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

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.

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.")

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.