Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 405, July 1849

NORTH.

One of the Fifteen. A strained elevation – says his Lordship – I am sure of the words, though I have not seen his Elements of Criticism for fifty years —

BULLER.

You are a creature of a wonderful memory.

NORTH.

"A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, that the author is apt to fall suddenly, as well as the reader; because it is not a little difficult to descend sweetly and easily from such elevation to the ordinary tone of the subject. The following is a good illustration of that observation" – and then his Lordship quotes the passage I recited – stopping with the words, "densissimus imber," which are thus made to conclude the description!

BULLER.

Oh! oh! oh! That's murder.

NORTH.

In the description of a storm – continues his Lordship – "to figure Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if I may use the expression: the tone of mind produced by that image is so distinct from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that the sudden transition must be very unpleasant."

BULLER.

Suggestive of a great-coat. That's the way to deal with a great Poet. Clap your hand on the Poet's mouth in its fervour – shut up the words in mid-volley – and then tell him that he does not know how to descend sweetly and easily from strained elevation!

NORTH.

Nor do I agree with his Lordship that "to figure Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts is hyperbolically sublime." As a part for a whole is a figure of speech, so is a whole for a part. Virgil says, "dejicit;" but he did not mean to say that Jupiter "tumbled down" Athos or Rhodope or the Acroceraunian range. He knew – for he saw them – that there they were in all their altitude after the storm – little if at all the worse. But Jupiter had struck – smitten – splintered – rent – trees and rocks – midway or on the summits – and the sight was terrific – and "dejicit" brings it before our imagination which not for a moment pictures the whole mountain tumbling down. But great Poets know the power of words, and on great occasions how to use them – in this case – one – and small critics will not suffer their own senses to instruct them in Poetry – and hence the Elements of Criticism are not the Elements of Nature, and assist us not in comprehending the grandeur of reported storms.

BULLER.

Lay it into them, sir.

NORTH.

Good Dr Hugh Blair again, who in his day had a high character for taste and judgment, agreed with Henry Home that "the transition is made too hastily – I am afraid – from the preceding sublime images, to a thick shower and the blowing of the south wind, and shows how difficult it frequently is to descend with grace, without seeming to fall." Nay, even Mr Alison himself – one of the finest spirits that ever breathed on earth, says – "I acknowledge, indeed, that the 'pluviâ ingenti sata læta, boumque labores diluit' is defensible from the connexion of the imagery with the subject of the poem; but the 'implentur fossæ' is both an unnecessary and a degrading circumstance when compared with the magnificent effects that are described in the rest of the passage." In his quotation, too, the final grand line is inadvertently omitted —

 
"Nunc nemora ingenti vento, nunc litora plangunt."
 

BULLER.

I never read Hugh Blair – but I have read – often, and always with increased delight – Mr Alison's exquisite Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste, and Lord Jeffrey's admirable exposition of the Theory – in statement so clear, and in illustration so rich – worth all the Æsthetics of the Germans – Schiller excepted – in one Volume of Mist.

NORTH.

Mr Alison had an original as well as a fine mind; and here he seems to have been momentarily beguiled into mistake by unconscious deference to the judgment of men – in his province far inferior to himself – whom in his modesty he admired. Mark. Virgil's main purpose is to describe the dangers – the losses to which the agriculturist is at all seasons exposed from wind and weather. And he sets them before us in plain and perspicuous language, not rising above the proper level of the didactic. Yet being a Poet he puts poetry into his description from the first and throughout. To say that the line "Et pluviâ" &c. is "defensible from the connexion of the imagery with the subject of the Poem" is not enough. It is necessitated. Strike it out and you abolish the subject. And just so with "implentur fossæ." The "fossæ" we know in that country were numerous and wide, and, when swollen, dangerous – and the "cava flumina" well follow instantly – for the "fossæ" were their feeders – and we hear as well as see the rivers rushing to the sea – and we hear too, as well as see, the sea itself. There the description ends. Virgil has done his work. But his imagination is moved, and there arises a new strain altogether. He is done with the agriculturists. And now he deals with man at large – with the whole human race. He is now a Boanerges – a son of thunder – and he begins with Jove. The sublimity comes in a moment. "Ipse Pater, mediâ nimborum in nocte" – and is sustained to the close – the last line being great as the first – and all between accordant, and all true to nature. Without rain and wind, what would be a thunder-storm? The "densissimus imber" obeys the laws – and so do the ingeminanting Austri – and the shaken woods and the stricken shores.

