"During these excursions his conversation was most romantic and poetical. His views of Nature, and her sublime operations, were expressed without reserve, as they rapidly presented themselves to his imagination: they were the ravings of genius; but even his nonsense was that of a superior being." At the village of Mullion, a little incident occurred, which evinced the existence of that gastronomic propensity which, in after years, displayed itself in a wider range of operations. The tourists had, on their road, purchased a fine large bass of a fisherman, with the intention of desiring the landlady to dress it. On arriving at the inn, Mr. Underwood retired into a room for the purpose of making some notes in the journal he regularly kept. Davy had disappeared. In the course of a few minutes a most tremendous uproar was heard in the kitchen, and the indignant vociferations of the hostess, which, even with all the advantages of Cornish recitative, was not of the most melodious description, became fearfully audible. Davy, it seems, had volunteered his assistance in making the sauce and stuffing for the aforesaid bass; and had he not speedily retreated, his services would have been rewarded, not according to the scientific practice of appending a string of letters to his name, but in conformity with the equally ancient custom of attaching a certain dishonourable addition to the skirts of his jacket. I have observed that his letter to Mr. Underwood betrayed a tincture of _Spinosism_. It may be here remarked, that during the year 1801 he composed a poem, which he arbitrarily distinguished by that appellation, singularly opposed to the tenor of the sentiments. Through the kindness of Mr. Greenough I possess a copy of it in its original state, for it was subsequently altered, and published in a collection, edited by Miss Johanna Baillie; and still more recently, it underwent farther corrections, and was printed for private circulation in the form in which I shall here introduce it. Lo! o'er the Earth the kindling spirits pour The flames of life, that bounteous Nature gives; The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower; The insensate dust awakes, and moves, and lives. All speaks of change: the renovated forms Of long forgotten things arise again. The light of suns, the breath of angry storms, The everlasting motions of the main; These are but engines of the Eternal Will, The One Intelligence; whose potent sway Has ever acted, and is acting still, Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems, all obey: Without whose power, the whole of mortal things Were dull, inert, an unharmonious band; Silent as are the harp's untuned strings Without the touches of the poet's hand. A sacred spark, created by His breath, The immortal mind of man his image bears; A spirit living midst the forms of death, Oppress'd but not subdued by mortal cares--