words into deeds, aspirations into
actions, thoughts and feelings into institutions, go onward, from step
to step, reaching out into the heavens, yet never relinquishing the
earth, higher and higher along its triumphant road, still onward in
its work of creating the life of England.

Kingdoms and peoples, cultures and institutions, pass away like
dreams. But thoughts and words remain, whether they be of white men,
or black, or yellow, whether they be of Jews or of Hellenes, whether
they be inscribed on slabs of stone, or on boards of clay, or on
strips of papyrus. Words and thoughts live to the present day; they
still move us and uplift us, even though we have already forgotten the
names of those who spoke them. And we know that only the winged words
live on, the words that are intelligible to the whole of mankind, that
appeal to the whole of humanity, to the common human mind, the common
heart.

We know the vast power of the English word. We know what a marvellous
contribution the English writers have made to the life not of England
alone, but to that of the whole world, the whole humanity. It is with
a feeling of long-standing affection and veneration that we turn to
the ancient book, called "England," whose pages never grow yellow,
whose letters are never effaced, whose thoughts never become dim,
whose new chapters bear witness to the fact that the book is still
being written, that new pages are still being added, and that these
new pages are permeated with that same bright and powerful spirit of
humanity that illumines and enlivens the pages of the past.

We feel proud because you have recognized the great individual worth
of the Russian literature, and we are moved by your ardent expressions
of sympathy and friendship. You scarcely know what Lord Byron was to
us at the dawn of our literature, how our greatest poets, Poushkin and
Lermontov, were swayed by him. You scarcely know to what an extent the
Shakespearean Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, has become a part of our
literature, how near to us is Hamlet's tragedy.

We, too, pronounce the names of Copperfield and Snodgrass with a
little difficulty, but the name of Dickens is as familiar to us and as
near to our hearts as the names of some of our own writers.

We trust, and we even permit ourselves to hope, that our friendship
will not end on the fields of battle, but that our mutual
understanding will continue to grow, as it lives on together with
those sincer