BULLER.

Well done, Virgil – well done, North.

NORTH.

I cannot rest, Buller – I can have no peace of mind but in a successful defence of these Ditches. Why is a Ditch to be despised? Because it is dug? So is a grave. Is the Ditch – wet or dry – that must be passed by the Volunteers of the Fighting Division before the Fort can be stormed, too low a word for a Poet to use? Alas! on such an occasion well might he say, as he looked after the assault and saw the floating tartans – implentur fossæ– the Ditch is filled!

BULLER.

Ay, Mr North, in that case the word Ditch – and the thing – would be dignified by danger, daring, and death. But here —

NORTH.

The case is the same – with a difference, for there is all the Danger – all the Daring – all the Death – that the incident or event admits of – and they are not small. Think for a moment. The Rain falls over the whole broad heart of the tilled earth – from the face of the fields it runs into the Ditches – the first unavoidable receptacles – these pour into the rivers – the rivers into the river mouths – and then you are in the Sea.

BULLER.

Go on, sir, go on.

NORTH.

I am amazed – I am indignant, Buller. Ruit arduus æther. The steep or high ether rushes down! as we saw it rush down a few minutes ago. What happens?

 
"Et pluvià ingenti sata læta, boumque labores
Diluit!"
 

Alas! for the hopeful – hopeless husbandman now. What a multiplied and magnified expression have we here for the arable lands. All the glad seed-time vain – vain all industry of man and oxen – there you have the true agricultural pathos – washed away – set in a swim – deluged! Well has the Poet – in one great line – spoke the greatness of a great matter. Sudden affliction – visible desolation – imagined dearth.

BULLER.

Don't stop, sir, you speak to the President of our Agricultural Society – go on, sir, go on.

NORTH.

Now drop in – in its veriest place, and in two words, the necessitated Implentur fossæ. No pretence – no display – no phraseology – the nakedest, but quite effectual statement of the fact – which the farmer – I love that word farmer – has witnessed as often as he has ever seen the Coming – the Ditches that were dry ran full to the brim. The homely rustic fact, strong and impressive to the husbandman, cannot be dealt with by poetry otherwise than by setting it down in its bald simplicity. Seek to raise – to dress – to disguise – and you make it ridiculous. The Mantuan knew better – he says what must be said – and goes on —

BULLER.

He goes on – so do you, sir – you both get on.

NORTH.

And now again begins Magnification,

 
"Et cava flumina crescunt
Cum sonitu."
 

The "hollow-bedded rivers" grow, swell, visibly wax mighty and turbulent. You imagine that you stand on the bank and see the river that had shrunk into a thread getting broad enough to fill the capacity of its whole hollow bed. The rushing of arduous ether would not of itself have proved sufficient. Therefore glory to the Italian Ditches and glory to the Dumfriesshire Drains, which I have seen, in an hour, change the white murmuring Esk into a red rolling river, with as sweeping sway as ever attended the Arno on its way to inundate Florence.

BULLER.

Glory to the Ditches of the Vale of Arno – glory to the Drains of Dumfriesshire. Draw breath, sir. Now go on, sir.

NORTH.

"Cum sonitu." Not as Father Thames rises – silently– till the flow lapse over lateral meadow-grounds for a mile on either side. But "cum sonitu," with a voice – with a roar – a mischievous roar – a roar of – ten thousand Ditches.

