Time, considered in the same light as the other possessions of man, is certainly of them all the most valuable, as so very small portion is allotted to each individual. Yet every means are employed by the great bulk of mankind to waste that of which our quantity is so diminutive, every art is used to dissipate what will naturally fly from us, every ilea is bent on driving away that which we can never recall.
Our first thought, on awaking from sleep is, How shall I spend the day? Surely it ought rather to be, How shall I best employ those moments of which Heaven has given me so few? which of the various modes of filling my time will be most consonant to reason and virtue--will most redound to mine own honour--will be most advantageous to society?
There is no art which would be more beneficial to the world, or which is less practised, than the economy of moments. A thousand spaces present themselves in the life of every man, which are left unoccupied, even amidst the bustle of pleasure, or the anxiety of business--too small to be employed in serious study, too sudden and evanescent to offer opportunity for any prolonged enjoyment. But these vacuities might almost always be used to produce either some harmless gratification to ourselves, or some benefit to others; some improvement of our corporeal or intellectual faculties, or some scheme for giving satisfaction, or acquiring happiness. Man need never be idle, even for an instant. If the accident of the moment deprive him of books, the page of nature will most frequently be before him. Should this also be excluded from his view, let him turn his consideration to the tablet of his own mind; let him correct its errors, let him engrave move deeply the lines of right; let him strengthen the powers of reason, by examining and arranging his own thoughts; let him think, but not dream; and he will find an inexhaustible fund of employment and delight--a fund which is always replete with improvement, and which is constantly accessible to his research.
Moments are the most precious treasures we possess; and by them most frequently is the fate of man decided. The ultimate effects of the impulse or accident of an instant will frequently give a colouring to the whole picture of our future life; either shadow it with sorrow or brighten it with prosperity. Moments, therefore, ought never to be neglected: they ought never to be wasted in idleness, nor remain unguarded by vigilance; for, in their passing, they hurry on our fate; and on their occupation and event our happiness here and hereafter depends.
Procrastination is another of the most idle ways of wasting time:--more destructive to happiness, more baneful to society, more hostile to virtue and reason, than almost any other custom short of actual vice. It weakens the mind, it cheats the understanding, and induces a state of intellectual imbecility, always increasing and never to be overcome. It is not alone that we substitute resolutions for actions, and spend in determinations those moments which ought to be employed in doing service to ourselves or benefiting society; but the mental cowardice grows upon us, and we lose the power even of resolving, where action is necessary, and where doubt is still more dangerous than error; perplexing our mind with distressing hesitation, as opposite to necessary caution as real prudence is to headlong rashness and blind timidity. Procrastination has been called "the thief of time." It is worse! It is the murderer of man's best friend.
Was all our time filled with the obvious duties which present themselves to our view--engaged in the harmless pleasures that at every step lie in our path, or employed in well-directed observation and moral improvement were those vacant moments, which men feel so burthensome, snatched eagerly for the acquirement of knowledge, or the reciprocation of benefits--the advantage to mankind would be, not alone the increased enjoyment of existence, but also, escape from temptation to evil, and security in the path of right.
Notwithstanding these observations, every man will find that he cannot always compel his mind to any particular object; and that, when he wishes to employ profitably a vacancy in his time, he must allow his thoughts to follow in a degree their former course; or at least, guide them into a new channel by some easy means of communication.
I have often myself experienced this restiveness of imagination; and whether it be from the weakness of age, or a natural drowsiness of constitution, I know not; but, whenever I endeavour to force my ideas towards subjects unassimilating with previous impressions, especially when at all under the influence of bodily fatigue, my mind seeks to escape from the burdensome employment I would impose on it, by taking refuge in the arms of slumber.
I had one day striven hard to fix my thoughts upon subjects very nearly connected with the foregoing observations, although, at the moment, I was fatigued and exhausted with exercises and occupations unknown and dissimilar to my secluded habits; and as I endeavoured to arrange my ideas in a more distinct form, gradually they lost their course, became more and more confused, and I dropped asleep.
