The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1888-06-30

matter-o of fact and somewhat prosaie.
The sternness and sadness, the listless-
ness and apathy of Russian life, with its
eternal monotony of card playing for the
killing of time; its one excitement, that
of intoxication, so frequently INDUCED
in by large majority of its people; its
occasional fierce outbursts which show
that even ages of repression cannot en-
tirely subdue the spirit of man; its con-
tinual intrigue, its frequent treachery,
its constant danger, all these things lie
ready to the writer's hand, and he can
not be accused Of unreality or exagger-
alton if be freely use them. So it comes
about that the Russian writers are
strong, virile, primitive brut al realists
but with realism like Homer, and
not like Howells-not even like Zola-
although many times they are not
more delicate than he. A man like
Gogol, descended from those Zaparog
Cossacks whose heroic exploits the
author of Taras Bulba celebrates,
and brought up on the marvellous
legends of the Molo Russians, if he
prove to be writer at all, will be no
snowybanded dilletante, singing to a
lute-but strong fantastic, half dia-
bolical realist-such as Gogol really
was. If the Iliad of Russia is ever
written, it will be from such materials
as Gog0l studied in his earlier attempts
the collected traditions and the
national songs of the Ukraema, those
kinds of heroic cantilenas as composed
by the players Of the bandura.
Gogol himself showed much power
in revivifying history, and his Even
ings at the Farm" and his "Taras
Bulba" came near being the master
pieces of Russian portraiture, for which
the world is still looking. AS it is, his
work is highly priced by his country
men and acknowledged by other schol-
ars to be at once modern and archaic,
learned and enthusiastic, mystic and
refined, and above all, strong and full
Of abounding life. On the track of
witches he takes us through the awful
solitudes of Russian forests, he shows
US the wide stretches of waste country
and the sky of the steppes. There is a
wild grace and woodsy flavor in all
the pictures he shows us, and the
Rusalka we are following may disap-
pear at last in silver mist, or hide
among the rushes and nenuphars in a
marsh lighted by fire-flies. We care
little, we have enjoyed the pleasures of
the chase through thsse strange new
solitudes, and felt the same poetry
which thrills the Molo-Russian. Hear
him talk Of the Dnieper and see if there
is not touch of world poetry in it,
which we as we'll as his countrymen
can enjoy: Marvellous is the Dnieper
on warm summers night, when all
things are asleep, both man and beast
and bird; God only from on high looks
down majestically on sky and earth,
and shakes with solemnity his chasuble,
and from his priestly raiment scatters
all the stars. The stars are kindled,
they shine upon the world; and all at
the same instant also flash forth from the
Dnieper. He holds them every one, the
Dnieper, in his sombre bosom; not one
shall escape him, unless, indeed, it per-
ish from the sky. The black forest,
dotted with sleeping crows, and the
mountains rent from immemorial time,
strive, as they catch the light, to veil
him with their mighty shadow. In
vain There is naught on earth can
veil the Dnieper. Forever blue, he
marches onward in his restful course
by day and night. He can be seen as
far as human sight can pierce. AS he
goes to rest voluptuously, and presses
close unto the shore by reason of the
nocturnal cold, he leaves behind him
a silver trail, flashing like the blade of
a Damascus sword, and then he yields
to sleep again. Then also he is won
derful, the Dnieperl and there is no
river like him in the world" The
whole rhapsody is wonderfully fine, and
Russia has scarcely need of poet when
her masters write prose like this.