BULLER.

And then the "flumina" – "cava" no more – will be as clear as mud.

NORTH.

You have hit it. They will be – for the Arno in flood is like liquid mud – by no means enamouring, perhaps not even sublime – but showing you that it comes off the fields and along the Ditches – that you see swillings of the "sata læta boumque labores."

BULLER.

Agricultural Produce!

NORTH.

For a moment – a single moment – leave out the Ditches, and say merely, "The rain falls over the fields – the rivers swell roaring." No picture at all. You must have the fall over the surface – the gathering in the narrower artificial – the delivery into the wider natural channels – the fight of spate and surge at river mouth —

 
"Fervetque fretis spirantibus æquor."
 

The Ditches are indispensable in nature and in Virgil.

BULLER.

Put this glass of water to your lips, sir – not that I would recommend water to a man in a fit of eloquence – but I know you are abstinent – infatuated in your abjuration of wine. Go on – half-minute time.

NORTH.

I swear to defend – at the pen's point – against all Comers – this position – that the line is, where it stands – and looking before and after – a perfect line; and that to strike out "implentur fossæ" would be an outrage on it – just equal, Buller, to my knocking out, without hesitation, your brains – for your brains do not contribute more to the flow of our conversation – than do the Ditches to that other Spate.

 
"Diluit: implentur fossæ, cava flumina crescunt
Cum sonitu – "
 

BULLER.

That will do – you may stop.

NORTH.

I ask no man's permission – I obey no man's mandate – to stop. Now Virgil takes wing – now he blazes and soars. Now comes the power and spirit of the Storm gathered in the Person of the Sire – of him who wields the thunderbolt into which the Cyclops have forged storms of all sorts – wind and rain together – "Tres Imbri torti radios!" &c. You remember the magnificent mixture. And there we have Virgilius versus Homerum.

BULLER.

You may sit down, sir.

NORTH.

I did not know I had stood up. Beg pardon.

BULLER.

I am putting Swing to rights for you, Sir.

NORTH.

Methinks Jupiter is twice apparent – the first time, as the President of the Storm, which is agreeable to the dictates of reason and necessity; – the second – to my fancy – as delighting himself in the conscious exertion of power. What is he splintering Athos, or Rhodope, or the Acroceraunians for? The divine use of the Fulmen is to quell Titans, and to kill that mad fellow who was running up the ladder at Thebes, Capaneus. Let the Great Gods find out their enemies now– find out and finish them – and enemies they must have not a few among those prostrate crowds – "per gentes humilis stravit pavor." But shattering and shivering the mountain tops – which, as I take it, is here the prominent affair – and, as I said, the true meaning of "dejicit" – is mere pastime – as if Jupiter Tonans were disporting himself on a holiday.

BULLER.

Oh! sir, you have exhausted the subject – if not yourself – and us; – I beseech you sit down; – see, Swing solicits you – and oh! sir, you – we – all of us will find in a few minutes' silence a great relief after all that thunder.

NORTH.

You remember Lucretius?

BULLER.

No, I don't. To you I am not ashamed to confess that I read him with some difficulty. With ease, sir, do you?

NORTH.

I never knew a man who did but Bobus Smith; and so thoroughly was he imbued with the spirit of the great Epicurean, that Landor – himself the best Latinist living – equals him with Lucretius. The famous Thunder passage is very fine, but I cannot recollect every word; and the man who, in recitation, haggles and boggles at a great strain of a great poet deserves death without benefit of clergy. I do remember, however, that he does not descend from his elevation with such ease and grace as would have satisfied Henry Home and Hugh Blair – for he has so little notion of true dignity as to mention rain, as Virgil afterwards did, in immediate connexion with thunder.

 
"Quo de concussu sequitur gravis imber et uber,
Omnis utei videatur in imbrem vortier æther,
Atque ita præcipitans ad diluviem revocare."
 

BULLER.

What think you of the thunder in Thomson's Seasons?

