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