If it be natural for the weary meditator to sleep, it is still more natural for the poet or essayist to dream; and, indeed, I have a custom of carrying on, during the hours of repose, that train of thought, which has occupied me while awake; dressed indeed in a more fanciful garb, and marshalled with all the extravagance of uncontrolled imagination.
On the present occasion, no sooner had I closed my eyes, than, as usual, the ideas which I had impressed on my mind again appeared, but in somewhat of a different form. The whole objects in the room, however, were unchanged, even in the visions of my sleep. I still reclined in my easy chair. My table, littered with papers, was before me--the picture of my great grandfather stared me in the face from the other side of the room--my wig hung in its usual recess by the fireplace--my snuff-box remained half open on the table; and my red morocco slippers rested on their own peculiar stool, undisturbed by intruding feet.
Ina few minutes, as I fixed my eyes upon the picture of my great grandfather the reverend effigy began to move; the next instant the figure descended from the back-ground, and bowing with all the formal grace of one thousand seven hundred and seven, advanced toward the table. I returned the salutation of my revered, ancestor, and begged him to be seated--I could do no less for one who had made such advances--and then, in all that absurd caricature of real life, which dreams occasionally display, we began to pour forth an overwhelming flood of compliments upon each other, in which, however, the copiousness of my great grandfather had considerably the advantage. Indeed, he seemed resolved to indemnify himself in that one night for the ages of silence he had passed within his frame.
At length, after an oration too long to be repeated, and which, in truth, I scarcely understood, he informed me, that knowing my desire to see all the moments of my passed life, he had come out of the canvass on purpose to gratify me; and that he would immediately call them to my sight, exactly as they had really been, in distinct classes, and in regular routine.
As he concluded, he rapped the snuff-box, with which he was represented in the portrait, and in a moment, the room was filled with little winged boys, resembling our pictures of cherubim. "These," said my ancestor, "are the first twenty years of thy life. You may observe, that most of them are blind, for men, like kittens, do not open their eyes until they have been some time in the world--those that appear all over prickles, and who flutter about with such vehemence, are the moments wasted in love--those with sleepy air, swarthy complexion, and dusty wings, have passed you while poring over old authors and musty volumes; and those that fly about casting somersets in the air, like tumbler pigeons, are the instants spent in balls and assemblies in the giddy days of youth."
"But why," demanded I, "do so many that I see carry a scull, more especially those that bear a smile upon their lips, as if they mocked the memento in their hands?"
"All those," replied he, "are moments wasted; some in folly, some in actual vice, and some passed by, unfilled by action, or unemployed by thought; but all alike, the winged hasteners of mortality."
"But are not all the others the same?" demanded I, "even those who appear so calm and placid; those few, those very few, who neither laugh nor frown, but whose looks are full of expression, and whose unclosed eyes seem to beam with approbation--surely all moments tend alike towards the tomb?"
"Those," replied he, "are the instants given to the doing of good deeds and to the pursuit of virtue; and they lead us even beyond the tomb; through the portal of death, open the gates of life, and smooth our passage to eternity."
He now called to view the next twenty years of my life, and directly another winged crowd appeared, some of whom bore ladders, many of the steps whereof were broken or irregular; and these, I was told, were the moments given to the delusions of pride and the dreams of ambition. Others were little gloomy-looking imps, which, however, often when they would seem to frown the most, would suddenly assume a smile, so placid and beaming, that a ray from heaven appeared to have fallen upon their features. These, I found, were the moments of well-conducted study, calm reflection, and self-examination. Some, again, had no bodies; and their wings were decked with all hues and colours, as if each were a rainbow; but at the same time, like the painted follower of the summer cloud, they were thin, transparent, and unsubstantial. These, he informed me, were times of vain imaginations, and unreasonable desires. A multitude came next; many of whom had the brow bent, and the corners of the mouth drawn into a kind of sneer. There were others, whose features at once displayed a tear and a smile, both so bright, it was impossible to say which was the most radiant. Of these two sorts, the first were the moments of cynicism and misanthropy; and the second displayed the times given to particular charity or general benevolence.