NORTH.

What all the world thinks – that it is our very best British Thunder. He gives the Gathering, the General engagement, and the Retreat. In the Gathering there are touches and strokes that make all mankind shudder – the foreboding – the ominous! And the terror, when it comes, aggrandises the premonitory symptoms. "Follows the loosened aggravated roar" is a line of power to bring the voice of thunder upon your soul on the most peaceable day. He, too – prevailing poet – feels the grandeur of the Rain. For instant on the words "convulsing heaven and earth," ensue,

 
"Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail,
Or prone-descending rain."
 

Thomson had been in the heart of thunder-storms many a time before he left Scotland; and what always impresses me is the want of method – the confusion, I might almost say – in his description. Nothing contradictory in the proceedings of the storm; they all go on obediently to what we know of Nature's laws. But the effects of their agency on man and nature are given – not according to any scheme – but as they happen to come before the Poet's imagination, as they happened in reality. The pine is struck first – then the cattle and the sheep below – and then the castled cliff – and then the

 
"Gloomy woods
Start at the flash, and from their deep recess
Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake."
 

No regular ascending – or descending scale here; but wherever the lightning chooses to go, there it goes – the blind agent of indiscriminating destruction.

BULLER.

Capricious Zig-zag.

NORTH.

Jemmy was overmuch given to mouthing in the Seasons; and in this description – matchless though it be – he sometimes out-mouths the big-mouthed thunder at his own bombast. Perhaps that is inevitable – you must, in confabulating with that Meteor, either imitate him, to keep him and yourself in countenance, or be, if not mute as a mouse, as thin-piped as a fly. In youth I used to go sounding to myself among the mountains the concluding lines of the Retreat.

 
"Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud
The repercussive roar; with mighty crush,
Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks
Of Penmanmaur heap'd hideous to the sky,
Tumble the smitten cliffs, and Snowdon's peak,
Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load:
Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze,
And Thule bellows through her utmost isles."
 

Are they good – or are they bad? I fear – not good. But I am dubious. The previous picture has been of one locality – a wide one – but within the visible horizon – enlarged somewhat by the imagination, which, as the schoolmen said, inflows into every act of the senses – and powerfully, no doubt, into the senses engaged in witnessing a thunder-storm. Many of the effects so faithfully, and some of them so tenderly painted, interest us by their picturesque particularity.

 
"Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look
They wore alive, and ruminating still
In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull,
And ox half-raised."
 

We are here in a confined world – close to us and near; and our sympathies with its inhabitants – human or brute – comprehend the very attitudes or postures in which the lightning found and left them; but the final verses waft us away from all that terror and pity – the geographical takes place of the pathetic – a visionary panorama of material objects supersedes the heart-throbbing region of the spiritual – for a mournful song instinct with the humanities, an ambitious bravura displaying the power and pride of the musician, now thinking not at all of us, and following the thunder only as affording him an opportunity for the display of his own art.

BULLER.

Are they good – or are they bad? I am dubious.

NORTH.

Thunder-storms travel fast and far – but here they seem simultaneous; Thule is more vociferous than the whole of Wales together – yet perhaps the sound itself of the verses is the loudest of all – and we cease to hear the thunder in the din that describes it.

BULLER.

Severe – but just.

NORTH.

Ha! Thou comest in such a questionable shape —

ENTRANT.

That I will speak to thee. How do you do, my dear sir? God bless you, how do you do?

NORTH.

Art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned?

ENTRANT.

A spirit of health.

NORTH.

It is – it is the voice of Talboys. Don't move an inch. Stand still for ten seconds – on the very same site, that I may have one steady look at you, to make assurance doubly sure – and then let us meet each other half-way in a Cornish hug.

TALBOYS.

Are we going to wrestle already, Mr North?

NORTH.

Stand still ten seconds more. He is He – You are You – gentlemen – H. G. Talboys – Seward, my crutch – Buller, your arm —

TALBOYS.

