Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 66, No. 407, September, 1849

NORTH

Do you mean to say you were on the Bridge as it sunk?

TALBOYS

I know nothing about it. How should I? We were in the heart of the Noise – we were in the heart of the Water – we were in the heart of the Wood – we, the vehicle, the horses – the same horses, I believe, that were standing behind the Camp when we mounted – though I had not seen them distinctly since, till I recognised them madly galloping in their traces up and down the foaming banks.

NORTH

Were you all on this side of the River?

TALBOYS

Ultimately we were – else how could we have got here? You seem incredulous, sir. Mind me – I don't say we were on the Bridge – and went down with it. It is an open question – and in the absence of dispassionate witnesses must be settled by probabilities. Sorry that, though the Driver saved himself, the Vehicle in the mean time should be lost – with all the Rods.

NORTH

They will be recovered on a change of weather. How and when got ye back?

TALBOYS

On horseback. Buller behind Seward – myself before a man who occasionally wore a look of the Driver. I hope it was he – if it was not – the Driver must have been drowned. We had now the wind – that is, the storm – that is, the hurricane in our faces – and the animals every other minute wheeled about and stood rooted for many minutes to the road, with their tails towards Cladich. My body had fortunately lost all sensation hours before we regained the Camp.

NORTH

Hours! How long did it take you to accomplish the two miles?

TALBOYS

I did not time it; but we entered the Great Gate of the Camp to the sound of the Breakfast Bagpipes.

SEWARD

As soon as we had changed ourselves – as you say in Scotland —

TALBOYS

Let's bother Mr North no more about it. With exception of the Bridge, 'tis not worth talking of – and we ought to be thankful it was not Night. Then what a delightful feeling of security now, sir, from all intrusion of vagrant visitors from the Dalmally side! By this time communication must be cut off with Edinburgh and Glasgow —via Inverary – so the Camp is virtually insulated. In ordinary weather, there is no calling the Camp our own. So far back as yesterday only, 8 English – 4 German – 3 French – 29 Italian – 1 Irish, all Male, many mustached – and from those and other countries, nearly an equal number of Female – some mustached too – "but that not much."

NORTH

Impossible indeed it is to enjoy one hour's consciousness of secure solitude, in this most unsedentary age of the world. – Look there. Who the deuce are you, sir? Do you belong to Cloud-land – and have you made an involuntary descent in the deluge? Or are you of the earth earthy? Off, sir – off to the back premises. Enter the Pavilion at your peril, you Phenomenon. Turn him out, Talboys.

TALBOYS

Then I must turn out myself. I stepped forth for a moment to the Front —

NORTH

And have in that moment been transmogrified into the Man of the Moon. A false alarm. But methinks you might have been satisfied with the Bridge.

TALBOYS

It is clearing up, sir – it is clearing up – pails and buckets, barrels and hogsheads, fountains and tanks, are no longer the order of the day. Jupiter Pluvius is descending on Juno with moderated impetuosity – is restricting himself to watering pans and garden engines – there is reason to suspect, from the look of the atmosphere, that the supplies are running short – that in a few hours the glass will be up to Stormy – and hurra, then, for a week of fine, sunshiny, shadowy, breezy, balmy, angling Weather! Why, it is almost fair now. I do trust that we shall have no more of those dry, dusty, sandy, gravelly days, so unlike Lochawe-side, and natural only in Modern Athens or the Great Desert. Hark! it is clearing up. That is always the way with thorough-bred rain – desperate spurt or rush at the end – a burst when blown – dead-beat —

SEWARD

Mr North, matters are looking serious, sir.

NORTH

I believe there is no real danger.

SEWARD

The Pole is cracking —

TALBOYS

Creacking. All the difference in the world between these two words. The insertion of the letter E converts danger into safety – trepidation into confidence – a Tent into a Rock.

BULLER

I have always forgot to ask if the Camp is insured?

NORTH

An insurance was effected, on favourable terms, on the Swiss Giantess before she came into my possession – the Trustees are answerable for the Van – the texture of the Tents is tough to resist the Winds – and the stuff itself was re-steeped during winter in pyroligneous acid of my own invention, which has been found as successful with canvass as with timber. Deeside, the Pavilion and her fair Sisterhood are impervious alike to Wet and Dry Rot – Fire and Water.

TALBOYS

You can have no idea, sir, of the beautiful running of our Drains. When were they dug?

NORTH

Yestreen – at dusk. Not a field in Scotland the worse of being drained – my lease from Monzie allows it – a good landlord deserves a good tenant; and though it is rather late in the year for such operations, I ventured on the experiment – partly for sake of the field itself, and partly for sake of self-preservation. Not pioneers, and miners, and sappers alone – the whole Force were employed under the Knave of Spades – open drains meanwhile – to be all covered in – with tiles – ere we shift quarters.

TALBOYS

A continuance of this weather for a day or two will bring them up in shoals from the Loch – Undoubtedly we shall have Eels. I delight in drain-angling. Silver Eels! Gold Fish! You shall be wheeled out, my dear sir, in Swing, and the hand of your own Talboys shall disengage the first "Fish, without fins" from the Wizard's Hook.

SEWARD

And he shall be sketched by his own Seward, in a moment of triumph, and lithographed by Schenck for the forthcoming Edition of Tom Stoddart.

BULLER

And his own Buller shall make the chips fly like Michael Angelo – and from the marble block evolve a Christopher Piscator not unworthy a Steele – or a Macdonald.

NORTH

Lay aside your tackle, Talboys, and let us talk.

TALBOYS

I am never so talkative as over my tackle.

BULLER

Lay it aside then, Talboys, at Mr North's request.

TALBOYS

Would, my dear sir, you had been with me on Thursday, to witness the exploits of this Griesly Palmer. Miles up Glensrae, you come – suddenly on the left – in a little glen of its own – on such a jewel of a Waterfall. Not ten feet tall – in the pleasure-grounds of a lowland mansion 'twould be called a Cascade. But soft as its voice is, there is something in it that speaks the Cataract. You discern the Gaelic gurgle – and feel that the Fountain is high up in some spot of greensward among heather-hills. Snow-white it is not – almost as translucent as the pool into which it glides. You see through it the green ledge it slides over with a gentle touch – and seeking its own way, for a few moments, among some mossy cones, it slips, without being wearied, into its place of rest, which it disturbs not beyond a dimple that beautifies the quivering reflection of the sky. A few birch-trees – one much taller than the rest – are all the trees that are there – but that sweetest of all scents assures you of the hawthorn – and old as the hills – stunted in size – but full-leaved and budded as if in their prime – a few hawthorns close by among the clefts. But why prattle thus to you, my dear sir? – no doubt you know it well – for what beautiful secret in the Highlands is unknown to Christopher North?

NORTH

I do know it well; and your description – so much better than I could have drawn – has brought it from the dimmer regions of memory, "into the study of imagination."

TALBOYS

After a few circling sweeps to show myself my command of my gear, and to give the Naiad warning to take care of her nose, I let drop this Griesly Palmer, who alighted as if he had wings. A Grilse! I cried – a Grilse! No, a Sea-trout – an Amber Witch – a White Lady – a Daughter of Pearl – whom with gentle violence and quick despatch I solicited to the yellow sands – and folding not my arms, as is usual in works of fiction, slightly round her waist – but both hands, with all their ten fingers, grasping her neck and shoulders to put the fair creature out of pain – in with her – in with her into my Creel – and again to business. It is on the First Victim of the Day, especially if, as in this case, a Bouncer, an angler fondly dwells in reminiscence – each successive captive – however engrossing the capture – loses its distinct individuality in the fast accumulating crowd; and when, at close of day, sitting down among the broom, to empty and to count, it is on the First Victim that the angler's eye reposes – in refilling, it is the First Victim you lay aside to crown the treasure – in wending homewards it is on the First Victim's biography you muse; and at home – in the Pavillon – it is the First Victim you submit to the critical ken of Christopher —

BULLER

Especially if, as in this case, she be a Bouncer.

NORTH

You pride yourself on your recitation of poetry, Talboys. Charm us with the finest descriptive passage you can remember from the British Poets. Not too loud – not too loud – this is not Exeter Hall – nor are you about to address the Water-witch from the top of Ben-Lomond.