"And now," said my great grandfather, "for the next twenty years."
"Stop, stop, my dear sir," cried I, "remember I am not sixty yet."
"Fifty-nine years, six months, three days, eleven hours, five-and-twenty minutes, four seconds," replied he in an angry tone. The fearful recapitulation put an end both to my dream and my slumber; and starting up in my chair, I found--the clock striking.
There were many other contributions, but I have only kept a copy of two more, the first of which was suggested by the apprehensions expressed by one of the party, lest the multiplication of steam-engines should ultimately exhaust all the fuel in the world. The second was occasioned by a reference made to the days when we had first met, by one in whom the equanimity of a high mind had preserved all the freshness of extreme youth.
[As I sat, a few nights ago, reading in the newspapers many alarming calculations concerning the consumption of fuel by the multiplication of steam-engines, I fell into a dose, when the following awful and prophetic vision presented itself to my eyes. Immediately on waking, it fell naturally, as it were, into verse; and I think the subject too important to be withheld from public consideration.]
I slept; and, in a vision, to my eyesNature's last tragedy appeared to rise.Man's climbing mind had subtilised each art,Sublimed the whole, and perfected each part.Laws, arts, and arms, had undergone a change,Not less magnificent because most strange.Steam, mighty steam! had superseded all--Made horses bankrupts, and made bread to fall.Steam-boats, steam-guns, steam-kitchens, and steam-coaches,To this perfection made the first approaches:But this was nothing to the wondrous steamingThe future showed me as I lay a-dreaming.Vain in description to waste precious paper--Suffice it, Europe was one cloud of vapour!But, ah! alas! that vapour e'er should feelThe rotatory roll of Fortune's wheel!Fuel grew dear! French forests fell like grass;Tynemouth, Wall-end, and Kennell, cried, "Alas!"Nor even could the Indian savage roamThrough ancient woods, his dim primeval home.Long every shrub, and bush, and branch, and tree,Had heated boilers, and had ceased to be;And men were forced to turn to uses vileFull many a laboured, many a learned pile.Many a volume too, and many a tome,Sharing alike the universal doom,Now proved a blessing, where they proved a bore,And blazed with fire they never knew before!Wondrous! with what avidity men broughtThose solemn works with wit and learning fraught,--State records, parliamentary debates,Polemic tracts, and essays upon states,--To light the fire which every parish vowedTo warm the noses of the coal-less crowd.Romances next were hurled into the flame;Next poets, play-writers, historians, came;Last, Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakspeare, Scott,With many a sigh, were added to the lot:But these the unwilling owners e'en confessedBurned longer, clearer, brighter, than the rest.Next furniture was fetched--drawers, tables, chairs,Beds, stools, and every sort of wooden wares;Till men were forced to seek the aid of stonesTo bear their dinners and to rest their bones;Till all was burnt. Then surly Winter rose,And took blue wretches by the frozen nose;And sad it was to see each chilly wight,With hands in pockets and coat buttoned tight,Run up and down the waste, uncovered earth,Cursed with black cold, sad enemy to mirth;And, as they ran, remorse their bosoms tore,For joys they'd heedless cast away before.Dandies and Russians, Dutchmen, bargemen, tars,Regretted wasted pipes and lost cigars;And patriot Catholics and Irish priestsThought good wood wasted on heretic beasts,Called Smithfield fire-lighting a thriftless trade,And bloody Mary but a wasteful jade.Vainly they ran! No cheering warmth they found,And the dull sky upon their mis'ry frowned;And when they entered in their doorless homes,'Twas stony coldness all like empty tombs.With frenzied energy they dug the ground,Or dived the sea. Nor coal nor wood they found!And many a wretch would lay him down to die,And welcome Death without one envious sigh;No terrors found they in his icy stare--They could not well be colder than they were.Still