PASSAGES FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KARAMSIN.

TRANSLATED BY A. C. BECKER.

MY DAY.

THOUGHTLESS man wastes in oblivion those glorious morning hours, when fleecy and gorgeous clouds bear forth in their midst the radiant bridegroom of nature, to be received with a chorus of welcome from a grateful earth and its rejoicing inhabitants! I prostrate myself in mute reverence!

Is it wonderful, that the untutored children of nature, the simpleminded nations of antiquity, paid adoration to this magnificent luminary as it poured forth its light and life on all things, itself the mantle and veil of the invisible godhead?

What freshness in the air! the fragrance from the dewy earth rising in grateful incense toward Heaven.

The flocks scatter themselves abroad upon the hills, the whetted scythes glisten on the green fields, the singing lark soars above the laboring peasant, and the gentle Lavinia prepares the morning repast for her Palemon.

I wander among the variegated meadows. Here glows the plant of Asia, there ripens the rich harvest of rye, and beyond waves the barley.

Painter thy pencil can never portray the shades of this beautiful picture!

I return to my quiet dwelling. A glass of rich yellow cream awaits me; how delicious its flavor after a morning ramble! I search among my books; find 'Thomson's Seasons.' I take them with me to the silent grove. I place the book by the side of a raspberry tree and read. I gaze upon the lofty trees, on the thick foliage of the branches, which in the brilliant sunlight is thrown into so fine relief. I listen to the rustling of the wind among the leaves so different from that in towns, and bury myself in thought; and then again resume my book.

Time flies unperceived, but my watch shows me that it is mid-day. I leave the grove, the sun pours down its rays upon me, the wind breathes not, the silvery leaves of the aspen grove are motionless, the light feather rests unstirred upon the young grass, the corn-flowers droop their heads, and the many-colored butterfly reposes on them.

All is silent save the water-nymph, who murmurs amid the long reeds; the bee even has retired with her sweet burthen to the hive; the peasant reposes upon the fragrant grass, which he has mown; the bubbling brook entices me to its side. I approach; its clear waters attract me, and yielding to the temptation, I plunge into the flowing crystal. Drooping willows interlace themselves above me, forming a verdant bower. Even the rays of the mid-day sun hardly penetrate it, to sparkle upon the shaded water. I am refreshed in body and mind. Ah! he

knows nothing of luxury, who never on such a day bathed in the living waters!

My mid-day meal awaits me two simple dishes compose it. I sit in the shade of an elm, which grows before my window; I read Lafontaine ; the book drops from my hand, and a slight slumber for a moment overshadows my eyes as with a veil; a zephyr disperses it. I awaken, and the attentive gardener places before me a basket of fragrant raspberries. How delicious and refreshing this juicy fruit, this gift of bountiful Nature! O! is it possible not to love her for all that she does for the delight and indulgence of man!

The heat vanishes: I go forth into the fields to botanize, to take delight in grapes and flowers. I examine their delicate construction and exquisite fibres, sometimes smooth as the finest silk and sometimes feathered and carefully protected, and wonder at their various perfumes and all the marvellously ingenious contrivances of nature, yet most of all at the principle of growth within them, and the beautiful mystery of vegetable life. I gather and carefully preserve them. Returning to my room, 1 unfold them, lay them in the sun, and not being a learned botanist, I write on an envelope for each their peculiar characteristics. For instance: These white flowers with a yellow shade on a smooth, dark-green, juicy stem, are pleasing to the eye, but still more so to the smell. At the close of day, at the sweet twilight hour, go to the grove; there thy nerves will tremble with ecstasy at the fragrance, and in delicious satiety of feeling thou wilt exclaim: 'An angel has surely descended on the wings of night and dwells within these verdant bowers.' But no; this fragrance proceeds from the slender bell-flowers, which glisten among the thick grass, and which are justly called the beauties of night.

I hear the shepherd's flute. The flocks are returning to the village; and each one finds for itself it's home, for the peasant has not yet returned from the field. How delightful the repast in the fresh air! The evening aromas mingle with my cup. But I approach the end of this bright day; I hasten to the high sandy shore of the winding river. There the wide smooth meadow spreads before me, while in the clear sky the evening sun rolls in silent magnificence, and in transient majesty. He already approaches the western horizon; he is overshadowed for a moment behind the thin, golden, sparkling clouds; they vanish before his rays; he appears again in his full glory; he showers upon the earth glory and radiance, and then disappears from our sight. The glow of evening tints the western sky.

