The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his notebook, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man⁠—“Are you the poet?”

“I⁠—I do a little in that way,” replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

“Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage⁠—strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?”

“Very true, Sir,” replied Mr. Snodgrass.