Scraps of poetry picked up from Burns, or Thomson, or Shakespeare, or Tennyson, are ready to hand for every occasion, so that you may calculate upon a piece, in or out of place, in course of conversation. If you will do the prose, rely upon it he will do the poetic, much to his own satisfaction, if not to your entertainment. In walking he will gently lay his finger on your shoulder, saying, as he gathers up his recollection, and raising his head, "Hear what my favourite poet says upon the subject." Sometimes the poetic afflatus falls upon him as he converses, and he will impromptu favour you with an original effusion of rhyme or blank verse, much to the strengthening of his self-complacency, and to the gratification of your sense of the ludicrous. Talking with Mr. Smythe, a young student, some time ago, I found he was so full of poetic quotations that I began to think whether all his lessons at college had not consisted in the learning of odds and ends from "Gems" and "Caskets" and "Gleanings." Speaking about the man who is not enslaved to sects and parties, but free in his religious habits, he paused and said, "You remind me, Mr. Bond, of what Pope says,-- 'Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature's God.'" The subject of _music_ was introduced, when, after a few words of prose he broke out in evident emotion,-- "Music! oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may pain, Love's are e'en more false than they-- Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray." "Those are very beautiful lines, Mr. Smythe," I observed; "can you tell me whose they are?" Placing his hand to his head, he answered, "Really, Mr. Bond, I do not now remember." "They are Moore's," I replied. "Oh yes, yes, so they are. I could give you numberless other pieces, Mr. Bond, equally fine and touching." "Thank you, that will do for the present, Mr. Smythe." We began to talk about travelling in Scotland, Switzerland, and other parts, when I gave a little of my experience in plain words, as to the effect of the scenery upon my mind and health, when he suddenly interrupted me and said, "Let me see, what is it the poet says upon that? If I can call it up, I will give it you, Mr. Bond,-- 'Go abroad, Upon the paths of Nature, and, when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar.'" I spoke of neglected genius both in Church and State, when he exclaimed with much emphasis, as though the lines had fallen on my ears for the first time,-- "Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."