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

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.