to death, and goes some distance out of his way to seek help. He meets two of the police, and having shown them where the unfortunate lies, and given them a ruble to get themselves something to drink, is about to make the best of his | way home: but no; he must accompany them to the police-office, and there be locked up for the night, and taken before a magistrate in the morning; for how do they know he did not knock the man down and rob him? When, after all these annoyances, his innocence is made clear, he is dismissed, with the advice-To thank God he has got off so easily, and in future to mind his own business, and not interfere with that of the police!""

This author quotes a dozen or more similar accounts; but these are sufficient for the illustration of this one point, so we pass to another. A merchant is robbed; he gives information to the police: the thief is taken, and confesses where he has hidden the stolen property: the police officer comes, and informs the merchant that they expect to restore him his property on the following morning, and requests twenty-five rubles for the trouble they have had, which is thankfully paid. To-morrow passes, and the next day, and the next week, and nothing is heard of the matter. The merchant again visits the police-office; but the man who had the management of his affair is removed to a distant station; the books contain no records of any such matter, and all he has to do is to console himself as best he can for the loss of money and goods.

A gentleman's plate-chest is robbed, and he gives information at the police office. A few days afterwards comes an officer to know if he can show them any spoons, forks, &c., like to those he has lost, as some stolen property has been discovered. He happens to have some by him-takes them to the office, and is requested to leave them, as they cannot attend to the business just then he complies, and never sees either them or his stolen property again. Of secret police, or spies, there is a well-organized body, comprising all ranks, and mingling with all classes. Each one regards his neighbour with suspicion, nor ventures to speak on any subject of importance while a servant is within hearing. "Treachery lurks in every house; the agents of the secret police are omnipresent; mistrust clouds every joy and embitters every comfort. All amusements, whether public or private, are poisoned by the consciousness that spies are lurking about like thorns amid flowers all social happiness dimned by the same hovering cloud. Clergymen, lawyers, doctors, students, officers, milliners, governesses, and ladies'-maids, servants of all kinds, male and female, labourers, mechanics, and serfs, all furnish members to the secret police. The very walls have ears: Nature, with her woods, mountains, and valleys, catches up and echoes each word; the waves bear them along, and the winds waft them to the ears of Government."

The next subject attacked by our author is the prisons and prisoners, and here he says

"Men are torn from their families without the ceremony of an accusation, and thrown into dungeons until it pleases the Government to accuse, condemn, or declare their innocence." We will give one or two brief accounts of histories which he narrates of persons thus unjustly imprisoned. A wealthy merchant is arrested and thrown into prison, because a relative of his has committed a forgery, and it is probable that he knew of the crime! He demands a trial, and is answered that, if he will pay two thousand rubles, his innocence will immediately be acknowledged. Another is seized and thrown into prison, and submitted to all the indignities and discipline of the place for three weeks, at the expiration of which time he is brought before a magistrate, who addresses him with-"We find you are not the guilty person; it is all a mistake: we are in fault. You can go home!" "But who will restore my lost credit? who indemnify for the money I have lost, the injury my business will sustain?" "With that we have nothing to do. I have told you it was quite a mistake. God permitted it to happenGod will make it up to you." "But I must request"- -"Silence! make no bother! Go home, and God be with you.”

A baron, poor and noble, who had served in the army for fifteen years, and obtained several orders, goes to request the interference of a proud parvenu official in obtaining for him a pension. He is detained so long waiting the

great man's" pleasure, that it is dark when he goes away, and by mistake he puts on a mantel not his own. He is dragged back by the menials, and accused before their master of robbery. His indignant denial of the charge, and explanation, are disregarded: he is thrown into prison, languishes there two years, is then tried as a common thief, and, in consideration of his fifteen years' services, only banished for life to Siberia !!"

Each dungeon contains from one to ten persons, to each of whom is allotted a board or bench about a foot wide, which has to serve him for bed, table, and chair. The place swarms with vermin, and every morning hundreds of blood-streaks on the wall beside each bench tell of the warfare which has been carried on, and the comfort in which the prisoner must have passed the night. But every morning comes the gaoler with his whitewash brush, and covers over these sanguinary stains, in order that visitors_may admire the cleanliness of the place! Every employment is strictly prohibited, and the only amusement of old and young, rich and poor, noble and serf, innocent and guilty, all of whom have to herd together, is to saunter up and down the corridor into which their dungeons open, and peep through the iron bars at any one who may chance to pass. The diet consists of a bit of black bread for breakfast-and that not given out until ten o'clock-a plate of soup, made of chopped cabbage, and rancid butter or oil; a plate of groats or oatmeal, cooked with similar fat, and on Sundays a bit of beef, and occasionally a piece of white bread. The soup

have one. Pious persons attach great value to these consecrated palm-branches, and hang them up over their beds, and preserve them from year to year.

On the last days of the fast, eggs are in great request, it being the custom to place one in the hand of every friend or acquaintance you meet. These eggs are boiled hard, and stained with red. Nor is it only real eggs which are used: coloured and plain ground and flint glass, porcelain, ivory, mother-of-pearl, sugar, and even gigantic pastboard eggs are used. These latter are mostly filled with bonbons, or contain toys or flowers: the smaller ones are trinketcases, peep-shows, or hide some relic, saint, or angel in their interior. Many are the elegant presents, and many the amusing tricks conveyed through the medium of the Easter eggs. Good Friday is not much observed. On the eve of Easter Sunday, about nine o'clock, the churches open; but all is silence and gloom within them. The people gradually glide in like so many shadows, and kneel down in voiceless prayer. The midnight hour chimes; and as the last stroke dies away, the chandeliers appear, the torches which each person carries become lighted as if by magic, and the grand chorus, "Christohs woskress ihs mortwui" (Christ has risen from the dead), bursts forth from every lip. All who are at all acquainted shake hands and salute each other, repeating the glad tidings "Christohs woskress." The world appears to awake from a lethargy, and noise, bustle, and brilliant illuminations succeed to the preceding darkness and silence. With the morning comes the feasting; but the lower classes will not commence until their viands have been blessed by the priest; accordingly they bring them to church, and set them out in two long rows, which often extend down the middle of the church, through the doors, and round the building. The priest walks between these, sprinkling holy water on each side of him, and the owners stand on the outside, to see that their property is duly sanctified.

The fair re-appears; a grand levee is held at the palace; the streets swarm with gay equipages, conveying splendidly attired people to and fro; and few, if any, of the 10,000 droschka which ply for hire in Petersburgh are idle for a

moment.

The whole of the Easter week is one long holiday and merry-making: then comes "Conclusion Sunday," when the festivities of Easter are solemnly put an end to; and to that succeeds "Remembrance Monday," when families visit the graves of lost relatives, taking with them wine and provisions. They first attend mass in the church, where the priest prays for the repose and happy resurrection of all those whose names are presented to him; and then they adjourn to the graves, where the sincere mourners pray, and present their eatables to the beggars, who hover about in swarms; while the others make a table of the grave, and feast and drink until but little remembrance of anything remains.

On Whit Monday a very curious custom pre

vails. The tradesmen display their marriageable daughters in the summer-gardens. The young ladies are decked off in every trinket the family can muster; and Kohl relates that one anxious mother, not being able to make her daughter as fine as she could wish, tied six dozen silver teaspoons on to a gold chain, and hung them in a double row round her neck, and surrounded her waist with three dozen table-spoons; while two silver punch ladles were crossed on her breast and two on her back. The girls are marshalled in two long rows, one on each side of the avenue; and behind each stands the mother, or some aunt or friend, as duenna. Between these two rows promenade all the young men who are on the look-out for wives. If one sees a face that pleases him, and her decorations lead him to suppose she is likely to bring him a fortune, he or his father, or his friend, scrapes an acquaintance with the duenna. Then ensues a regular system of bargaining; and if all the important money matters are settled to the satisfaction of both parties, the bride and bridegroom elect are formally introduced, betrothed, and married, without knowing more of each other's minds, habits, or disposition than the most perfect strangers could. If the bridegroom has parents, his wife is carried to their home, where she rapidly becomes a mere cypher, the motherin-law conducting everything. Where there are three or four married sons, all bring their wives home to the paternal roof, where they have nothing to do but to read, embroider, yawn, quarrel with each other, or intrigue for the favour of the mother-in-law. They see their husbands at meal times, and hear from them the state of the markets, and the rise or fall in stocks, or some equally interesting information.

And here we must take leave of both our authors, our notice having already reached its utmost limits. If the more severe commentator has "aught exaggerated, or aught set down in malice," it is a little excusable, for he appears to have suffered much injustice at the hands of the Russians. But we are inclined to give full credit to his statements, for on all points where Kohl and he meet they agree; and on those of which he gives so dark a picture, Kohl, who evidently aims at being a popular author, is absolutely silent. To the judgment of our readers we now, however, leave them and their pictures of Russia, and its manners and customs.

