
Ogarév, 362
Old Testament apocrypha in Russ. literature, 13
Olónetsk, bylínas, 10, 22
Opera, 370 _seq._
Ossian, in Russ. literature, 358, 418
Otto, F., see _Cox, G._
Ovid, in Russian, 27
Ovsén, 177
Oxford, publishing the first Russ. grammar, vii.
Ózerov, V. A., and the tragedy, 36;
biographical sketch and extract, 418 _seq._
_Painter, The_, 32, 327
_Palæa_, 11, 13
Palestine, legends brought from, 14;
and see _Holy Land_
Panin, I., on Russ. literature, x., 355
Panslavism, Krizhánich’s, 135
Paul, Emperor, 321, 328
People, meaning of this term, 18 _seq._
Periodicals, satirical, 326 _seq._
Peter the Great, ode on his birth, 150 _seq._;
and the Slavophiles, 4;
songs dealing with, 23;
and progress, 26 _seq._;
Shcherbátov’s censures of, 288 _seq._;
funeral sermon on, 214;
_and see_ 12, 16, 18, 19, 28, 32, 35, 211, 212, 324
Petrarch in Servian literature, 4
Petróv, V. P., biographical sketch and extract, 291;
_and see_ 31, 33
Philipps, J. T., translation of Feofán’s work, 211
Physiologus in Russia, 8
Pilgrimages, 14 _seq._, 56 _seq._
Pinkerton, R., translation of Platón, 300;
on Russ. proverbs, 200
Platón Levshín, biographical sketch and extract, 300 _seq._;
_and see_ 12, 328
Poetry, Russian, in English translation, viii., x.
Poland, its political status, 3;
its ancient literature, 4;
a barrier to Russia, 5;
and Kíev, 12, 17;
intermediary in folklore, 21;
its scholasticism and rhetoric in Russia, 26;
its influence on Russ. literature, 33
Political Economy, Pososhkóv’s, 205
Pollen, J., translations from the Russian, x., 379
Poroshín, S. A., biographical sketch and extract, 321 _seq._
Pososhkóv, I. T., biographical sketch and extracts, 205 _seq._;
his diction, vi., 28
Potánin’s theory, 21
Prokopóvich, see _Feofán_
Pronunciation of Russian, vi., vii.
Prose story in Russ. literature, 25 _seq._, 36
Proverbs, 199 _seq._
Pseudo-classic style, 29, 378
Pugachév’s rebellion, 30
_Purse, The_, 327
Púshkin, in translation, viii.;
reviewed, ix.;
_and see_ 34, 255, 379, 411
Pýpin’s works, vi.
Quarterly Review, popular songs, 178;
fairy tales, 189;
proverbs, 200
Racine, and Russ. literature, 36
Radíshchev, A. N., and English writers, 36;
biographical sketch and extract, 361 _seq._;
_and see_ 30, 32, 272, 327
Ragusa, its literature, 4
Ralston, W. R. S., studies in Russ. literature, ix.;
popular songs, 178;
fairy tales, 189
_Rambler, The_, 327
Reform, beginning of, in Russia, 17 _seq._
Religious lore, 11 _seq._
Robinson, Dr. Ed., see _Talvi_
Romanists, see _Latins_
Romantic Movement, 3, 25
Rosicrucians, 32
Rousseau, 272
Russia, rediscovered by the English, vii.;
its political greatness, 3;
menace to Europe, 5;
its aloofness, 5 _seq._;
its unprogressiveness, 6, 8, 20;
its history, by Shcherbátov, 287
Russian Code, 4, 45
Russian language, in America, v.;
supplanted by Bulgarian, 7;
its composition, 7;
perfected by Lomonósov, 241;
first grammar of, vii.
Russian literature, not all accessible to English readers, v.;
English works on, ix.
Rýbnikov, 163
Rylyéev, viii., 233, 362
S., J. T., translation of _Brief Theology_, 300
Sadkó the Merchant, in French, 21
_St. Petersburg Gazette_, 327
Satire, 35
Satirical journals, 31, 326 _seq._
Saunders, W. H., translation from the Russian, viii.
Sentimentalism, Karamzín, and, 36
Serapión, his style, 9, 11;
biographical sketch and extract, 104 _seq._
Sermons, in Russ. literature, 11;
_and see_ 44 _seq._, 62 _seq._, 104 _seq._, 300
Servia, its political status, 3;
its ancient literature, 4;
its legends, 14
Shaw, T. B., translations from the Russian, viii.
