No More Learning

He was
fond of long walks, unlike the generality of his countrymen, and
at one time of his career used daily to foot it into St. Petersburg
and back, from his residence in the suburbs, to conduct his
investigations in the Government archives when employed on the
History of Peter the Great. He was a good swordsman, rode well,
and at one time aspired to enter the cavalry; but his father not
being able to furnish the necessary funds he declined serving in
the less romantic infantry. Latterly he was regular in his habits;
rose early, retired late, and managed to get along with but very
little sleep. On rising he betook himself forthwith to his literary
occupations, which were continued till afternoon, when they gave
place to physical exercise. Strange as it will appear to many, he
preferred the autumn months, especially when rainy, chill and
misty, for the production of his literary compositions, and was
proportionally depressed by the approach of spring. (Cf. Canto
VII st. ii. )

Mournful is thine approach to me,
O Spring, thou chosen time of love

He usually left St. Petersburg about the middle of September and
remained in the country till December. In this space of time it was
his custom to develop and perfect the inspirations of the
remaining portion of the year. He was of an impetuous yet
affectionate nature and much beloved by a numerous circle of
friends. An attractive feature in his character was his unalterable
attachment to his aged nurse, a sentiment which we find reflected
in the pages of _Eugene Oneguine_ and elsewhere.

The preponderating influence which Byron exercised in the formation
of his genius has already been noticed.
It is indeed probable that
we owe _Oneguine_ to the combined impressions of _Childe Harold_ and
_Don Juan_ upon his mind. Yet the Russian poem excels these
masterpieces of Byron in a single particular--namely, in completeness
of narrative, the plots of the latter being mere vehicles for the
development of the poet's general reflections. There is ground for
believing that Pushkin likewise made this poem the record of his
own experience. This has doubtless been the practice of many
distinguished authors of fiction whose names will readily occur to
the reader. Indeed, as we are never cognizant of the real motives
which actuate others, it follows that nowhere can the secret springs
of human action be studied to such advantage as within our own
breasts. Thus romance is sometimes but the reflection of the writer's
own individuality, and he adopts the counsel of the American poet:

Look then into thine heart and write!

But a further consideration of this subject would here be out of
place. Perhaps I cannot more suitably conclude this sketch than by
quoting from his _Ode to the Sea_ the poet's tribute of admiration
to the genius of Napoleon and Byron, who of all contemporaries seem
the most to have swayed his imagination.

Farewell, thou pathway of the free,
For the last time thy waves I view
Before me roll disdainfully,
Brilliantly beautiful and blue.

Why vain regret? Wherever now
My heedless course I may pursue
One object on thy desert brow
I everlastingly shall view--

A rock, the sepulchre of Fame!
The poor remains of greatness gone
A cold remembrance there became,
There perished great Napoleon.

In torment dire to sleep he lay;
Then, as a tempest echoing rolls,
Another genius whirled away,
Another sovereign of our souls.

He perished. Freedom wept her child,
He left the world his garland bright.
Wail, Ocean, surge in tumult wild,
To sing of thee was his delight.