and soon Patience knew the whole poem.  He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words.  Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes.  He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said.  One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words.  And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical.  Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first.  It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect.  Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante.  He was so struck by the various incidents in the Divine Comedy that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet.  There, however, his power ended.  If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium.  This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience.  In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life.  In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe.  He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity.  In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala.

“Before I knew the poets,” he said towards the end of his life, “I was a man lacking in one of the senses.  I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation.  In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart