We are told by literary authorities that a certain Goncharoff occupies the place next to Turgeniev and Tolstoy in Russian literature. As to this I cannot vouch, but I can say that he has written a most profound and wonderful book called _Oblomoff_ wherein he has depicted in convincing terms the enthralling bondage of Russia’s intellectuals in her days of stagnant inactivity. From this book was coined the phrase—“Russian Malady of Oblomoffdom”, so well did it dissect her diseased and irresolute will—a malady so universal as to make one feel that _Oblomoff_ was written for us as well as for Russia. It certainly is a direct emphasis upon a condition which prevails so largely both in our personal and social life that few can read this inimitable pen portrait without a sneaking feeling that some of his own lineaments are limned therein. Goncharoff writes of his hero: “The joy of higher inspiration was accessible to him—the miseries of mankind were not strange to him.... Sometimes he cried bitterly in the depths of his heart about human sorrows. He felt unnamed, unknown sufferings and sadness, and a desire of going somewhere far away,—probably into that world towards which Stoltz had tried to take him in his younger days. Sweet tears would then flow upon his cheek. It would also happen that he would feel hatred towards human vices, towards deceit, towards the evil which is spread all over the world; and he would then feel the desire to show mankind its diseases. Thoughts would then burn within him, rolling in his head like waves in the sea; they would grow into decisions which would make all his blood boil; his muscles would be ready to move, his sinews would be strained, intentions would be on the point of transforming themselves into decisions.... Moved by a moral force he would rapidly change over and over again his position in his bed; with a fixed stare he would lift himself from it, move his hand, look about with inspired eyes ... the inspiration would seem ready to realize itself, to transform itself into an act of heroism—and then, what miracle, what admirable results might one not expect from so great an effort! But—the morning would pass away, the shades of evening would take the place of broad daylight—and with them the strained forces of Oblomoff would incline towards rest—the storm in his soul would subside—his head would shake off the worrying thoughts—his blood would circulate more slowly in his veins—and Oblomoff would slowly turn over and recline on his back; look sadly through his window upon the sky, following sadly with his eyes the sun which was setting gloriously.... And how many times had he thus followed with his eyes that sunset!”