Shchedrín, 35
Shcherbátov, M. M., biographical sketch and extract, 287 _seq._;
_and see_ 33, 36, 327
Shibánov, 115
Shuválov, Lomonósov’s letters to, 241 _seq._
Sigismund’s appeal to Queen Elizabeth, 5
Simeón of Bulgaria, 11
Simeón Pólotski, biographical sketch and extracts, 149 _seq._;
_and see_ 18, 26, 34
Slavic, idea, 4;
languages in ninth century, 6;
language of religion, 6;
language, Krizhánich’s, 134;
nations, weakness of, 3;
scholarship in America, ix.;
sources of apocrypha, 13
Slavophiles, 4, 37, 327
Solomon, in Russ. literature, 13, 114
Sophia and the theatre, 26
_Spectator, The_, 31, 327
_Spiritual Testaments_, 12, 219
_Spiritual Reglement_, 211
Spring songs, 178
Stallybrass, J. K., translation of _Ode to Deity_, 379
Stanley, A. P., translation of Vladímir’s _Instruction_, 50
Stanley, Dr., on Platón, 300
Stásov’s theory, 21
Sterne in Russ. literature, 36, 361
Sumarókov, A. P., and the drama, 28;
his odes, 33;
his fables, 34;
and the theatre, 36;
biographical sketch and extracts, 254 _seq._;
_and see_ 306, 308, 326, 327, 378
Súzdal chronicle, 15
Svyatosláv’s Collection, 11, 12;
his glory sung, 23
Sylvester’s _Domostróy_, 12, 65, 115, 219
Sylvester, see _Néstor_
Talmud, legends, 12, 114
Talvi, on Slavic literature, ix.;
translations of historical songs, 172;
_and see_ 178
Tartars, not alone to be blamed for stagnation, 10;
exterminating the Great-Russians of the South, 10, 23;
in bylínas, 22;
in sermon, 104 _seq._;
in songs, 172
Tasso, 298
Tatíshchev, V. N., biographical sketch and extract, 218 _seq._;
_and see_ 15, 26, 36, 211
_Tatler, The_, 31, 327
_Testaments_, 50, 205;
and see _Spiritual Testaments_
Theatre, early, in Russia, 26;
founded, 255
Thomas, gospel of, 13
Tragedy, 35;
and see _Drama_
Translations, from the Russian, v.;
author’s, vi.
Transliterations from Russian, vi.
Tredyakóvski, V. K., biographical sketch and extract, 230 _seq._;
_and see_ 28, 33, 150, 254, 378
Trojan war, in legend, 14
Turgénev, 36
Turner, C. E., on Russ. literature, x., 224, 242, 272, 379
Unity of Russia, as an idea, 3
University press, 327
Vladímir, his baptism, 65 _seq._;
eulogy on, 48 _seq._;
cycle, 9, 22, 24, 163
Vladímir Monomákh’s _Instruction_, 11, 12, 50 _seq._, 219
Varyág, see _Norse_
Vergil, 298
Versailles manners in Russia, 28
Vogüé, E. M. de, on Russ. literature, x.
Volhynia chronicle, 15
Voltaire, 29, 30, 316
Voltairism, 30, 327
Voynich, E. L., translation of Russ. humour, x.
Wahl, O. W., on Russ. literature, ix.
Waliszewski, K., on Russ. literature, x.
Wedding songs, 178, 185 _seq._
Westminster Review, Russ. literary biography, viii.;
on Russ. literature, viii., x.
Wielhorsky, Count, translation of Nikítin, 111 _seq._
Wilson, C. T., translations from the Russian, x., 429
Wolkonsky, Prince, on Russ. literature, v., x.
_Word of Ígor’s Armament, The_, 80 _seq._;
prose version, 71 _seq._;
_and see_ vi., 3, 9, 16, 22, 106 _seq._, 152
Yarosláv’s Code, 4, 9, 45 _seq._
Yavórski, Stefán, 28
Yermák, given on p. 172 _seq._ by oversight for _Ermák_, _q. v._
Young’s _Night Thoughts_, 378
Zadónshchina, 16, 80, 106 _seq._
Zhukóvski, 25 _seq._
WORKS IN LITERATURE
THE LITERARY HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
By MOSES COIT TYLER, Professor of American History, Cornell University.
Two volumes, sold separately. 8^o, each, $3.00
Volume I., 1763-1776; Volume II., 1776-1783.
“Professor Tyler’s newest work is rich, stimulating, informing, and
delightful. And it is not only fascinating, itself, but it is a
luminous guide into the whole abundant, varied, and alluring field
of our revolutionary literature: poetry, belles-lettres, biography,
history, travel and crackling controversy.”--GEORGE W. CABLE in
_Current Literature_.
A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE DURING THE COLONIAL TIME.
By MOSES COIT TYLER, New edition, revised. Two volumes, sold separately.
8^o, each, $2.50
Volume I., 1607-1676; Volume II., 1676-1765.
Agawam edition, 2 vols. in one, 8^o, half leather $3.00
THE LITERARY MOVEMENT IN FRANCE DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
By GEORGES PELLISSIER. Authorized English version by ANNE G. BRINTON,
together with a General Introduction. 8^o
The eminent French critic M. Ferdinand Brunetière says of this:
“M. Pellissier’s work is no less the picture than the history of
contemporary literature. In addition, it is also the philosophy of,
or rather describes, the evolution of the literary movement of our
country.”
PHILOSOPHY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
A course of lectures delivered in the Lowell Institute, Boston. By JOHN
BASCOM, author of “Problems of Philosophy,” etc. 8^o, pp. xii. + 318,
$1.50
STUDIES IN GERMAN LITERATURE.
