36. This measuredness Pushkin displays best in his narrative poems. His story _moves._ His "Delibash" is the finest example of rapidity of execution combined with fidelity of skill. And the vividness of his stories in "The Drowned," "The Roussalka," and "The Cossak," is due not so much to the dramatic talent Pushkin doubtless possessed as to the sense of proportion which saved him from loading his narrative with needless detail. Gray's "Elegy," for instance, matchless in its beauty, is marred by the needless appendage of the youth himself. This part of the poem seems _patched on_ Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray" seems to justify Goldsmith's bold metaphor,--for it does drag a lengthening chain at each remove. Longfellow's "Prelude" has like "Sartor Resartus" a most unwieldy apparatus for getting ready. The poet there is ever ready to say something, but hardly says it even at the end. And even Tennyson, who at one time did know what it was to keep fine poise in such matters, is frequently guilty of this merely getting ready to say his say. 37. These, then, are the three great virtues of Pushkin's poems: They have sincere imagination, which means pure taste; they have true sentiment, which means pure depth; they have true measure, which means pure art. Pushkin has many more virtues which are common to all great poets; but of these three I thought necessary to speak in detail. Poems: Autobiographical. MON PORTRAIT. X. 35.[1] Vous me demandez mon portrait, Mais peint d'après nature: Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait, Quoique en miniature. Je sais un jeune polisson Encore dans les classes: Point sot, je le dis sans façon Et sans fades grimaces. One, il ne fut de babillard, Ni docteur de Sorbonne Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard Que moi-même en personne. Ma taille à celle des plus longs Elle n'est point égalée; J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds, Et la tête bouclée. J'aime et le monde, et son fracas, Je hais la solitude; J'abhorre et noises et débats, Et tant soit peu l'étude. Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort, Et d'après ma pensée Je dirais ce que j'aime encore, Si je n'étais au lycée. Après cela, mon cher ami, L'on peut me reconnaître: Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit, Je veux toujours paraître. Vrai demon pour l'espièglerie, Vrai singe par sa mine, Beaucoup et trop d'étourderie,-- Ma foi--voilà Poushkine. $/ [Footnote 1: See Preface, § 1.] MY PEDIGREE. IV. 66. With scorning laughter at a fellow writer, In a chorus the Russian scribes With name of aristocrat me chide: Just look, if please you ... nonsense what! Court Coachman not I, nor assessor, Nor am I nobleman by cross; No academician, nor professor, I'm simply of Russia a citizen.