John Bate

“I begin shrewdly to suspect the young man of a terrible taint—poetry; with which idle disease, if he be infected, there is no hope of him in a state course.”—Ben Jonson.

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.”

A voyage to America, with a few incidents about the sea, were spoken of.

“Ah, ah, Mr. Bond,” he said, “I have seen some fine lines by J. G. Percival on that subject,—

‘I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast,
Wildest of waters! I have seen thee lie
Calm as an infant pillowed in its rest
On a fond mother’s bosom, when the sky,
Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye,
Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below.’

“And then, Mr. Bond, you are familiar with—

‘The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.’”

I spoke of progress in the age in which we live, when he instantly said, “Ah, that reminds me now of what Tennyson says,—

‘Not in vain the distant beacons. Forward, forward, let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.’”

The worth of a good name was spoken of, and the words of Solomon quoted in support of what was said. But Solomon was not enough. The poetic spirit of our student was astir instantly within him, and broke forth in the well-known lines of Shakespeare, already quoted in this volume,—

“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing,
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he who filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”

Marriage and love were incidentally brought up, when, lo and behold, I found he was so brimful on these, that I was obliged to ask him to forbear, after a few specimens. Having had so long an experience in those happy climes, I found he could not say anything that half came up to the reality. Nevertheless, I am free to say, he did quote some sentiments which on him and the young ladies present seemed to have a most charming effect, especially one from Tupper, who used in those times to be a pet poet with the fair sex and such as our student,—

“Love! what a volume in a word! an ocean in a tear!
A seventh heaven in a glance! a whirlwind in a sigh!
The lightning in a touch—a millennium in a moment!
What concentrated joy, or woe, is blessed or blighted love!”

“Blighted love! Ah,” said Mr. Smythe, “that reminds me of Tennyson’s words,” which he appeared to render with deep feeling,—

“I hold it true, whate’er befall—
I feel it when I sorrow most—
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”

“These lines remind me,” he observed, “and it is astonishing the poetic associations of my mind, Mr. Bond. These kind of pieces seem so linked together in my mind, that when I begin I can scarcely stop myself. Well, I was going to give Shakespeare’s words,—

‘Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear of tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.’”

“But have you not a few lines, Mr. Smythe, on marriage, although you have not as yet entered into that happy state?” said Mr. Bond.

“O dear yes! I have pieces without number. For instance, here is one from Middleton,—

‘What a delicious breath marriage sends forth—
The violet’s bed not sweeter! Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours.’

“Here are some more,” he remarked, “from Cotton,—

‘Though fools spurn Hymen’s gentle powers,
We who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know
That marriage rightly understood
Gives to the tender and the good
A Paradise below.’”

Still going on, he said, “Here are some charming lines, Mr. Bond, from Moore,—

‘There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this—it is this.’”

At the close of these lines something occurred to stop Mr. Smythe going any further.

Poetic quotations in conversation are all very well, when given aptly and wisely; but coming, as they often do, as the fruits of affectation and pedantry, they are repulsive. One wishes in these circumstances that the talker had a few thoughts of his own in prose besides those of the poets which he so lavishly pours into one’s jaded ears.