val; but it is not necessary to go quite so far. Not character, but fashion, has changed. The Early Victorian era was still dominated by the influence of Byron, as its predecessor had been by that of Rousseau, and the type of hero acceptable to the general public was that still dear to the lady novelist -the dark haughty being, whose countenance wears an expression of impenetrable gloom. He exhibits a curious predilection for walking abroad on stormy nights, wrapped in a large cloak and with a slouched hat drawn low upon his brows, and thus clad he apostrophises wildly any natural object which, in spite of the darkness and his hat, may succeed in meeting his gaze. He has a guilty conscience, and lets fall occasionally fearful hints as to the nature of the deeds which burden it; but his great (perhaps we should say his only) delight is to secure a sympathetic listener-the general public will do as well as any individual -and proceed to enjoy the luxury of confession. One might almost say that he experiences an artistic pleasure in setting forth the heinousness of his deeds and the loneliness to which they condemn him; and when his listener is the heroine, and she pities and forgives him, and expresses it as her opinion that the dark record may now be closed for evermore, one feels that, whatever he has gained, he has lost two main sources of happiness. This was the type which influenced the authors of even the adventure-books of the day. The delight in setting down one's creditable feelings, the necessity of calling upon Nature to be partaker in one's moods, and reviling her if she did not see fit to acquiesce, and the perpetual straining after language suited to the greatness of the occasion, are all in evidence.

And, although the hero declaiming against his wrongs is especially sublime, yet the hero stooping to woo falls little short of him in moral dignity. His language, under such circumstances, is equally elevated and impassioned, and must have proved somewhat embarrassing to the heroine, who could scarcely be expected, when taken by surprise, as of course she always was, to be able to summon up fitting terms for a reply. What, for instance, would be a suitable answer to such a request as this?

"Lady, the blood that warms me is not more vital than the love with which I worship you. I would toil throughout the life that is unspent, even in the bowels of the earth, so I might but hope to die beside you at last. Lady! - beautiful Ida! I want nothing from you- not even love, which comes to all - say only that you accept my love, whether it may ever be returned or no-say only, 'Julian, you may serve me,' and I will bless you before heaven as I kneel."

But the heroines are not unworthy of their lovers-save in the power of replying suitably to their declarations of affection. In the book from which we have just quoted, a page and a half of close printing is devoted to the description of the sister of the gentleman whose sentiments were at once so lofty and so modest - her face, figure, course of life, dress, manners, temper, and spirits. We learn that she had

"a magnificent eye. It might have done for a genius, and yet something whispered to you, while you looked upon it, that it belonged only to a meek and lowly Christian; for there was a pure depth of innocence, a holy

and quenchless light of womanly devotion in it, which might have been mistaken for poesie, had not the simple and disengaged liveliness of

her address carried conviction with it that her enthusiasm was of the happiest and healthiest tone, and her reason and principle undimmed by a beam from the poisoned atmosphere of this world's passions."

In combating thus vigorously the imputation of genius, the author has contrived to bestow a backhanded slap upon Christianity, which was obviously not her intention; but in other novels of the period also it is evident that the writers have scarcely succeeded in gaining a satisfactory mastery over the instrument of language. To find a lady not inferior to the one just described in charms of person and qualities of mind introduced in the first instance as "a young female," is calculated to cause a shock. This particular atrocity is taken from one of Fenimore Cooper's books; but it is quite common to find the ladies of a party designated as "the females," where a modern writer would say "the girls." To atone for this error of judgment, however, the Early Victorian writer, who is nothing if not gallant, makes all the amends in his power by attaching, wherever it is possible, the adjective "fair," as a kind of inseparable epithet, or after the manner of the days of chivalry, to any word descriptive of his heroine. "The fair passenger," "her fair hand," "his fair cousin" (the hero and heroine are generally cousins, somehow), "the fair rider-artist -embroideress enthusiast," and so on, ad nauseam, are phrases of constant occurrence, more especially in the works of Captain Armstrong, who was a follower of Marryat as a writer of sea-stories, the latest in date of which deals with the Crimean War. In contrast with the tendency we have noted in most of his contemporaries to adopt an attitude hostile to the

nobility, Captain Armstrong, like the average Briton, "dearly loves a lord," and is not ashamed to show his preference. His virtuous heroes succeed to peerages and magnificent estates, and are described with an affectionate respect bordering on adoration. "Lord Courtland" is never named without his title, although the author has been on the most familiar terms with him before his accession to honours, and when he is mentioned as "his Lordship" a capital letter is used.

