No More Learning

Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of the
Revolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editor
of the _Gazette de France_. He wrote histories of the Revolution,
of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of a
work entitled "Les trois Irlandais Conjures, ou l'ombre d'Emmet,"
and is believed to have edited Foy's "History of the Peninsular
War. "

The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fair
idea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the Empress
Catherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverish
thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding power
of assimilation. ]

XXXV

But what results? His eyes peruse
But thoughts meander far away--
Ideas, desires and woes confuse
His intellect in close array.
His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,
On lines invisible are fixt;
'Twas these he read and these alone
His spirit was intent upon.
They were the wonderful traditions
Of kindly, dim antiquity,
Dreams with no continuity,
Prophecies, threats and apparitions,
The lively trash of stories long
Or letters of a maiden young.

XXXVI

And by degrees upon him grew
A lethargy of sense, a trance,
And soon imagination threw
Before him her wild game of chance.
And now upon the snow in thaw
A young man motionless he saw,
As one who bivouacs afield,
And heard a voice cry--_Why! He's killed_!
--
And now he views forgotten foes,
Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,
Bevies of treacherous maidens young;
Of thankless friends the circle rose,
A mansion--by the window, see!
She sits alone--'tis ever _she_!

XXXVII

So frequently his mind would stray
He well-nigh lost the use of sense,
Almost became a poet say--
Oh! what had been his eminence!
Indeed, by force of magnetism
A Russian poem's mechanism
My scholar without aptitude
At this time almost understood.
How like a poet was my chum
When, sitting by his fire alone
Whilst cheerily the embers shone,
He "Benedetta" used to hum,
Or "Idol mio," and in the grate
Would lose his slippers or gazette.

XXXVIII

Time flies! a genial air abroad,
Winter resigned her empire white,
Oneguine ne'er as poet showed
Nor died nor lost his senses quite.
Spring cheered him up, and he resigned
His chambers close wherein confined
He marmot-like did hibernate,
His double sashes and his grate,
And sallied forth one brilliant morn--
Along the Neva's bank he sleighs,
On the blue blocks of ice the rays
Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,
The snow upon the streets doth melt--
Whither along them doth he pelt?

XXXIX

Oneguine whither gallops? Ye
Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!
Unto his own Tattiana he,
Incorrigible rogue, doth go.
Her house he enters, ghastly white,
The vestibule finds empty quite--
He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank!
A door he opens.