LENORA.

M. A. Y.

(From the German of Burger). Lenora, at the blush of day,

From heavy slumbers started, "Art dead, or faithless, Wilhelm, say,

How long must we be parted?" He was with Frederick's armed might At Prague, and there engaged in fight, Had sent no word or token To prove his health unbroken.

The Empress and the Prussian King,
Weary of constant striving,
Their stubborn natures softening,

Saw peace at last arriving.
And all the troops rejoiced and sang,
With kettle-drums and martial clang,
Their arms with green boughs twining,
Towards their homes inclining.
And everywhere-all, all around,
From roads and pathways meeting,
Both old and young, with joyous sound,
Went forth to give their greeting.
"Thank God!" the child and wife outcried,
And "Welcome!" many a happy bride :
Lenora, only, misses

The warm embrace and kisses.

And up and down, amidst the brave,
She flew, each name repeating;
But none the information gave,

Of all that warlike meeting.

And when the train had passed elsewhere,
She tore her locks of raven hair.
To earth her fair form flinging,
Her hands in frenzy wringing.
Her mother ran to her, and cried,
"With mercy, Heaven, invest her,
What ill can my dear child betide ?"

And in her fond arms press'd her.
"Oh, Mother-gone is gone for aye,
The world and all may pass away;
God has no kindness done me,
Oh woe! oh woe! upon me!"
"Help, God! help! leave us not unblest:
Pray to Him to befriend us.
What is His will, is for the best,

God! God! some comfort send us!"
"Oh, Mother, Mother! foolish plea!
God has done nothing well for me!
My prayer's unhelp'd, unheeded,
Shall never more be needed !''

"Help, God! the true believers know
Their gloom his aid can brighten :
The hallowed sacramental vow,
Thy misery shall lighten."
"Oh, mother, this consuming rage,
No sacrament can e'er assuage;
No sacrament e'er taken,

Has power the dead to waken."

List, child. Perchance thy lover now,
In distant lands united,

In falsehood has renounced his vow,
To some new marriage plighted.
So let him go. His love thus o'er,
His heart shall never profit more;
When soul and body sever,
His pangs shall last for ever."

"Oh, Mother-Mother! Gone is gone!

The past, the past is ended! Death-death is now my gain alone, Why was I born unfriended?

Be quench'd my light-be quench'd for aye,
In night and horror die away.

God has no kindness done me.
Oh woe! oh woe upon me!"

"Help, God! nor into judgment go,

On this poor child's expressions;
What her tongue says, she does not know:
Record not her transgressions.

Forget all earthly woe, like this,
Think but on God and heavenly bliss:
Then to thy spirit's panting

No bridegroom shall be wanting."

"Oh, Mother! what is Hell-or Bliss-
That thus you speak about it;

I knew but Heaven in Wilhelm's kiss,
And all is Hell without it.

Be quench'd my light-be quench'd for aye,
In night and horror die away;
On earth, without my lover,
All happiness is over."

Thus her despair o'er every sense
And through each vein was raging,
And war against God's providence
Most rashly she was waging.

She wrung her hands and beat her breast,
Until the sun went down to rest,
And up in Heaven's arch beaming,
The golden stars were gleaming.

Hush! listen! listen! tramp-tramp-tramp!
A courser's steps she counted;
The rider next, with clattering stamp
Before the porch dismounted.
And listen! at the gate, a ring
Sounds faintly-softly-kling-ling-ling,
And then came, through the portal,
These words, distinctly mortal-
"Holla! open the door, my pet;

Watchest thou, love? or sleepest ?
How art thou mooded tow'rds me yet?
And laughest thou, or weepest?"
"Ah, Wilhelm! thou! so late at night!
I've watch'd for thee in sorrowing plight,
And undergone much chiding.
Whence com'st thou now, thus riding?"

"We only saddle at midnight;
From far Bohemia, hither,

I roused myself late for the flight,

And now will bear thee thither." "Stay, Wilhelm, stay! The wind doth rush Loud whistling through the hawthorn-bush. Here, heart's love, let me hold thee, My warm arms shall enfold thee."

"Let the wind whistle through the haws,
Child, let it whistle stronger,

Now clinks my spur; the black horse paws;
I dare not tarry longer.

Come-come: truss up thy dress, and spring
On my black horse, behind me swing,
To reach our couch to-day, love,
One hundred miles away, love."

