At the beginning of the nineteenth century literature in Russia was like the snakes in Iceland. Nor can it be said that the new development which took place early in that century was a _rinascimento_ such as sprang into being in Italy, in France and in England. A new birth implies a previous state of existence, and it cannot be said that the old chronicles which the dryasdusts of Kiev—the old head-quarters of such monkish learning as existed—still less a few embryonic attempts at versification and dramatic writing, could be dignified by the inspiring title of literature. “The Russian language”—to quote Mr. Baring—“was, as has been said, like an instrument waiting for a great player to play on it, and to make use of all its possibilities.” The fables of Kryloff—a playwright whose dramas have long since been forgotten—were published in 1806, and these remain a classic. Out of the two hundred fables which he left at his death in 1844, forty were translations, or, rather, “recreations,” as Mr. Baring puts it, of La Fontaine; seven were suggested by Aesop; the remainder were original. As in all fables, these contain an element of satire; that here and there the satire should be tinged with even a spice of political acidity did not hinder their popularity. I should like to say, in passing, that the few pages which Mr. Baring devotes to his account of Krylov contain passages of great beauty—passages which could only have been written by a man gifted with the keenest appreciation of the poetry which is part of himself. [Illustration: IVAN TURGENIEV. _From an etching by E. Hedouin._ [_To face p. 204._] It was in 1816, that with Karamzin’s monumental work, “The Chronicles of Russia,” the literature of that country burst into existence, like Pallas Athene fully armed from the head of Zeus. “Not only were the undreamed-of riches of the Russian language revealed to the Russians in the style, but the subject matter came as a surprise.” Pushkin, the greatest Russian poet that ever lived, or probably ever will live, was the next great star that appeared upon the firmament, and he declared that Karamzin had revealed Russia to the Russians, just as Columbus discovered America. To Karamzin’s glorious prose and to Pushkin’s immortal verse belong the first honours in the _belles-lettres_ of Russia. Fifty years and more have passed since I read Gogol’s “Dead Souls” in the original. The strivings and hard work of a somewhat strenuous life have swept away the little that I knew of Russian authors and literature. I am now obliged to walk upon the crutches of translations, though now and then a faint memory is in some mysterious way awakened, and the interest, at any rate, has not faded.