that we have been, to some extent, noting | Such names have already spread with the the various sources from which the Anglo- growth of the United States of North AmerSaxon race has received its full and mature ica, from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of growth, and has been enabled to go forth Mexico, from the Atlantic to the Pacific conquering and to conquer a new hemisphere Ocean; and they will soon be diffused and a southern world. In the course of an- throughout the Australian continent. We other century that great race, extending the hardly need apologize to our readers for inblessings of civilization and laying sure foun- viting them, as we have done, to survey in dations of free institutions in new worlds, will some detail the varied sources of that Enghave planted there every class of surnames lish family nomenclature which is destined to that took root in England between the con- spread over so large a part of the whole quest of 1066 and the revolution of 1688. world.

Dickens' Household Words.

THE CHILDREN OF THE CZAR.

A BOOK, written by Ivan Tourghenief, was | published at Moskow in eighteen hundred and fifty-two, of course in Russian, and has since been translated into English as Russian Life in the Interior, or the Experiences of a Sportsman; and into French under the modified title of Mémoires d'un Seigneur Russe. We have just laid down the latter version, and are so impressed with the truthfulness of its delineations, that an irresistible temptation arises to scatter broadcast, by means of our columns, a few of the sketches which it gives of Russian life. Some of these are touching groups, making us conscious, after all, of the bond of common brotherhood which urges us individually to fraternize with individual members even of a hostile nation. Other scenes are simply astounding, compelling us to lift our hands and eyes in wonder that such monstrous things should be possible in a land which protests that it is eminently a member of true Christendom. But the whole series of pictures,great and small, confirm the accounts previously current of the barbaric civilization, the feudal tyranny, and the many instances of personal merit which characterize the multitudinous nation that bows itself down and is irresponsibly driven before him by the world's arch-enemy, the Emperor Nicholas.

Although the volume is written in a form that might seem to denote a highly artificial mode of composition (for it consists of twen

ty-two chapters, each complete in itself, like articles that might appear in the pages of this journal, and sometimes contains minute descriptions that remind us of Balzac's most finished pictures), on reading it, the effect produced is rather that of listening to an eloquent improvisitore, or Red Indian orator, than of perusing the work of a practiced writer. M. Tourghenief is familiar with nature, loves her, courts her in her coyest moments, and often betrays the secret charm of out-door life with a passionate warmth that would do honor to Audubon himself; while his social position as a bârine, or territorial lord, enables him to give us traits of Russian high life with the same readiness that his sportsmanship introduces him to the interior of rustic huts. The writer is unpracticed, inexperienced, new and his random leaves, thrown out from time to time in a Moscovian literary periodical, excited attention by their truth and freshness. United, they prove to constitute one of those bold, popular volumes, which reflect the tone of public feeling, and which succeed, making their way to the hearts of all, because the national mind volunteers itself as their instigator, accomplice, and judge. M. Tourghenief shall speak for himself in an eminently suggestive visit to a neighbor.

About twenty versts from my estate, he writes, there resides an ex-officer of the Guards, a handsome young gentleman, with

Arcadi Pavlytch has a soft and unctuous way of speaking; he cuts up his phrases with frequent pauses, and voluptuously strains every word, curling it between his puffed-up moustachios. He is fond of seasoning his dialogue with French expressions, such as "Mais c'est impayable! Mais comment donc !" In spite of all that, he has no attractions for me; and were it not for the game of his woods and heaths, and fields, the probability is that we should forget each other.

whom I am acquainted. His name is Arcadi | that they not only clean their harness and
Pavlytch Péenotchkine. His domain has dust their armiaks, but they carry their re-
the advantage over mine, in being, amongst finement so far as to wash their faces every
other things, well stocked with game. The day, including the back of their ears and
house in which my friend Péenotchkine re- neck. Arcadi Pavlytch's people have a
sides was built after the plans of a French somewhat downcast look; but in our darling
architect; his people, from the first to the Russia it is not very easy to distinguish mo-
last, are clad in liveries according to the Eng- roseness from mere sleepyheadedness.
lish style. He gives excellent dinners. He
receives you in the most amiable manner-
and with all that, you do not visit him with
hearty goodwill. He is fond of the prudent
and the positive: he has received a perfect
education, has served in the army, has re-
ceived the polish of high society, and at pres-
ent devotes his attention, with marked suc-
cess, to matters of rural economy. Arcadi
Pavlytch, according to his own proper state-
ment, is severe, but just; he watches closely
over the welfare of his vassals, and if he
chastises them, it is the best proof of his af-
fection for them. "They are creatures
whom you must treat exactly like children,"
he says on such occasions; "for in fact they
are grown-up children, my dear fellow, and
we must not forget to bear that in mind." As
to himself, when he happens to be placed in
what he calls the sad necessity of acting rigor-
ously, he abstains from any abrupt or angry
movement, or even from raising his voice: he
simply extends his forefinger, and says coldly
to the culprit, "I begged you, my dear man,
to do so and so," or, "What is the matter
with you, my friend? Recollect yourself."
His teeth are slightly clenched; his mouth
contracts imperceptibly, and that is all.

Notwithstanding the slight sympathy which I entertain for Arcadi Pavlytch, I once happened to pass the night at his house. Early the next morning I had the horses put to my calèche, but he would not allow me to leave till I had breakfast in the English style, and he dragged me into his cabinet. We had tea, cutlets, poached eggs, butter, honey, Swiss cheese, and so on. Two white-gloved valets, silently, and with the greatest promptness, anticipated our slightest wishes. We were seated upon a Persian divan,—Arcadi Pavlytch, in a heterogeneous Oriental costume, sipped his tea, nibbled a bit of something, smiled, looked at his nails, smoked, tucked a cushion under his arm, and appeared in the main to be in excellent good temper. He soon made a serious attack upon the cutlets and the cheese; and, after having worked away at them like a man, he poured him. self out a glass of red wine, raised it to his lips, and knitted his brows.