TALBOYS"But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest waveOf the most living crystal that was e'erThe haunt of river nymph, to gaze and laveHer limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rearThy grassy banks, whereon the milk-white steerGrazes; the purest god of gentle waters!And most serene of aspect, and most clear;Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters —A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters!"And on thy happy shore a Temple still,Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,Upon a mild declivity of hill,Its memory of thee; beneath it sweepsThy current's calmness; oft from out it leapsThe finny darter with the glittering scales,Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sailsDown where the shallower wave still tells its bubblin-tales."Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!If through the air a zephyr more sereneWin to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye traceAlong his margin a more eloquent green,If on the heart the freshness of the sceneSprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dustOf weary life a moment lave it cleanWith Nature's baptism, – 'tis to him ye mustPay orisons for this suspension of disgust."NORTH

Admirably said and sung. Your low tones, Talboys, are earnest and impressive; and you recite, like all true lovers of song, in the spirit of soliloquy, as if you were yourself the sole listener. How I hate Spouting. Your elocutionist makes his mouth a jet d'eau– and by his gestures calls on all the auditors to behold the performance. From the lips of the man who has music in his soul, the words of inspiration flow as from a natural fountain, for his soul has made them its own – and delights to feel in their beauty an adequate expression of its own emotions.

TALBOYS

I spoke them, to myself – but I was still aware of your presence, my dear sir.

NORTH

The Stanzas are fine – but are they the finest in Descriptive Poetry?

TALBOYS

I do not say so, sir. Any request of yours I interpret liberally, and accede to at once. Finer stanzas there may be – many; but I took them because they first came to heart. "Beautiful exceedingly" they are – they may not be faultless.

NORTH

Sir Walter has said – "Perhaps there are no verses in our language of happier descriptive power than the two stanzas which characterise the Clitumnus."

TALBOYS

Then I am right.

NORTH

Perhaps you are. Scott loved Byron – and it is ennobling to hear one great Poet praising another: yet the stanzas which so delighted our Minstrel may not be so felicitous as they seemed to be to his moved imagination.

TALBOYS

Possibly not.

NORTH

In the First Stanza what do we find?, An apostrophe – "Thou Clitumnus," not yet quite an Impersonation – a few lines on, an Impersonation of the Stream —

" – the purest God of gentlest waters!And most serene of aspect, and most clear."

What is gained by this Impersonation? Nothing. For the qualities here attributed to the River-God are the very same that had already been attributed to the water – purity – serenity – clearness. "Sweetest wave of the most living crystal" – affects us just as much – here I think more than the two lines about the God. And observe, that no sooner is the God introduced than he disappears. His coming and his going are alike unsatisfactory – for his coming gives us no new emotion, and his going is instantly followed by lines that have no relation to his Godship at all.

TALBOYS

Why – why – I really don't know.

NORTH

I have mildly – and inoffensively to all the world – that is, to all us Four – shown one imperfection; and I think – I feel there is another – in this Stanza. "The sweetest wave of the most living crystal" is visioned to us in the opening lines as the haunt "of river nymph, to gaze and lave her limbs where nothing hid them," – and we are pleased; it is visioned to us, in the concluding line, as "the mirror and the bath for Beauty's youngest daughters " – and we are not pleased; or if we are, but for a moment – for it is, as nearly as may be, the same vision over again – a mirror and a bath!

TALBOYS

But then, sir —

NORTH

Well?

TALBOYS

Go on, sir.

NORTH

I am not sure that I understand "Beauty's youngest daughters."

TALBOYS

Why, small maidens from ten to twelve years old, who in their innocent beauty may bathe without danger, and in their innocent self-admiration may gaze without fear.

NORTH

Then is the expression at once commonplace and obscure.

TALBOYS

Don't say so, sir.

NORTH

Think you Byron means the Graces?

TALBOYS

He does – he does – the Graces sure enough – the Graces.

NORTH

Whatever it means – it means no more than we had before. A descriptive Stanza should ever be progressive, and at the close complete. To my feeling, "slaughters" had better been kept far away from the imagination as from the eyes. I know Byron alludes here to the Sanguinetto of the preceding Stanza. But he ought not to have alluded to it – the contrast is complete without such reference – between the river we are delighting in and the blood-named torrent that has passed away. Why, then, force such an image back, upon us – when of ourselves we should never have thought of it, and it is the last image we should desire to see?

TALBOYS

Allow me a few minutes to consider —

NORTH

A day. Will you be so good, Talboys, as tell me in ten words the meaning of – in the next Stanza – "keeps its memory of Thee"?

TALBOYS

I will immediately.

