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

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 height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

"And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns 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 profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent

"To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly
With 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, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its 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.

BULLER

You admire it.

NORTH

I do.

TALBOYS

Don't believe him, Buller. Let's be off – there is no rain worth mentioning – see – there's a Fly. Oh! 'tis but a Red Professor dangling from my bonnet – a Red Professor with tinsy and a tail. Come, Seward, here's the Chess-Board. Let us make out the Main.

NORTH

The four lines about the Roar and the Fall are good —

TALBOYS

Indeed, sir.

NORTH

Mind your game, sir. Seward, you may give him a Pawn. The next four – about Hell – are bad.

TALBOYS

Indeed, sir.

NORTH

Seward, you may likewise give him a Knight. As bad as can be. For there is an incredible confusion of tormented and tormentor. They howl, and hiss, and boil in endless torture – they are suffering the Pains of Hell – they are in Hell. "But the sweat of their great agony is wrung out from this their Phlegethon." Where is this their Phlegethon? Why, this their Phlegethon is – themselves! Look down – there is no other river – but the Velino.