many raged and struggled for warm life,And waged with cold and death unequal strife,Dined on raw cabbages, devoured raw beef,Gained indigestion, but gained no relief.One man there was--a waterman by trade,Erst in green coat and plated badge arrayed;Men called him Fish, and rightly him did call--For he could dive and swim, possessing allThe useful attributes of finny birth--Finding the water warmer than the earth,He spent his time in diving; and one dayFound in the river's bottom, where they layHid from the danger of devouring flames,The stakes that Cæsar drove into the Thames!"Ho, ho!" cried he; "I've found a treasure here,Shall warm me snugly till the rolling yearBring's jolly summer." So with might and mainHe tugged them forth and bore them to the plain:--But, now he'd got them, he had still to learnThat wood when wet is difficult to burn.Quick-witted in himself, he well divined,Though cold at heart, some warmth remained behind;And having ranged the timber with much art,He sat and dried it with his broadest part.A long, long week, seven weary nights and days,Drying the expectant pile he careful stays.Thus o'er her nest the mother eagle broods;Or thus the ph[oe]nix of Arabian woodsSits on his aromatic pile, whose fire,Of new life redolent, shall soon aspire.At length 'twas dry! Now with an eager handTwo flints he seized and fired each rotten brand--Each rotten brand a grateful ardour showed;Forth burst the flame, and on the sky it glowed.High rose the flame; too high, alas! for nowAn ancient woman, on a mountain's brow,Running some worsted through a needle's eye,(What is it not old women will descry?)Found out the fire for Fish that furtive flamed,And forth with scream and shout the fact proclaimed."A fire! A fire! A fire!" the beldam cried;"A fire! A fire!" the village all replied;"A fire! A fire A fire!" was echoed far and wide.Each babe took up the tale, each ancient sire,Though deaf, and blind, and lame, repeated "Fire!"High, low, rich, poor, good, bad,--all cold the same,--Loud shouted "Fire!" and kindled at the name.First hamlets, villages, assumed the cry;Through burghs and cities then the tidings fly;All traced them back to where they first began;--All bawled out "Fire!" and as they bawled they ran.Now Fish, who selfishly had hoped aloneT' enjoy the fire that he himself had won,Astonished sees the world around him swarm--Millions on millions, eager to get warm!On, on, they rushed, one on the other prest;And still the crowd behind impelled the rest.All nations, languages, heights, features, hues,That the wide universe could then produce,Running, and jostling, scrambling, tumbling came,Jammed into marmalade around that flame.Then Fish, indignant, cried with loud command,--A brandished boat-hook in his dauntless hand,"Stand back, my masters! You may all be d----d!The fire's my own, and I will not be bammed!Or since the generous ardour fires your soulTo seek this genial flame, from either pole,With me, its lord, possession to contend,And squeeze me flat my right while I defend--Thus I defy you, caitiffs all, and dareThe bold to follow, and my fate to share!"[21]Proudly he said, and sprang into the flame:High o'er his head the fiery eddies came;The crowd beheld, and, maddened with the sight,Dashed on the blaze, and perished in the light.The fire was out; but still they onward rushed:--The far extremes the narrow centre pushed,Squeezed, jammed, cast down, one on the other rose.And many a mortal trod on his own nose.Each in his eagerness his fellow mashed:The sun went down--and all the world was quashed!!!
I slept; and, in a vision, to my eyesNature's last tragedy appeared to rise.Man's climbing mind had subtilised each art,Sublimed the whole, and perfected each part.Laws, arts, and arms, had undergone a change,Not less magnificent because most strange.Steam, mighty steam! had superseded all--Made horses bankrupts, and made bread to fall.Steam-boats, steam-guns, steam-kitchens, and steam-coaches,To this perfection made the first approaches:But this was nothing to the wondrous steamingThe future showed me as I lay a-dreaming.Vain in description to waste precious paper--Suffice it, Europe was one cloud of vapour!
