The Sun.
London, England, 1870-05-23 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

A Ramble into Brittany. By the Rev. George Musgrave,
M.A., author of "Nooks and Corners in Old France,"
2 vols. Hurst and Blackett.

A very delightful ramble recorded by a very delightful
writer. Alluding to the great love of travel which exists in
the present day, Mr. Musgrave discovers a new reading
for the truism, "Humanum est errare," in proof of which it
appears that between January and December in last year no
less than three hundred and thirty.three thousand passen-
gers crossed the Straits of Calais from Dover and Folkestone,
in addition to numerous others who went by Newhaven
and other routes. However, there are, as the saying
is, "travellers" and "travellers," and but few of the
varied multitude above enumerated would be likely to reap
so much benefit from the excursion as the rev. author
of this ramble. Mr. Musgrave is no superficial observer,
not only the "nooks and corners" of the country
which he visits, but the minutest details in the
manners and customs of the pepol• with whom he
mixes, are for him matters of supreme interest and attrac-
tion. Thus, in viewing the college of St. Edmund's, at
Doua, where, as an M.A. of Oxford, he was
greeted " with cordial welcome and respect," M .
Musgrave examined with particular interest, the course of
instruction laid down for the pupils during a seven years'
residence in the college. After awarding due praise to the
course of classical instruction, the visitor particularly ad-
mires one branch of the studies in composition, which re-
quires the learners "to wri e letters in a style and
autograph becoming educated gentlemen"—" a most
excellent study," he observes, " and well worthy
of• adoption, if there were but time for it, in our
own best schools, from which lads of sixteen often
send scrawls that might have been penned by pot boys."
While passing through Morlaix, the observant traveller is
sfruck by the elegant exterior of some of the humble abodes
of the poorest inhabitants, composed entirely of granite.
"In the quarters, where stone grows under the feet like grass
and chisels do their work with the facility of scissors
cutting paper, the stonemason knocks up a domicile
tenable at 18s. a year rent with a working drawing before
him that might have been sketched by Pailudio, and plumbs
and fits granite cubes' with the precision and energy of .an
ancient Roman." We must not lingor any longer over these
pleasant pages. The book, however, we may remark in
conclusion is not so much a record of adventure as a result
of thoughtful investigation and research, and to congenial
readors more especially, the Rambler in Brittany is likely
to prove an instructive and desirable companion.

Mary Stanley; or the Secret Ones. Chapman and Hall.

This is a clever book, and is all the more interesting
because it opens up new ground. Mary Stanley is an
Englishwoman, as her name implies, but the story is Rus-
sian ; the scene is laid in Russia, and nearly all the
dramatis personae, except the heroine, are Russians. The
author has, we believe, lived many years in the great
empire over which the Czar bears sway, and he has
vividly depicted the customs and the society of that
country. The date to which his story refers is nearly
fifty years back, during the last days of the Emperor
Alexander 1., and the catastrophe with which the book
concludes is the accession of Nicholas and the formidable
conspiracy with which he had to deal at the moment that
he came to the Crown. The tale opens with an account
of Mary Stanley bidding farewell to the family of a
Russian baron, with whom she had lived as governess.
She is about to undertake the same office in the far more
distinguished family of Count Golovin. "Golovin the
Terrible" he is generally called, for he is at the head of
the secret police, and knows the business of everyone
throughout that vast empire whose business is worth
knowing. He is acquainted with the whole career of
Mary Stanley from the time that she was a school-girl,
which she soon discovers, not a little to her dismay. Not
that she has any real cause for alarm; but though she
has led a blameless life, she is not reconciled to the notion
that a stranger is as cognisant of her history as she her-
self is.

The tale opens with great spirit. We see Mary in the
midst of a sorrowing, weeping crowd of serfs, who kneel
down in their abject fashion imploring her not to go, for
she has won all their hearts by frequent kind offices and
interpositions which have saved them from many a blow
of the knout. But she is bound to take leave of them.
Count Golovin has sent his most trusty serf, his house
steward, to take care of her through the many days'
Journey that lies between her and St. Petersburg. Ivan
is quite a character, andplays an important part throughout
the book. He treats Mary half as the mistress of the
house, half as his own daughter; obeys all her commands,
and anticipates all her wishes. There comes a time when
he has to undergo a hard struggle in his desire to do his
duty. They travel by the sledge day after day across the
waste of snow, stopping now and then for food and rest.
Setting out after one of these halts, he tells Mary that
they must return. She asks why, and he points to a cloud
in the far distance, which he says betokens a storm. She
laughs at his fears, and commands him to goon. He refuses.
Then follows a struggle for the mastery, and Mary reminds
him that he had been ordered to treat her as " one of the
family," and insists upon his doing as she tells him. He yields
with melancholy foreboding. Too soon Mary finds out
what a terrible mistake she has made. She is overcome,
not so much by fear as by remorse, at the thought that
she has exposed the lives of others. The snow falls faster
and faster. It becomes quite dark. They are in the
midst of the steppe, with not a house near, and they have
lost the road. A sudden thought flashes into Mary's
mind. Are there any wolves ? Too likely ; and the party
take out their firearms, prepared to sell their lives dear.
For a long time they strain their eyes, until they are
wearied out with gazing on the white snow. At last they
think they see a black patch. It is moving ; they cannot
clearly discern what it is ; but the horses know instinc-
tively, and begin to plunge. Mary takes a pistol, with a
strange creeping in her flesh, and a quick beating of the
heart. Suddenly the waving movements of the black
mass cease. Ivan has fired, one of the wolves
has fallen, and the rest stop to devour their
comrade. They do not take long to finish him, and once
more they set out towards the sledge. Another shot
brings down another victim, and another temporary halt
of the pack. Ivan tells the driver to cut one of the horse's
traces and drive him towards the pack, for they are
coming dangerously near. The driver refuses to sacrifice
his beast, and Ivan, a giant in strength, hurls the driver
from his seat and threatens to cast him to the wolves, but,
better than his word, throws him on the farther side.
Then, cutting the traces and giving the horse a cut with
the whip, he sends him plunging blindly towards the
fierce foes. They spring at his windpipe, settle on his
haunches, soon bring the poor animal to the ground, and
begin their living meal.
" This was a sorry sight for Mary to see. She might
have been frightened if she had been with any weaker
man ; but the coolness and firmness of Ivan's movements
filled her with trust. He had begun to reload the rifle,
rightly judging that the horse would engage the brutes
fora longer time than their fellow wolves had done.