It is all full of them. The most prosaic of prosers uses poetical language without knowing it--and Poets without knowing to what extent and degree. NORTH. Ay, Seward, and were we to expatiate in the walks of the profounder emotions, we should sometimes be startled by the sudden apparitions of boldly impersonated Thoughts, upon occasions that did not seem to promise them--where you might have thought that interests of overwhelming moment would have effectually banished the play of imagination. TALBOYS. Shakspeare is justified, then--and the Lady Julia spoke like a Lady in Love with all nature--and with Proteus. BULLER. A most beautiful day is this indeed--but it is a Puzzler. "The Swan on still St Mary's Lake Floats double, Swan and Shadow;" But here all the islands float double--and all the castles and abbeys--and all the hills and mountains--and all the clouds and boats and men,--double, did I say--triple--quadruple,--we are here, and there, and everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same moment. Inishail, I have you--no--Gutta Percha slides over you, and you have no material existence. Very well. SEWARD. Is there no house on Inishail? NORTH. Not one--but the house appointed for all living. A Burial-place. I see it--but not one of you--for it is little noticeable, and seldom used--on an average, one funeral in the year. Forty years ago I stepped into a small snuff-shop in the Saltmarket, Glasgow, to replenish my shell--and found my friend was from Lochawe-side. I asked him if he often revisited his native shore, and he answered--seldom, and had not for a long time--but that though his lot did not allow him to live there, he hoped to be buried in Inishail. We struck up a friendship--his snuff was good, and so was his whisky, for it was unexcised. A few years ago, trolling for Feroces, I met a boat with a coffin, and in it the body of the old tobacconist. SEWARD. "The Churchyard among the Mountains," in Wordsworth's _Excursion_, is alone sufficient for his immortality on earth. NORTH. It is. So for Gray's is his Elegy. But some hundred and forty lines in all--no more--yet how comprehensive--how complete! "In a Country Churchyard!" Every generation there buries the whole hamlet--which is much the same as burying the whole world--or a whole world. SEWARD. "The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep!" All Peasants--diers and mourners! Utmost simplicity of all belonging to life--utmost simplicity of all belonging to death. Therefore, universally affecting. NORTH. Then the--Grayishness. BULLER. The what, sir? NORTH.