Edited by MARIE TAYLOR. 8^o, pp. viii. + 421 $2.00
“The work of a painstaking scholar, who can select with rare
discernment what should come to the foreground of attention, and
who has the power of expressing his own views with exceptional
grace.”--_Literary World._
THE HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE.
I. =From its Origin to the Renaissance.=
II. =From the Renaissance to the Close of the Reign of Louis XIV.=
III. =From the Reign of Louis XIV. to that of Napoleon III.=
By HENRY VAN LAUN. Three vols. in one. Half leather, cloth sides, 8^o,
pp. 342, 392, 467 $3.50
“It is full of keenest interest for every person who knows or wishes
to learn any thing of French literature, or of French literary
history and biography--scarcely any book of recent origin, indeed,
is better fitted than this to win general favor with all classes of
persons.”--_N. Y. Evening Post._
AMERICAN LITERATURE, 1607-1885.
By Prof. CHARLES F. RICHARDSON, of Dartmouth College. Two vols., 8^o,
pp. xx. + 535, 456 $6.00
Popular edition. Two vols. in one, half bound, 8^o, pp. xx. + 992, $3.50
=Part I.--The Development of American Thought.=
=Part II.--American Poetry and Fiction.=
“It is acute, intelligent, and original, showing true critical
instinct and a high order of literary culture.”--_Indianapolis
Journal._
THE LITERARY MOVEMENT IN FRANCE DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
By GEORGES PELLISSIER. Authorized English version by ANNE G. BRINTON,
together with a General Introduction. 8^o, pp. 479 $3.50
The eminent French critic, M. Ferdinand Brunetiere says of this:
“M. Pellissier’s work is no less the picture than the history of
contemporary French literature. In addition, it is also the philosophy
of, or rather describes, the evolution of the literary movement of our
country.”
AMERICAN LITERATURE, 1607-1885.
By Prof. CHARLES F. RICHARDSON, of Dartmouth College. Two vols., 8^o,
pp. xx. + 535, 456 $6 00
Popular edition. Two vols. in one, half bound, 8^o, pp. xx. + 992 $3 50
=Part I.--The Development of American Thought.=
=Part II.--American Poetry and Fiction.=
“It is acute, intelligent, and original, showing true critical
instinct and a high order of literary culture.”--_Indianapolis
Journal._
PHILOSOPHY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
A course of lectures delivered in the Lowell Institute, Boston. By JOHN
BASCOM, author of “Problems of Philosophy,” etc. 8^o, pp. xii. + 318,
$1.50
“A knowledge of forces, as well as of facts, is essential to our
comprehension of any phenomena.... It is this which Mr. Bascom helps
us to gain.”--_Chicago Tribune._
STUDIES IN GERMAN LITERATURE.
Edited by MARIE TAYLOR. Crown 8^o, pp. viii. + 421 $2 00
“The work of a painstaking scholar, who can select with rare
discernment what should come to the foreground of attention, and
who has the power of expressing his own views with exceptional
grace.”--_Literary World._
THE HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE.
=I. From its Origin to the Renaissance.=
=II. From the Renaissance to the Close of the Reign of Louis XIV.=
=III. From the Reign of Louis XIV. to that of Napoleon III.=
By HENRY VAN LAUN. Three vols. in one. Half leather, cloth sides, 8^o,
pp. 342, 392, 467 $3 50
“It is full of keenest interest for every person who knows or wishes
to learn anything of French literature, or of French literary
history and biography--scarcely any book of recent origin, indeed,
is better fitted than this to win general favor with all classes of
persons.”--_N. Y. Evening Post._
A LITERARY HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE.
From the Earliest Times to the Present Day. By J. J. JUSSERAND,
author of “The English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare,” etc. To
be completed in three parts, each part forming one volume. Sold
separately.
=Part I.--From the Origins to the Renaissance.= With frontispiece.
8^o, gilt top, pp. xii. + 544 $3 50
_In Preparation_:
=Part II.--From the Renaissance to Pope.=
=Part III.--From Pope to the Present Day.=
“The book bears witness on every page to having been written by
one whose mind was overflowing with information, and whose heart
was in abounding sympathy with his work. Mr. Jusserand possesses
pre-eminently the modern spirit of inquiry, which has for its objects
the attainment of truth and a comprehension of the beginnings of
things and of the causes that have brought about effects.”--_New York
Times._
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious errors in punctuation and inconsistencies in proper names have
been silently corrected.
Page 17: “he rest of Europe” changed to “the rest of Europe”
Page 263: “Bogdanóvich’s _Pysche_” changed to “Bogdanóvich’s _Psyche_”
Page 313: “shine in the bark” changed to “shine in the dark”
Page 315: “mary him” changed to “marry him”
Page 321: “aphabetical order” changed to “alphabetical order”
Page 352: “more stupid that our” changed to “more stupid than our”
Page 418: “are overthown” changed to “are overthrown”
Page 438: “learny our parts” changed to “learn our parts”