followers and imitators have seized upon; for instance, Lermontof. It is painful to see, how, instead of the freshness, the vigour, the joyfulness, which we ought to meet in the representatives of a young and rising literature, resting on the foundation of a rich, uncorrrupted, original language, we find in them the ennui, the dissatisfaction, and the indifference of a set of _roués_ disgusted with life. It seems as if after having emptied the cup of the vanities of the world to the very dregs, this world, which has nothing left for their enjoyment, is despised by them; unfortunately, however, without having educated their minds for a better one. In his later productions, especially in his _Boris Godunof_, a drama, which may be rather called a tragical historical picture than a regular tragedy, Pushkin showed a more elevated mind, and a more objective way of viewing things. His last work, we believe, was his _Istorija Bunta_, History of the Insurrection of Pugatshef; no noble struggle for liberty, but a mere mutiny. He died in St. Petersburg in 1835, a short time after a marriage of choice and inclination; in a duel occasioned by a fit of jealousy, maliciously provoked by some of the courtiers. Other successful lyrical poets of this period are, Chomiakof, Baratinski, N. Jazikof, A. Timofeyef, Benedictof, Sokolovski, A. Podolinski, Lucian Jakubovitch, A. Ilitshevski, etc. Several ladies also have recently mounted the Pegasus. A Princess Volkonski, a Countess Rostoptshin, a Miss Teplef, are favourably mentioned; as are also Anna Bunin and a Mrs. Pawlof, the latter as a happy translator. A Mrs. Helene Han, who writes under the name of Zeneide B., is compared to George Sand. Nor must we forget two natural poets so called, that is, men from the people, who write verses; one named Alipanof, born a serf, and the other Kolzof. The lyric poets enumerated in the last period are all mostly still alive and continue to write. The very limited productiveness of the Russian poets is however a very striking and discouraging feature. While in the animated forest of German poetry, even during the most trying struggles of the times, a full chorus of songs and ballads resounds from every branch, we hear from Russian groves only solitary voices, and these voices seem to be exhausted almost as soon as they are heard. A volume of twenty sheets is in general considered in Russia as quite a respectable collection. Pushkin is almost the only one of their poets, whose very thoughts were verses.