Thus the wise and virtuous man, whose life has been a beneficent star to the moral life of his fellow-creatures, gently and gloriously takes his departure. Ardent imagination vanishes with youth, but reason departs not even with the evening of life: a quiet majesty rests upon the brow of the wise, even at the very time when the gloomy grave opens before him; his last bright look is a last blessing for mankind. He disappears, but his memory shines in the world like the glow of evening. I bend my knees. Almighty! my heart is open to Thee: fulfil those of its hopes which are worthy of mortal man! The majesty of night is borne

forth on black eagle's wings; its dark mantle droops over the Earth, and all nature sinks to rest.

I alone wander on the quiet plain, silent and in deep meditation. But suddenly my soul trembles at the unexpected splendor of fiery rays. I gaze upon the eastern sky. There, amidst dark and threatening clouds, the lightning flashes, and illuminates before me the ruins of an old church, with its thickly over-grown graves. From the other side the bright moon rises amidst a clear sky. Thus are darkness and light, vice and virtue, storm and calm, sorrow and joy, reigning together in our world!

CHEERFULNESS beams in her eyes. Her smile is like a spring morning. On her high brow are enthroned spiritual peace and repose. Unfading roses and lilies bloom on her cheeks. Her stature is like the upright stem of the slender narcisse. Roguish zephyrs, encircling themselves about her, blow open her light white garment, and play with her flowing tresses. Crowned by the flowers of the graces she wanders sportively over the earth, which is blessed by her presence; storms and darkness flee from her; poisonous snakes dare not molest her; stinging plants become soft under her feet; heavenly grace diffuses itself about her in sunbeams.

When mortal men submitted to the voice of gentle Nature, and lived in love, quiet and peace, then Innocence dwelt on earth, wandered in the fields with the shepherds, joining them in dance and song. But when man, in an evil hour of error, endeavored to be wiser than Nature, then Innocence returned to Heaven, her Fatherland.

Since that time she rarely visits this earth, and rarely is visible to human eyes.

AMIDST a lofty range of mountains which are distinguished as the 'Gebel Komri,' or 'Mountains of the Moon,' where, it is said, the western arm of the Nile has its source, if I did not first draw breath, at least to that spot are my first recollections wedded. There with my father alone I dwelt. Kindred, save ourselves, we owned none: yet I felt not the loss of a mother's care; for the time my father spent not with his books was devoted to me. I was his constant companion, and would sit at his feet polishing the clasps of brass that fastened the huge volumes over which he used to pore: if, after long watching, a smile was my reward, I was more than repaid; for over the face of my father seldom was a smile seen to play. This, child as I was, I soon saw, and valued it the more for its very rareness.

It is said the mind takes its bent from early nurture. I cannot but subscribe to its truth; for no joyous feeling of childhood was mine. I was old even in infancy. By my father I was taught to hold the world as nought; to look upon it as one dark spot on a bright horizon, that made, by its darkness, brighter the glorious worlds that surround it. Oh, with what joy I have stood on the perilous cliff, and watched the heavenly orb of night as she sailed in mild splendor on a sky of cloudless beauty, mid Heaven's bright torch-lights, those spirit gems to mortals known as stars, and thought in such bright worlds care could never come, vice could never be known, and love, the brightest light that gilds our way, had there its birth-place and its home.

*MANY of our readers will remember, that toward the close of the interesting story of The Hermit of Cetara,' which appeared in our twentieth volume, allusion was made to the existence of the present wild tale: The sands of ELLSPETH's life were nearly run, if I might judge by her faltering step and bent form. She bade me a solemn farewell; said she had far to go to rest among her kindred; placed on the table the ancient lamp, and said: The oil that fed it was dark ELLSPETH'S life-tale.' Curiosity induced me to open it. No oil was there; but a roll of parchment containing the narrative of her life.' The commencement of this narrative is now before the reader. ED. KNICKERBOOKER.