Wonderful feat of agility! Feet up to the ceiling —

NORTH.

Don't say ceiling —

TALBOYS.

Why not? ceiling – cœlum. Feet up to heaven.

NORTH.

An involuntary feat – the fault of Swing – sole fault – but I always forget it when agitated —

BULLER.

Some time or other, sir, you will fly backwards and fracture your skull.

NORTH.

There, we have recovered our equilibrium – now we are in grips, don't fear a fall – I hope you are not displeased with your reception.

TALBOYS.

I wrote last night, sir, to say I was coming – but there being no speedier conveyance – I put the letter in my pocket, and there it is —

NORTH.

(On reading "Dies Boreales.– No. 1.")

 
A friend returned! spring bursting forth again!
The song of other years! which, when we roam,
Brings up all sweet and common things of home,
And sinks into the thirsty heart like rain!
Such the strong influence of the thrilling strain
By human love made sad and musical,
Yet full of high philosophy withal,
Poured from thy wizard harp o'er land and main!
A thousand hearts will waken at its call,
And breathe the prayer they breathed in earlier youth, —
May o'er thy brow no envious shadow fall!
Blaze in thine eye the eloquence of truth!
Thy righteous wrath the soul of guilt appal,
As lion's streaming hair or dragon's fiery tooth!
 

TALBOYS.

I blush to think I have given you the wrong paper.

NORTH.

It is the right one. But may I ask what you have on your head?

TALBOYS.

A hat. At least it was so an hour ago.

NORTH.

It never will be a hat again.

TALBOYS.

A patent hat – a waterproof hat – it was swimming, when I purchased it yesterday, in a pail – warranted against Lammas floods —

NORTH.

And in an hour it has come to this! Why, it has no more shape than a coal-heaver's.

TALBOYS.

Oh! then it can be little the worse. For that is its natural artificial shape. It is constructed on that principle – and the patentee prides himself on its affording equal protection to head, shoulders, and back – helmet at once and shield.

NORTH.

But you must immediately put on dry clothes —

TALBOYS.

The clothes I have on are as dry as if they had been taking horse-exercise all morning before a laundry-fire. I am waterproof all over – and I had need to be so – for between Inverary and Cladich there was much moisture in the atmosphere.

NORTH.

Do – do – go and put on dry clothes. Why the spot you stand on is absolutely swimming —

TALBOYS.

My Sporting-jacket, sir, is a new invention – an invention of my own – to the sight silk – to the feel feathers – and of feathers is the texture – but that is a secret, don't blab it – and to rain I am impervious as a plover.

NORTH.

Do – do – go and put on dry clothes.

TALBOYS.

Intended to have been here last night – left Glasgow yesterday morning – and had a most delightful forenoon of it in the Steamer to Tarbert. Loch Lomond fairly outshone herself – never before had I felt the full force of the words – "Fortunate Isles." The Bens were magnificent. At Tarbert – just as I was disembarking – who should be embarking but our friends Outram, M'Culloch, Macnee —

NORTH.

And why are they not here?

TALBOYS.

And I was induced – I could not resist them – to take a trip on to Inverarnan. We returned to Tarbert and had a glorious afternoon till two this morning – thought I might lie down for an hour or two – but, after undressing, it occurred to me that it was advisable to redress – and be off instanter – so, wheeling round the head of Loch Long – never beheld the bay so lovely – I glided up the gentle slope of Glencroe and sat down on "Rest and be thankful" – to hold a minute's colloquy with a hawk – or some sort of eagle or another, who seemed to think nobody at that hour had a right to be there but himself – covered him to a nicety with my rod – and had it been a gun, he was a dead bird. Down the other – that is, this side of the glen, which, so far from being precipitous, is known to be a descent but by the pretty little cataracts playing at leap-frog – from your description I knew that must be Loch Fine – and that St Catherine's. Shall I drop down and signalise the Inverary Steamer? I have not time – so through the woods of Ardkinglass – surely the most beautiful in this world – to Cairndow. Looked at my watch – had forgot to wind her up – set her by the sun – and on nearing the inn door an unaccountable impulse landed me in the parlour to the right. Breakfast on the table for somebody up stairs – whom nobody – so the girl said – could awaken – ate it – and the ten miles were but one to that celebrated Circuit Town. Saluted Dun-nu-quech for your sake – and the Castle for the Duke's – and could have lingered all June among those gorgeous groves.

