bservation, picturesque and perfectly
balanced in its diction.

Aksakov remembered with unclouded distinctness exactly what he had
seen in his childhood, which he spent in the district of Orenburg. He
paints the portraits of his grandfather and his great-aunt. We see
every detail of the life of a backwoodsman of the days of Catherine
II. We see the noble of those days, simple and rustic in his habits as
a peasant, almost entirely unlettered, and yet a gentleman through and
through, unswerving in maintaining the standard of morals and
traditions which he considers due to his ancient lineage. We see every
hour of the day of his life in the country; we hear all the details of
the family life, the marriage of his son, the domestic troubles of his
sister.

What strikes one most, perhaps, besides the contrast between the
primitive simplicity of the habits and manners of the life described,
and the astoundingly gentlemanlike feelings of the man who leads this
quiet and rustic life in remote and backward conditions, is that there
is not a hint or suspicion of anything antiquated in the sentiments
and opinions we see at play. The story of Aksakov's grandfather might
be that of any country gentleman in any country, at any epoch, making
allowances for a certain difference in manners and customs and
conditions which were peculiar to the epoch in question, the existence
of serfdom, for instance--although here, too, the feeling with regard
to manners described is startlingly like the ideal of good manners of
any epoch, although the _moeurs_ are sometimes different. The story
is as vivid and as interesting as that of any novel, as that of the
novels of Russian writers of genius, and it has the additional value
of being true. And yet we never feel that Aksakov has a thought of
compiling a historical document for the sake of its historical
interest. He is making history unawares, just as Monsieur Jourdain
talked prose without knowing it; and, whether he was aware of it or
not, he wrote perfect prose. No more perfect piece of prose writing
exists. The style flows on like a limpid river; there is nothing
superfluous, and not a hesitating touch. It is impossible to put down
the narrative after once beginning it, and I have heard of children
who read it like a fairy-tale. One has the sensation, in reading it,
of being told a story by some enchanting nurse, who, when the usual
question, "Is it true?" is put to her, could truthfully answer,