Korolenko's name is new to American Readers, but in Russia he stands at the head of the younger generation of writers. Like all of the literary children ol Gogol, he is a realist; he paints with photographic distinctness, but at the same time he is an artist and selects only the details that are relevant. His style is crisp and nervous. He excels in placing before the eye, by a few shrewd touches, a whole landscape. It sends the blood to the heart with a quick rush, and thus the author sways the reader with a power that is irresistible. One knows that he writes from his heart, that he is genuine.-"The Book Buyer: A Monthly Review of American and Foreign Literature" [1887]Vladimir Korolenko, the author of these charming tales, is a young Russian who was born in 1853. Though only 35, his career has already been as checkered and dramatic as a wandering gypsy's. He has been arrested, imprisoned, exiled, over and over again. Since his university years the police have had him under constant surveillance; he has been 'investigated, ' warned, sent to Siberia. In fine, he is a living example of the system of terrorism, of accursed thralldom, so truthfully and graphically portrayed by Mr. Kennan in The Century. This system is a revival of that species of medieval torture by which a live human creature was placed under an immense stone and the life slowly, gradually, but infallibly squeezed out of him. For no reason that was apparent, Korolenko was snatched up by the Russian shirroes, hustled off to distant exile, thrown into noisome dungeons, released, and incarcerated again. The perpetual jar and anguish of his life, however, have wrought out only these pathetic and beautiful stories, by which he has turned wormwood into honey, and drawn sweetness from the bitter herbs. His sad and incessant travels, his whirl on the unceasing Ixion-wheel-have made him acquainted with types quaint and poetic, atmospheres legendary and tender, characters striking and sharp-angled. In this way Russian tyranny, with all its hideous distortions of justice, has enriched the literary world with invaluable contributions; and for that at least we must thank it, while abhorring the monster with our innermost conviction. Had it produced nothing else than these touching idyls, it would have a sort of literary justification. It has thrown the intellectual life of the people in on itself; deepened it and made it introspective; sweetened and softened it; till we know not which to admire most, the mighty patience of the Russian people-its Mont Blanc-like placidity, -or the beauty of the products of this patience-the lovely gentians and ice-flowers that bloom high up on these Alpine slopes. We do not know when we have read anything more tenderly conceived, more weirdly wrought out, than the story in this collection called 'The Forest Soughs, ' or the opening 'Bell-Ringer.' Korolenko has delicate talent, and he is fortunate in getting so finished a translator as Mrs. Delano to present him to the American public.-"The Critic," Vol. 9 [1888