NORTH.

Do – do – go and put on dry clothes.

TALBOYS.

Hitherto it had been cool – shady – breezy – the very day for such a saunter – when all at once it was an oven. I had occasion to note that fine line of the Poet's – "Where not a lime-leaf moves," as I passed under a tree of that species, with an umbrage some hundred feet in circumference, and a presentiment of what was coming whispered "Stop here" – but the Fates tempted me on – and if I am rather wet, sir, there is some excuse for it – for there was thunder and lightning, and a great tempest.

NORTH.

Not to-day? Here all has been hush.

TALBOYS.

It came at once from all points of the compass – and they all met – all the storms – every mother's son of them – at a central point – where I happened to be. Of course, no house. Look for a house on an emergency, and if once in a million times you see one – the door is locked, and the people gone to Australia.

NORTH.

I insist on you putting on dry clothes. Don't try my temper.

TALBOYS.

By-and-by I began to have my suspicions that I had been distracted from the road – and was in the Channel of the Airey. But on looking down I saw the Airey in his own channel – almost as drumly as the mire-burn – vulgarly called road – I was plashing up. Altogether the scene was most animating – and in a moment of intense exhilaration – not to weather-fend, but in defiance – I unfurled my Umbrella.

NORTH.

What, a Plover with a Parapluie?

TALBOYS.

I use it, sir, but as a Parasol. Never but on this one occasion had it affronted rain.

NORTH.

The same we sat under, that dog-day, at Dunoon?

TALBOYS.

The same. Whew! Up into the sky like the incarnation of a whirlwind! No turning outside in – too strong-ribbed for inversion – before the wind he flew – like a creature of the element – and gracefully accomplished the descent on an eminence about a mile off.

NORTH.

Near Orain-imali-chauan-mala-chuilish?

TALBOYS.

I eyed him where he lay – not without anger. It had manifestly been a wilful act – he had torn himself from my grasp – and now he kept looking at me – at safe distance as he thought – like a wild animal suddenly undomesticated – and escaped into his native liberty. If he had sailed before the wind – why might not I? No need to stalk him – so I went at him right in front – but such another flounder! Then, sir, I first knew fatigue.

NORTH.

 
"So eagerly The Fiend
O'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way,
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."
 

TALBOYS.

Finally I reached him – closed on him – when Eolus, or Eurus, or Notus, or Favonius – for all the heathen wind-gods were abroad – inflated him, and away he flew – rustling like a dragon-fly – and zig-zagging all fiery-green in the gloom – sat down – as composedly as you would yourself, sir – on a knoll, in another region – engirdled with young birch-groves – as beautiful a resting-place, I must acknowledge as, after a lyrical flight, could have been selected for repose by Mr Wordsworth.

NORTH.

I know it – Arash-alaba-chalin-ora-begota-la-chona-hurie. Archy will go for it in the evening – all safe. But do go and put on dry clothes. What now, Billy?

BILLY BALMER.

Here are Mr Talboys' trunk, sir.

NORTH.

Who brought it?

BILLY.

Nea, Maister – I dan't kna' – I s'pose Carrier. I ken't reet weell – ance at Windermere-watter.

NORTH.

Swiss Giantess – Billy.

BILLY.

Ay – ay – sir.

NORTH.