But, ah! alas! that vapour e'er should feelThe rotatory roll of Fortune's wheel!Fuel grew dear! French forests fell like grass;Tynemouth, Wall-end, and Kennell, cried, "Alas!"Nor even could the Indian savage roamThrough ancient woods, his dim primeval home.Long every shrub, and bush, and branch, and tree,Had heated boilers, and had ceased to be;And men were forced to turn to uses vileFull many a laboured, many a learned pile.Many a volume too, and many a tome,Sharing alike the universal doom,Now proved a blessing, where they proved a bore,And blazed with fire they never knew before!Wondrous! with what avidity men broughtThose solemn works with wit and learning fraught,--State records, parliamentary debates,Polemic tracts, and essays upon states,--To light the fire which every parish vowedTo warm the noses of the coal-less crowd.
Romances next were hurled into the flame;Next poets, play-writers, historians, came;Last, Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakspeare, Scott,With many a sigh, were added to the lot:But these the unwilling owners e'en confessedBurned longer, clearer, brighter, than the rest.Next furniture was fetched--drawers, tables, chairs,Beds, stools, and every sort of wooden wares;Till men were forced to seek the aid of stonesTo bear their dinners and to rest their bones;Till all was burnt. Then surly Winter rose,And took blue wretches by the frozen nose;And sad it was to see each chilly wight,With hands in pockets and coat buttoned tight,Run up and down the waste, uncovered earth,Cursed with black cold, sad enemy to mirth;And, as they ran, remorse their bosoms tore,For joys they'd heedless cast away before.Dandies and Russians, Dutchmen, bargemen, tars,Regretted wasted pipes and lost cigars;And patriot Catholics and Irish priestsThought good wood wasted on heretic beasts,Called Smithfield fire-lighting a thriftless trade,And bloody Mary but a wasteful jade.
Vainly they ran! No cheering warmth they found,And the dull sky upon their mis'ry frowned;And when they entered in their doorless homes,'Twas stony coldness all like empty tombs.With frenzied energy they dug the ground,Or dived the sea. Nor coal nor wood they found!And many a wretch would lay him down to die,And welcome Death without one envious sigh;No terrors found they in his icy stare--They could not well be colder than they were.Still many raged and struggled for warm life,And waged with cold and death unequal strife,Dined on raw cabbages, devoured raw beef,Gained indigestion, but gained no relief.
One man there was--a waterman by trade,Erst in green coat and plated badge arrayed;Men called him Fish, and rightly him did call--For he could dive and swim, possessing allThe useful attributes of finny birth--Finding the water warmer than the earth,He spent his time in diving; and one dayFound in the river's bottom, where they layHid from the danger of devouring flames,The stakes that Cæsar drove into the Thames!"Ho, ho!" cried he; "I've found a treasure here,Shall warm me snugly till the rolling yearBring's jolly summer." So with might and mainHe tugged them forth and bore them to the plain:--But, now he'd got them, he had still to learnThat wood when wet is difficult to burn.Quick-witted in himself, he well divined,Though cold at heart, some warmth remained behind;And having ranged the timber with much art,He sat and dried it with his broadest part.A long, long week, seven weary nights and days,Drying the expectant pile he careful stays.Thus o'er her nest the mother eagle broods;Or thus the ph[oe]nix of Arabian woodsSits on his aromatic pile, whose fire,Of new life redolent, shall soon aspire.
At length 'twas dry! Now with an eager handTwo flints he seized and fired each rotten brand--Each rotten brand a grateful ardour showed;Forth burst the flame, and on the sky it glowed.High rose the flame; too high, alas! for nowAn ancient woman, on a mountain's brow,Running some worsted through a needle's eye,(What is it not old women will descry?)Found out the fire for Fish that furtive flamed,And forth with scream and shout the fact proclaimed."A fire! A fire! A fire!" the beldam cried;"A fire! A fire!" the village all replied;"A fire! A fire A fire!" was echoed far and wide.