"And must I ride one hundred miles
To our bride-bed to-day, love?
And hark! the church clock tolls meanwhiles,
Eleven! doth it say, love?"

"See here! see there! the moon is high;
We and the dead can swiftly fly.

'Tis for a bet we're flying
To where the couch is lying."

"Yet say, where is thy bridal hall,

Thy nuptial bed-where lies it?" "Far, far from hence! still, cool, and small,

Eight slender planks comprise it." "Hast room for me?" "For me and thee! Come, gird thy dress; quick, mount with me.

The guests are there to meet thee;
The doors wide open greet thee."

The fair girl quickly dress'd, and sprung
Upon the horse behind him;
And round the trusty rider flung,
Her lily arms entwined him.
And hurra! off! away! the steed
Flies like the wind with whistling speed;
The horse and rider quivering,
And sparks and pebbles shivering.

And right and left, on either hand,

Before their eyes quick sunder'd, How flew the lawns, and heaths, and land! And how the bridges thunder'd! "Dearest, dost fear? The moon is high! Hurra! the dead can swiftly fly! Dost fear the dead, my own love?" "6 Nay-leave the dead alone, love."

What sound is that of clang and knell ?
Why do the ravens flutter?

Hark! the death-song: and tolls the bell!
"Bury the corpse" they utter!
A funeral train was coming near;
They bore the coffin and the bier :
The hymn, the croak resembled
Of frogs in ponds assembled.

"After midnight inter the dead,

With knell and lamentation;
Now, my young wife I homeward lead
With bridal celebration.

Come, Sexton, with thy choral throng,
And drawl us out thy bridal song!
Come, gabble, Priest, thy blessing.
E'er tow'rds the couch we're pressing."

The clang was still'd; vanish'd the bier,
Obedient to his calling :

And all beside, less and less near Behind his horse was falling. And further, faster still, the steed Flies like the wind with whistling speed; The horse and rider quivering, And sparks and pebbles shivering. And left and right, how swift in flight Pass'd hedges, trees, and mountains! How flew on right, and left, and right, Towns, villages, and fountains! "Dearest! dost fear? The moon is high! Hurrah! the dead can swiftly fly: Dost fear the dead, my own love?"

Ah, leave the dead alone, love!"

See there! about the gallows' height
Round the wheel's axle prancing,
Seen dimly in the pale moonlight,
A shadowy mob is dancing.

"Halloo, there! rabble. Ho! come here!
Come, mob, with me; and follow near!
Our wedding-dance be skipping
When we to bed are tripping."
And quickly on the mob did rush
Behind them, noisy-clattering,
As whirlwinds through the hazel-bush
Send down the dry leaves pattering:
And further, faster still, the steed

Flies like the wind, with whistling speed;
The horse and rider quivering
And sparks and pebbles shivering.

How flew they in the moon's wide light,
Soon into distance speeding!
And overhead, how quick in flight

Were heavens and stars receding!
"Dearest! dost fear? The moon is high!
Hurrah! the dead can swiftly fly!
Dost fear the dead, my own love:"
"Oh! leave the dead alone, love!"

"My steed! methinks the cock doth crow; The sand is just expended;

My steed! the morning air I know,

Quick, hence! our course is ended:
Achieved, achieved now is our ride!
The nuptial chamber opens wide!
The dead ride swiftly striving!
The goal, the goal's arriving!"

And swiftly tow'rds an iron grate
With tearing speed they thunder'd:
With a slight switch he strikes the gate,
And lock and bolt are sunder'd.
The doors unfolded, creaking wide,
And over graves still on they ride,
With tomb-stones round them gleaming,
On which the moon is beaming.

Look! in the twinkling of an eye,
Ho! ho!-a ghastly wonder!
Piecemeal the rider's garments lie,
Like tinder-shred asunder.
A skull, of tuft and queue bereft,
A naked skull alone is left!

A skeleton, before her,

Holds scythe and sand-glass o'er her!

The black horse wildly snorts and rears,
And breathes forth sparks; and shrinking
From underneath them, disappears,

Quick vanishing and sinking.

Wild howling fills the welkin round,

And groans from the deep grave resound.
Lenora's heart, just shivering,
"Twixt life and death is quivering.

And now beneath the moon's pale glance,
Round in a circle scowling,

Lock'd hand in hand, the spectres dance,
And to this tune are howling;

"Forbear! forbear! though breaks the heart 'Gainst God in heaven take no part.

Now from thy body sever,
God save thy soul for ever!"