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.’”