These extracts will enable our readers to judge for themselves of the
merits of M. Lajétchnikoff's style as it appears in Mr Shaw's translation.
A better selection might have been made, had we not been desirous to avoid
any such anticipation of the development of the story as light diminish
its interest; but we are inclined to believe that most of our readers will
agree with us in thinking, that if M. Lajétchnikoff has succeeded in
faithfully illustrating the manners of the age of Iván the Great, he has
also shown that he possesses brilliancy of fancy, fervour of thought, and
elevation of sentiment, as well as knowledge of the movements of the heart,
revealed only to the few who have been initiated into nature's mysteries.

He does not appear to be largely gifted with the power of graphic
description, of placing the scenes of nature, or the living figures that
people them, vividly before us--he loves rather to indulge, even to excess,
mystical or passionate thoughts that are born in his own breast, and to
adorn them with garlands woven from the flowers of his fancy; but these
flowers are of native growth, the indigenous productions of the Russian
soil. His images often sound to our ears homely, sometimes even familiar
and mean, but they may be dignified in their native dress. He has no
lively perception of the beauties of external nature; his raptures are
reserved for the wonders of art, for what the human mind can create or
achieve; and, curiously enough, it is architecture that seems to excite in
him the greatest enthusiasm. In illustration of this feeling, we must
still extract an eloquent discourse on the life of the artist, which the
author puts into the mouth of Fioraventi Aristotle--a passage of much
feeling, and, we fear, of too much truth:--

"Thou knowest not, Antony, what a life is that of an artist! While
yet a child, he is agitated by heavy incomprehensible thoughts: to
him the sphynx, Genius, hath already proposed its enigmas; in his