It now to investigate is time,
Was nothing but the British spleen
Transported to our Russian clime.
It gradually possessed his mind;
Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed
To slay himself with blade or ball,
Indifferent he became to all,
And like Childe Harold gloomily
He to the festival repairs,
Nor boston nor the world's affairs
Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh
Impressed him in the least degree,--
Callous to all he seemed to be.

XXXVI

Ye miracles of courtly grace,
He left _you_ first, and I must own
The manners of the highest class
Have latterly vexatious grown;
And though perchance a lady may
Discourse of Bentham or of Say,
Yet as a rule their talk I call
Harmless, but quite nonsensical.
Then they're so innocent of vice,
So full of piety, correct,
So prudent, and so circumspect
Stately, devoid of prejudice,
So inaccessible to men,
Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)

[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian
scholiast remarks:--"The whole of this ironical stanza is but a
_refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen.
Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV.
Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements,
combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of
Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael." It will
occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "doth
protest too much." The poet in all probability wrote the offending
stanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen," as he would most likely
himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school
seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their
utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]

XXXVII

And you, my youthful damsels fair,
Whom latterly one often meets
Urging your droshkies swift as air
Along Saint Petersburg's paved streets,
From you too Eugene took to flight,
Abandoning insane delight,
And isolated from all men,
Yawning betook him to a pen.
He thought to write, but labour long
Inspired him with disgust and so
Nought from his pen did ever flow,
And thus he never fell among
That vicious set whom I don't blame--
Because a member I became.

XXXVIII

Once more to idleness consigned,
He felt the laudable desire
From mere vacuity of mind
The wit of others to acquire.
A case of books he doth obtain--
He reads at random, reads in vain.
This nonsense, that dishonest seems,
This wicked,