NORTH

To my mind – angler as I am —

TALBOYS

The Prince of Anglers.

NORTH

To my mind, two lines and a half about Fishes are here too much – "finny darter" seems conceited – and "dwells and revels" needlessly strong – and the frequent rising of "finny darters with the glittering scales" to me seems hardly consistent with the solemn serenity inspired by the Temple, "of small and delicate proportion" "keeping its memory of Thee," – whatever that may mean; – nor do I think that a poetical mind like Byron's, if fully possessed in ideal contemplation with the beauty of the whole, would have thought so much of such an occurrence, or dwelt upon it with so many words.

TALBOYS

I wish that finny darters with the glittering scales had oft leaped from out thy current's calmness, Thou Glenorchy, yesterday – but not a fin could I stir with finest tackle and Double-Nothings.

NORTH

That is no answer, either one way or another, to my gentle demur to the perfection of the stanzas. The "scattered water-lily" may be well enough – so let it pass – with this ob, that the flower of the water-lily is not easily separated from its stalk – and is not, in that state, eligible as an image of peace.

TALBOYS

It is of beauty.

NORTH

Be it so. But, is "scattered" the right word? No. A water-lily to be scattered must be torn– for you scatter many, not one – a fleet, not a ship – a flock of sheep, not one lamb. A solitary water-lily – broken off and drifting by, has, as you said, its own beauty – and Byron doubtlessly intended that – but he has not said it – he has said the reverse – for a "scattered" water-lily is a dishevelled water-lily – a water-lily no more – a dispersed or dispersing multitude of leaves – of what had been a moment before – a Flower.

TALBOYS

The image pleases everybody – take it as you find it, and be content.

NORTH

I take it as I find it, and am not content; I take it as I don't find it, and am. Then I gently demur to "still tells its bubbling tales." In Gray's line —

"And pore upon the brook that babbles by,"

the word "babbles" is the right one – a mitigated "brawling" – a continuous murmur without meaning, till you give it one or many – like that of some ceaseless female human being, pleasantly accompanying your reveries that have no relation to what you hear. Her blameless babble has that effect – and were it to stop, you would awake. But Byron's "shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales" – a tale is still about something – however small – and pray what is that something? Nothing. "Tales," then, is not the very word here – nor will "bubbling" make it so – at best it is a prettyism rather than Poetry. The Poet is becoming a Poetaster.

TALBOYS

I shall never recite another finest descriptive passage from the whole range of our British Poets – during the course of my life – in this Pavilion.

NORTH

Let us look at the Temple.

TALBOYS

Be done, I beseech you, sir.

NORTH

Talboys, you have as logical – as legal a head as any man I know.

TALBOYS

What has a logical or legal head to do with Byron's description of the Clitumnus?

NORTH

As much as with any other "Process." And you know it. But you are in a most contradictory – I had almost said captious mood, this forenoon – and will not imbibe genially —

TALBOYS

Imbibe genially – acids – after having imbibed in the body immeasurable rain.

NORTH

Let us look at the Temple. "A Temple still" might mean a still temple.

TALBOYS

But it doesn't.

NORTH

A Poet's meaning should never, through awkwardness, be ambiguous. But no more of that. "Keeps its Memory of Thee" suggests to my mind that the Temple, dedicated of old to the River-God, retains, under the new religion of the land, evidence of the old Deification and Worship. The Temple survives to express to us of another day and faith, a Deification and worship of Thee – Clitumnus – dictated by the same apprehension of thy characteristic Beauty in the hearts of those old worshippers that now possesses ours looking on Thee. Thou art unchanged – the sensitive and imaginative intelligence of Thee in man is unchanged – although times have changed – states, nations – and, to the eyes of man, the heavens themselves! If all this be meant – all this is not said – in the words you admire.

TALBOYS

I cannot say, as an honest man, that I distinctly understand you, my dear sir.

NORTH

You understand me better than you understand Byron.

TALBOYS

I understand neither of you.

NORTH

The poetical thought seems to be here – that the Temple rises up spontaneously on the bank – under the power of the Beautiful in the river – a permanent self-sprung reflexion of that Beautiful – as indeed, to imagination, all things appear to create themselves!

TALBOYS

You speak like yourself now, sir.