Another peculiarity common to most of the novels of our period is the artificiality of their style. It is as though the author donned the tragic buskin himself in order not to be out of harmony with his characters, and as though the characters were never allowed to lay aside their masks even in their most solitary moments. In 'Country Quarters,' the officers, who are intended to be a gay and jovial set of fellows, joke "wi' deeficulty," and in a way that suggests dancing on stilts. There is a heavy-handedness about the society badinage which is enough to make a modern reader believe that the actors had grown into a state of romantic gloom, and only unbent in obedience to a sense of duty and with sadly preoccupied minds. The consequences of maintaining this tragic atmosphere are twofold. Scenes which would convulse the public of to-day with inextinguishable laughter are accepted in sad and sober earnest, and a false note runs through the story carried on at such an unnatural pitch. We may be unfortunate in our reminiscences; but, so far as our experience goes, we can only recall a single touch of nature, such as would appeal to the average man or woman to-day, in the whole of the voluminous works of Captain Marryat. This occurs in 'Settlers in Canada,' at the moment at which Captain Sinclair and Alfred are reconnoitring the Indian camp in which Mary is a prisoner. The soldier is too much excited to keep still, and when his friend warns him of the necessity for prudence, he replies, "But, Alfred, my good fellow, she's there." We quote from memory; but the reply has always struck us as a singular and welcome exception to the forced tone of the whole story.

It is an interesting question whether the conventions of the Early Victorian novel have not descended to the melodramatic stage of the present day. If we may judge from the testimony of so competent a witness as Mr Jerome, the charge may be considered proved. In both we have the feckless hero, with a mania for getting into trouble, and a turn for tall talk, and the incapable heroine, who faints at inopportune moments, and exclaims, "Unhand me, sir!" when the villain seizes her. We have the comic lovers and the ideal peasants, the Child (this is a Lyttonian feature), and

the stage Irishman. We have the prevalence of sudden death, and the frequency of murders, forced or mock marriages, and bubble companies bringing ruin upon their shareholders. We have a similar lack of humorous perception, although even the Transpontine theatre would, we believe, reject a "curtain" such as Lady Blessington provides in 'Country Quarters.' The hero and heroine have been long estranged by the usual misunderstanding. Having discovered his mistake, the gentleman is returning to his allegiance, but suffers shipwreck on his voyage to Ireland, and narrowly escapes a serious illness as the result of the hardships he undergoes. We mention this in some degree to excuse his subsequent procedings, for on reaching the lady's house, and entering the room in which she is seated, he falls fainting on the floor. She does not call for help, nor even attempt to restore him, but faints immediately on his prostrate form, leaving her grandmother to revive them both. With this affecting tableau we may fitly close our survey of Early Victorian fiction.

1.

We return now to the Forwarding Prison at Tomsk, which, although built in a commanding position, produces no marked impression from the exterior, owing to the low character of the buildings which comprise it. Exception should, however, be made in favour of the large whitewashed brick house that, as already mentioned, now fronts the institution, and consists mainly of the governor's private residence: one soon learns that this, too, like the palisade, is typical. After the party already described had fairly left, we went over the prison, which at that time lodged a comparatively small number of inmates-six hundred and eleven being the score chalked up on the board at the gate. Tomsk rejoices in three prisons, the other two being the Gubernsky, a provincial prison for somewhat heavily sentenced individuals, while the Arestantsky is reserved for local offenders with milder sentences. These, however, do not fall to be described here.

