ch 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 aw