thought fit to subjoin some annotations, for which (as they have not met the eyes of the censorship, and might perhaps offend the Russian Government) he alone, and not the Authoress, ought to be held responsible. The Authoress is a perfect stranger to the Editor. All his knowledge of her is derived solely from her work, and he has never had any communication with her whatever. All he has been able to learn is that she is still living, and that after her return from exile she published other productions of her pen; this being her first work. We should indeed be extremely grieved if our publication of her book in England should in any way interfere with her peace and comfort, and should not rather be an encouragement to her to resume her pen, for the benefit of her country and the information of other nations. The Polish original from which these volumes have been translated, comprises a narrative of events that took place between the years 1839 and 1841; but, owing to the delay caused by the long exile of the writer, it has but recently left the press. Still this delay does not in the least detract from either the importance or the novelty of the work. Siberia is not a country of progress; transformation and changes are not effected there with the same rapidity as they are in Western Europe; but for ages everything is stationary. Generation after generation may pass away, but the opinions, habits, and usages of the people continue immutable. Desolate and dismal, unexplored and unexplorable, as Siberia may be, it is not, as will be seen from this work, without its peculiar lineaments of sublimity, amidst all its dreariness and solitudes; and a day will come when its ice-bound territories will be opened to civilization, and its forests vanish before the advances of freedom. We cannot conclude better than by quoting Sydney Yendys' lines on the Polar regions: "The earth is rock-the heaven The dome of a greater palace of ice, Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies And cannot range. My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes, Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime. The sun himself is heavy, and lacks cheer; Or on the eastern hill, or western slope, VOL. I. |