The space enclosed by the outer wooden palisade is divided into about nine squares unequal in dimensions, each of which is partitioned off from its neighbours by walls similar to those which surround the whole. In several of these squares one finds prison barracks, to the number of two or three -low wooden structures with red roofs and walls. In the centre of the principal square stands the pretty little church, surrounded in part by young birch-trees. It holds three hundred persons, and divine service is conducted every Sunday

and on all the important calendar days. There was no trace of any sort of paving in the courts, only the bare soil; but narrow raised pathways of planks led in each instance from the entrance - gate in the wall to the doors of the buildings that stood in the square. One form of barrack consisted of four kameras into which a Tshaped corridor gave admittance, with a central lavatory facing the door-i.e., at the end of the main corridor: two kameras opened off each wing. A large lamp built high up into the wall, protected by grating on the inside, and only accessible from the corridor, dimly lights each room. The nari or sleeping-platforms are arranged down the centre of the room: each longitudinal half slopes gently up to meet the other in the middle line, while a shelf above the heads of the sleepers is covered with their bundles and bags. As we went through the building, the poor fellows would hurry to the square spyhole in the padlocked door, guarded by two crossed iron bars, to see what was going on: any little incident that broke the monotony of their prison existence was acceptable. The kamera is heated by a large stove built into one corner. Most of the barracks were only double-chambered, with a diminutive dividing corridor. I was impressed with the cleanliness of this prison, in contrast with that at Tiumen. This is of no great consequence, as it was one of two instances in which I know special preparations had been made for the visitors: still

it was interesting to see what could be done on occasions. When one enters a kamera, in response to the gaoler's premonitory shout of "Smirno" (Silence) the men instantly dispose themselves around the wall, dressed in their dark-grey frieze coats, and reply heartily to the Russian greeting, "Zdravstuite" (Good morning). At the head of the row-i.e., nearest to the door -stands the starosta or elder, who is their representative in all dealings with the authorities. One of their number, elected by themselves, he is responsible for the general behaviour of the room, and in return receives some slight amelioration of his lot. There was of course no overcrowding at this moment, and a young Russian engineer who had come with us, agreeably surprised by what he considered to be the satisfactory state of everything, remarked to one of the convicts standing by, "It is very good here." "Yes," replied the breaker of the law - "yes, it certainly is good, only we wish that it were not quite so good, and that we were free." "If only they would let me out on Sundays to see my friends, I would stay here all my life," observed a prison habitué to a friend of mine who was visiting one of the Moscow jails.

Many of the prisoners were engaged in ordinary duties. Some were drawing water out of a deep well at the bottom of which floated large blocks of greenish ice. Others were carrying hot water from the immense boiler that supplies the convicts with the wherewithal to prepare the much-loved tea. A few were at work in the bakery, and a couple were busy in the dispensary. The different faces were a fascinating study. There were men who looked as if they had never had a chance; others were

perpetually smiling (some men can laugh their way through life); and while the countenances of a few were pale, haggard, and drawn, many seemed villanous, even to the hair of their head: very rarely you saw a sympathetic, thoughtful, far less an attractive face.

The prison fare was that supposed to be common to a great majority of these institutions, consisting mainly of one substantial meal in the middle of the day, at which the inmates get as much soup as they can consume-commonly shtchi made of cabbage with little pieces of meat in it and 24 lb. of black bread. A bowl and a spoon, together with the mug out of which they drink their kvass, are thus the only articles that require to be washed up after this simple dinner. There is an evening meal about six, at which the principal dish is kasha (gruel). The convicts also drink tea twice in the day, but have to supply themselves with the fragrant leaf. For the sale of it and other commodities, such as tobacco and vodka, there is a little store in the prison, which the men value. I propose to take up the question of the prisoner's fare more fully at a subsequent point, for it is interesting to note how it varies in different quarters with the economical tact of the prison natchalniks.

The hospital occupied two separate squares. In one of the buildings was a large dispensary, and a room for the examination of patients. Although the food was superior to that which obtained in the prison proper, yet the other arrangements were not correspondingly good. Wards for infectious and noninfectious diseases were found under the same roof, with merely a log wall to divide them. The male wards were comfortably full, but there were only three female