Each babe took up the tale, each ancient sire,Though deaf, and blind, and lame, repeated "Fire!"High, low, rich, poor, good, bad,--all cold the same,--Loud shouted "Fire!" and kindled at the name.First hamlets, villages, assumed the cry;Through burghs and cities then the tidings fly;All traced them back to where they first began;--All bawled out "Fire!" and as they bawled they ran.Now Fish, who selfishly had hoped aloneT' enjoy the fire that he himself had won,Astonished sees the world around him swarm--Millions on millions, eager to get warm!
On, on, they rushed, one on the other prest;And still the crowd behind impelled the rest.All nations, languages, heights, features, hues,That the wide universe could then produce,Running, and jostling, scrambling, tumbling came,Jammed into marmalade around that flame.
Then Fish, indignant, cried with loud command,--A brandished boat-hook in his dauntless hand,"Stand back, my masters! You may all be d----d!The fire's my own, and I will not be bammed!Or since the generous ardour fires your soulTo seek this genial flame, from either pole,With me, its lord, possession to contend,And squeeze me flat my right while I defend--Thus I defy you, caitiffs all, and dareThe bold to follow, and my fate to share!"[21]
Proudly he said, and sprang into the flame:High o'er his head the fiery eddies came;The crowd beheld, and, maddened with the sight,Dashed on the blaze, and perished in the light.The fire was out; but still they onward rushed:--The far extremes the narrow centre pushed,Squeezed, jammed, cast down, one on the other rose.And many a mortal trod on his own nose.Each in his eagerness his fellow mashed:The sun went down--and all the world was quashed!!!
I wish I could as merry beAs when I set out this world to see,Like a boat filled with good companie,On some gay voyage sent.There Youth spread forth the broad white sail,Sure of fair weather and full gale,Confiding life would never fail,Nor time be ever spent.And Fancy whistled for the wind;And if e'en Memory looked behind;'Twas but some friendly sight to find,And gladsome wave her hand;And Hope kept whispering in Youth's ear,To spread more sail and never fear,For the same sky would still be clearUntil they reached the land.Health, too, and Strength tugged at the ear,Mirth mocked the passing billows' roar,And Joy, with goblet running o'er,Drank draughts of deep delight;And Judgment at the helm they set,But Judgment was a child as yet,And lack-a-day! was all unfitTo guide the boat aright.Bubbles did half her thoughts employ,Hope she believed, she played with Joy,And Passion bribed her with a toy,To steer which way he chose.But still they were a merry crew,And laughed at dangers as untrue,Till the dim sky tempestuous grew,And sobbing south winds rose.Then Prudence told them all she feared;But youth awhile his messmates cheeredUntil at length he disappeared,Though none knew how he went.Joy hung his head, and Mirth grew dull,Health faltered, Strength refused to pull,And Memory, with her soft eyes full,Backward her glance still bent.To where, upon the distant sea,Bursting the storm's dark canopy,Light, from a sun none now could see,Still touched the whirling wave.And though Hope, gazing from the bow,Turns oft,--she sees the shore,--to vow,Judgment, grown older now I trow,Is silent, stern, and grave.And though she steers with better skill,And makes her fellows do her will,Fear says, the storm is rising still,And day is almost spent.--Oh, that I could as merry beAs when T set out this world to see,Like a boat filled with good companie,On some gay voyage sent!
I wish I could as merry beAs when I set out this world to see,Like a boat filled with good companie,
On some gay voyage sent.
There Youth spread forth the broad white sail,Sure of fair weather and full gale,Confiding life would never fail,
Nor time be ever spent.
And Fancy whistled for the wind;And if e'en Memory looked behind;'Twas but some friendly sight to find,
And gladsome wave her hand;
And Hope kept whispering in Youth's ear,To spread more sail and never fear,For the same sky would still be clear
Until they reached the land.
