e dry
bones of his works, to which would be wanting the lively play of
versification, the life-blood of fancy, and the ever-varying graces of
expression.

Between the first of these two remarkable poems ("Ruslan and Liudmila")
and the second--"The Prisoner of the Caucasus," the mind of Pushkin had
undergone a most remarkable transformation; "there is hardly any thing,"
to use the words of the elegant critic whom we have already quoted,
"common to the two poems, except the beauty of the verses." There is not
a greater difference between an early and a late picture of Raphael; and
what is interesting and curious to remark, is the circumstance, that
poet and painter (in their gradual advance towards consummate excellence
in their respective arts) seemed to have passed through the same stages
of development. In the earlier work all is studied, elaborated,
carefully and scientifically _composed_; worked out from the quarry of
memory, chiselled by the imagination, and polished by a studious and
somewhat pedantic taste: while the imagery, the passion, and the
characters of the later production are modelled immediately from Nature
herself. The reader perceives that the young artist has now reached the
first phase of his development, and has thrown aside the rule and
compass of precedents and books, and feels himself sufficiently strong
of hand and steady of eye to look face to face upon the unveiled goddess
herself, and with reverent skill to copy her sublime lineaments. We
cannot better express our meaning, than by allowing Pushkin himself to
give his own opinion of this poem. In the latter part of his life, he
writes as follows--"At Lars I found a dirtied and dog's-eared copy of
'The Prisoner of the Caucasus,' and I confess that I read it through
with much gratification. All this is weak, boyish, incomplete; but
there is much happily guessed at and faithfully expressed."

The indomitable activity which we have mentioned as forming a marked
feature in Pushkin's intellect, though exhibited most strikingly
throughout his whole career, was never more forcibly displayed than at
the present period. Although the first fervour of his passions was now
in sole degree moderated by indulgence, and by that satiety which is the
inevitable attendant on such indulgence, it is not to be imagined that
the poet, in retiring from the capital, intended by this to seclude
himself from the gayer pleasures of society. We know, too, how absorbing
o