You will find the Swiss Giantess as complete a dormitory as man can desire, Talboys. I reserve it for myself, in event of rheumatism. Though lined with velvet, it is always cool – ventilated on a new principle – of which I took merely a hint from the Punka. My cot hangs in what used to be the Exhibition-room – and her Retreat is now a commodious Dressing-room. Billy, show Mr Talboys to the Swiss Giantess.

BILLY.

Ay – ay, sir. This way, Mr Talboy – this way, sir.

TALBOYS.

What is your dinner-hour, Mr North?

NORTH.

Sharp seven – seven sharp.

TALBOYS.

And now 'tis but half-past two. Four hours for work. The Cladich – or whatever you call him – is rumbling disorderly in the wood; and I noted, as I crossed the bridge, that he was proud as a piper of being in Spate – but he looks more rational down in yonder meadows – and – heaven have mercy on me! there's Loch Awe!!

NORTH.

I thought it queer that you never looked at it.

TALBOYS.

Looked at it? How could I look at it? I don't believe it was there. If it was – from the hill-top I had eyes but for the Camp – the Tents and the Trees – and "Thee the spirit of them all!" Let me have another eye-full – another soul-full of the Loch. But 'twill never do to be losing time in this way. Where's my creel – where's my creel?

NORTH.

On your shoulders —

TALBOYS.

And my Book? Lost – lost – lost! Not in any one of all my pockets. I shall go mad.

NORTH.

Not far to go. Why your Book's in your hand.

TALBOYS.

At eight?

NORTH.

Seven. Archy, follow him – In that state of excitement he will be walking with his spectacles on over some precipice. Keep your eye on him, Archy —

ARCHY.

I can pretend to be carrying the landing-net, sir.

NORTH.

There's a specimen of a Scottish Lawyer, gentlemen. What do you think of him?

BULLER.

That he is without exception the most agreeable fellow, at first sight, I ever met in my life.

NORTH.

And so you would continue to think him, were you to see him twice a-week for twenty years. But he is far more than that – though, as the world goes, that is much: his mind is steel to the back-bone – his heart is sound as his lungs – his talents great – in literature, had he liked it, he might have excelled; but he has wisely chosen a better Profession – and his character now stands high as a Lawyer and a Judge. Yonder he goes! As fresh as a kitten after a score and three quarter miles at the least.

BULLER.

Seward – let's after him. Billy – the minnows.

BILLY.

Here's the Can, sirs.

Scene closes.

Scene II.

Interior of Deeside.– Time – Seven p. m.

North – Talboys – Buller – Seward.

NORTH.

Seward, face Buller. Talboys, face North. Fall too, gentlemen; to-day we dispense with regular service. Each man has his own distinct dinner before him, or in the immediate vicinity – soup, fish, flesh, fowl – and with all necessary accompaniments and sequences. How do you like the arrangement of the table, Talboys?

TALBOYS.

The principle shows a profound knowledge of human nature, sir. In theory, self-love and social are the same – but in practice, self-love looks to your own plate – social to your neighbours. By this felicitous multiplication of dinners – this One in Four – this Four in One – the harmony of the moral system is preserved – and all works together for the general good. Looked at artistically, we have here what the Germans and others say is essential to the beautiful and the sublime – Unity.

NORTH.

I believe the Four Dinners – if weighed separately – would be found not to differ by a pound. This man's fish might prove in the scale a few ounces heavier than that man's – but in such case, his fowl would be found just so many ounces lighter. And so on. The Puddings are cast in the same mould – and things equal to the same thing, are equal to one another.

TALBOYS.

The weight of each repast?

NORTH.

Calculated at twenty-five pounds.

TALBOYS.

Grand total, one hundred. The golden mean.

NORTH.

From these general views, to descend to particulars. Soup (turtle) two pounds – Hotch, ditto – Fish (Trout) two pounds – Flesh, (Jigot – black face five-year-old,) six pounds – Fowl (Howtowdie boiled) five pounds – Duck, (wild) three pounds – Tart (gooseberry) one pound – Pud (Variorum Edition) two pounds.