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

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 wave
Of the most living crystal that was e'er
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
Thy grassy banks, whereon the milk-white steer
Grazes; 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 sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubblin-tales.

"Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!
If through the air a zephyr more serene
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along his margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust
Of weary life a moment lave it clean
With Nature's baptism, – 'tis to him ye must
Pay 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