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