NORTH.
How ghastly all the trees!
SEWARD.
I see no trees—nor anything else.
NORTH.
How can you, with that Flying Dutchman over your eyes?
BULLER.
I gave him my handkerchief—for at this moment I know his head is like to rend. I wish I had kept it to myself; but no use—the lightning is seen through lids and hands, and would be through stone walls.
NORTH.
Each flash has, of course, a thunder-clap of its own—if we knew where to look for it; but, to our senses, all connexion between cause and effect is lost—such incessant flashings—and such multitudinous outbreaks—and such a continuous roll of outrageous echoes!