This last line, translated literally, runs: “They were sometimes sad, they were never bored.” It is one of the most poetical in the whole range of Russian literature; and yet how absolutely untranslatable!--not only into English, but into any other language. How can one convey the word “boring” so that it shall be poetical, in English or in French? In Russian one can, simply from the fact that the word which means boring, “skouchno,” is just as fit for poetic use as the word “groustno,” which means sad. And this proves that it is easier for Russians to make poetry out of the language of everyday than it is for Englishmen. The matter-of-fact quality of the Russian poetical temperament--its dislike of exaggeration and extravagance--is likewise clearly visible in the manner in which Russian poets write of nature. I have already said that the poets of the early part of the nineteenth century reveal (compared with their European contemporaries) only a mild sentiment for the humbler aspects of nature; but let us take a poet of a later epoch, Alexis Tolstoy, who wrote in the fifties, and who may not unfairly be called a Russian Tennyson. In the work of Tolstoy the love of nature reveals itself on almost every page. His work brings before our eyes the landscape of the South of Russia, and expresses the charm and the quality of that country in the same way as Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” evokes for us the sight of England. Yet if one compares the two, the work of the Russian poet is nearer to the earth, familiar and simple in a fashion which is beyond the reach of other languages. Here, for instance, is a rough translation of one of Alexis Tolstoy’s poems: “Through the slush and the ruts of the road, By the side of the dam of the stream; Where the wet fishing nets are spread, The carriage jogs on, and I muse. I muse and I look at the road, At the damp and the dull grey sky, At the shelving bank of the lake, And the far-off smoke of the villages. By the dam, with a cheerless face, Is walking a tattered old Jew. From the lake, with a splashing of foam, The waters rush through the weir. A little boy plays on a pipe, He has made it out of a reed. The startled wild-ducks have flown, And call as they sweep from the lake. Near the old crumbling mill Labourers sit on the grass. An old worn horse in a cart, Is lazily dragging some sacks. And I know it all, oh! so well, Although I have never been here; The roof of that house over there, And that boy, and the wood, and the weir, And the mournful voice of the mill, And the crumbling barn in the field-- I have been here and seen it before, And forgotten it all long ago. This very same horse plodded on, It was dragging the very same sacks; And under the mouldering mill Labourers sat on the grass. And the Jew, with his beard, walked by, And the weir made just such a noise. All this has happened before, Only, I cannot tell when.”