He is above the middle height, well-made and very good looking; he takes the greatest care of his hands and nails; his cheeks and lips are resplendent with health. He laughs frankly and heartily. He dresses with infinite taste. He procures a great quantity of French books and publications of all kinds, "Why has this wine not been warmed ?" without being a great reader the more for he drily asked of one of the valets, who bethat, and it is as much as he has done if he came confused, turned pale, and stood like a has got to the end of the Wandering Jew. statue. "I just ask you that question, my He is an excellent partner at cards. In dear fellow," continued the young Seigneur, short, Arcadi Pavlytch passes for a highly staring at the poor man with wide-open eyes. civilized gentleman, and, with mothers who The only motion the culprit made was a have daughters to marry, for one of the most slight twisting of the napkin which he held desirable matches in our whole "govern- in his hand. Under the weight of fascination, ment." The ladies are mad after him, and, he was unable to utter a syllable. Arcadi above all things, extol his manners. He is Pavlytch lowered his forehead, and continuadmirably reserved, and has the wisdom of ed to gaze thoughtfully, but covertly, at his the serpent; never has he been mixed up in victim. any current bit of gossip. He spends his winters at St. Petersburg. His house is marvellously well managed; the very coach men have felt his influence so completely,

"I beg your pardon, my dear sir," he said to me with an amiable smile, laying his hand familiarly on my knee. He again gave the valet a silent stare.

"Well! go!" he said at last, raising his eyebrows, and touching the spring of a small alarum bell, which was followed by the entrance of a stout, brown-faced man, with a low forehead and bloodshot eyes.

"Get matters ready for Fedor," said Arcadi Pavlytch, with increasing laconism, and in a state of perfect self-command.

The thickset man bowed, and left the room. No doubt the correction for which he had received the order was duly administered to the delinquent servant-man.

"This is one of the annoyances of country life," said Arcadi, in laughing mood. "But where are you going to? Stop, stop! sit down here."

"No, indeed; I am obliged to leave you. It is getting late."

"To go shooting? Always shooting! 'Tis quite a passion with you. In which direction do you propose to start?"

"Forty versts off; to Reabovo."

coming to the person who had the greatest
interest in being informed of it.
At the gate
of the village we were met by the staroste
(elder), the son of the bourmister, a vigorous
red-headed peasant, six feet high, on horse-
back, without a hat, dressed in his best ar-
miak, which hung unfastened and danced in
the air.

"And where is Sophron ?" asked Arcadi Pavlytch.

The elder first of all dismounted, bowed very low, and muttered, "Health, father, Seigneur Arcadi Pavlytch." Then he raised his head, shaking his locks to make them stand upright, and said that Sophron was at Perof, but that he had already been sent for to return immediately.

"Very well! Go behind the calèche, and follow us."

The elder, by way of politeness, led his horse ten paces away from us to the border of the road, remounted, and trotted after us, cap in hand. We made our entry into the village.

The bourmister's cottage was situated apart from the others, in the midst of a green and fertile hempfield. We halted at the entrance of the courtyard. M. Péenotchkine rose, picturesquely threw aside his cloak, and stepped out of the calèche, serenely gazing around him. The bourmister's wife advanced, bow

"To Reabovo! But then I will accompany you. Reabovo is only five versts from my estate of Chipilovka, and I have been intending to go there for some time past. Till to-day, I have not had a moment at liberty. It is a lucky accident. You can shoot at your heart's content at Reabovo, if such is your wish, and in the evening you will be my guest. We will have a good supper, for I will take the cook with me. I want to showing very low in front, and making a dead set you Chipilovka; my moujiks (peasants) there, pay their taxes punctually. I can't understand how they make two ends meet; but that's their affair. I must own that I have a hard-headed bourmister (steward) over them; quite a little statesman, on my word of honor. You will see what a lucky mortal I am."

It was impossible to refuse; but instead of leaving at nine o'clock in the morning, it was two in the afternoon before we started. A sportsman will understand my impatience. Arcadi Pavlytch took with him such a stock of linen, provisions, clothes, cushions, perfumes, and divers "necessaries," as would have sufficed an economical German for a whole twelvemonth, supplying him stylishly and pleasantly too. At last we arrived, not at Reabovo, where I wanted to go, but at Chipilovka. It was too late to think seriously of shooting, so I consoled myself with the reflection that what can't be cured must be endured.

The cook had preceded us by several minutes. I thought I could observe that he had already completed sundry arrangements, and especially that he had given notice of our

at the hand of the master, who graciously allowed the good woman to kiss it as long as she pleased, and then mounted the three steps that led to the front door. The elder's wife was waiting in a dark corner of the entrance, bowing also very low, but without daring for a moment to aspire to the honor of kissing the hand. In what is called "the cold chamber," to the right of the entrance hall, two other women were busily engaged in carrying off all sorts of objects-empty jugs, old clothes, butter-pots, and a cradle wherein, amidst a heap of rags, an infant reposed, it seemed to me. Their work ended, Arcadi Pavlytch drove them out in a hurry, to seat himself on the bench exactly under the holy pictures, which the common people never fail to salute, crossing themselves at the same time, whenever they enter any room whatsoever. The drivers then brought in the large chests, the middle-sized trunks, and the little boxes. It is needless to mention that they took infinite pains to muffle the sound of their footsteps. Once when they stood a little on one side, I saw the bourmistress noiselessly pinch and beat some other woman, who did not dare to cry out. Sud

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