NORTH

But look here, my good Talboys. The statue of Achilles may "keep its memory" – granting the locution to be good, which it is not – of Achilles – for Achilles is no more. Sink – in a rapture of thought – the hand of the artist – think that the statues of Achilles came of themselves– as unsown flowers come – for poets to express to all ages the departed Achilles. They keep – as long as they remain unperished – "their memory of Achilles" – they were from the beginning voluntary and intentional conservators of the Memory of the Hero. But Clitumnus is here– alive to this hour, and with every prospect of outliving his own Temple. What do you say to that?

TALBOYS

To what?

NORTH

Finally – if that reminiscence of the Heathen deification, which I first proposed, was in Byron's mind – and he means by "still keeps its memory of Thee" memory of the River-God – and of the Worship of the River-God – then all he says about the mere natural river – its leaping fishes, and so forth, is wide of his own purpose – and what is worse – implies an absurdity – a reminiscence – not of the past – but of the present.

TALBOYS

If all that were submitted to me for the Pursuer, in Printed Papers – I should appoint answers to be given in by the Defender – within seven days – and within seven days after that – give judgment.

NORTH

Keep your temper, Mr Testy. As I have no wish to sour you for the rest of the day, I shall say little about the Third Stanza. "Pass not unblest the Genius of the Place," would to me be a more impressive prayer, if there were more spirituality in the preceding stanzas – and in the lines which follow it; for the Genius of the Place has been acting, and continues to act, almost solely on the Senses. And who is the Genius of the Place? The River-God – he to whom the Gentile worship built that Temple. But Byron says, most unpoetically, "along his margin" – along the margin of the Genius of the Place! Then, how flat – how poor – after "the Genius of the Place" – "the freshness of the Scene" – for the freshness of the Scene bless the genius of the Place! Is that language flowing, from the emotion of a Poet's heart? And the last line spoils all; for he, whom we are to bless – the River-God – or the Genius of the Place – has given the heart but a "moment's" cleanness from dry dust – but a moment's, and no more! And never did hard, coarse Misanthropy so mar a Poet's purpose as by the shocking prose that is left grating on our souls – "suspension of disgust!" So, after all this beauty – and all this enjoyment of beauty – well or ill painted by the Poet – you must pay orisons to the River-God or the Genius – whom you had been called onto bless– for a mere momentary suspension of disgust to all our fellow-creatures – a disgust that would return as strong – or stronger than ever – as soon as you got to Rome.

TALBOYS

I confess I don't like it.

NORTH

"Must!" There are Needs of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. There is terrible necessity – there is bitter necessity – there is grinding necessity – there is fine – delicate – loving – playful necessity.

TALBOYS

Sir?

NORTH

There are Musts that fly upon the wings of devils – Musts that fly upon the wings of angels – Musts that walk upon the feet of men – Musts that flutter upon the wings of Fairies. – But I am dreaming! – Say on.

TALBOYS

I think the day's clearing – let us launch Gutta Percha, Buller, and troll for a Ferox.

NORTH

Then fling that Tarpaulin over your Feather-Jacket, on which you plume yourself, and don't forget your Gig-Parasol, Longfellow – for the rain-gauge is running over, so are the water-butts, and I hear the Loch surging its way up to the Camp. The Cladich Cataract is a stunner. Sit down, my dear Talboys. Recite away.

TALBOYS

No.

NORTH

Gentlemen, I call on Mister Buller.

BULLER"The roar of waters! – from the headlong heightVelino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;The fall of waters! rapid as the lightThe flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,And boil in endless torture; while the sweatOf their great agony, wrung out from thisTheir Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jetThat gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,"And mounts in spray the skies, and thence againReturns in an unceasing shower, which round,With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,Is an eternal April to the ground,Making it all one emerald: – how profoundThe gulf! and how the giant elementFrom rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rentWith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent"To the broad column which rolls on, and showsMore like the fountain of an infant seaTorn from the womb of mountains by the throesOf a new world, than only thus to beParent of rivers, which flow gushinglyWith many windings, through the vale; – Look back:Lo! where it comes like an eternity,As if to sweep down all things in its track,Charming the eye with dread, – a matchless cataract,"Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unwornIts steady dyes, while all around is tornBy the distracted waters, bears sereneIts brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn;Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.'"NORTH

In the First Stanza there is a very peculiar and a very striking form – or construction – The Roar of Waters – The Fall of Waters – The Hell of Waters.