Health, too, and Strength tugged at the ear,Mirth mocked the passing billows' roar,And Joy, with goblet running o'er,
Drank draughts of deep delight;
And Judgment at the helm they set,But Judgment was a child as yet,And lack-a-day! was all unfit
To guide the boat aright.
Bubbles did half her thoughts employ,Hope she believed, she played with Joy,And Passion bribed her with a toy,
To steer which way he chose.
But still they were a merry crew,And laughed at dangers as untrue,Till the dim sky tempestuous grew,
And sobbing south winds rose.
Then Prudence told them all she feared;But youth awhile his messmates cheeredUntil at length he disappeared,
Though none knew how he went.
Joy hung his head, and Mirth grew dull,Health faltered, Strength refused to pull,And Memory, with her soft eyes full,
Backward her glance still bent.
To where, upon the distant sea,Bursting the storm's dark canopy,Light, from a sun none now could see,
Still touched the whirling wave.
And though Hope, gazing from the bow,Turns oft,--she sees the shore,--to vow,Judgment, grown older now I trow,
Is silent, stern, and grave.
And though she steers with better skill,And makes her fellows do her will,Fear says, the storm is rising still,
And day is almost spent.--
Oh, that I could as merry beAs when T set out this world to see,Like a boat filled with good companie,
On some gay voyage sent!
For, ah! what is there of inferior birthThat breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth--What wretched creature, of what wretched kind,Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?--Pope's Homer.
For, ah! what is there of inferior birthThat breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth--What wretched creature, of what wretched kind,Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?--Pope's Homer.
In such amusements as I have described passed our evenings at Pau; but the days were generally spent in roaming through the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood. At length, however, the time for drinking the mineral waters arrived, and we prepared to migrate with the rest. There were two objects however in Pau which we had not yet seen.
Hitherto, we had lingered away our time without either visiting the prison or the castle; and, as we were about to set out the next day for Cauterets, we proceeded to the old château, though the evening was beginning to close in. We were well aware that there was little to be seen, but to have quitted the capital of Bearn without seeing the birth-place of Henry IV., would have been a high offence.
I hate prisons--there is something so repulsive in beholding man debarred the first privilege of nature, that, however necessary it may be to the safety of society, it makes me sick at heart to see it. No man, I have been told, felt this so much as Howard, and it was this that first caused him to turn the energies of his truly great mind towards alleviating the concomitant misery of those who were already wretched enough.
However, my object was to give my mind as much occupation of every kind as I could, and we accordingly proceeded to the prison, where the first sight that presented itself, was that of a maniac in a frightful state of insanity. We paused for a moment to inquire if nothing could be done for the unhappy being; and then as we were crossing the court, the voice of one of the prisoners singing in the tower above, caught our ear, and we stopped again to listen. The air and the voice were both peculiarly beautiful, and I easily obtained the words, which I now subjoin. I will not attempt to describe the effect of the sight of the maniac and the sound of that song.
PRISONER'S SONG.1.I know not, and I care not, howThe hours may pass me by,Though each may leave upon my browA furrow, as they fly;2.What matters it? Each still shall takeOne link from off the chain,Which binds me to this bitter stakeOf sorrow and of pain.3.Time, like a rower, plies his oar,And all his strokes are hours;Impelling to a better shoreOf sunshine and of flowers.4.I've tasted all that life can giveOf pleasure and of pain;And is it living, thus to liveWhen joys no more remain?5.I've tasted women's ardent lip,Glowing with Love's first fire;And yet been forc'd the cup to sipOf coldness or of ire.6.All nature has had charms for me,The sunshine and the shade;The soaring lark, the roving bee,The mountain and the glade.7.And I have been the tempest's child,And known the lightning's touch;Mark'd midst the mad storm's warfare wildToo little or too much.8.And I have seen my own blood flowRed, in the deadly strife;And others I have taught to knowHow dear they held to life.9.I've play'd with being as a toy,Till things have lost their form,Till danger has become a joy,And joy become a storm.10.I've lov'd as man has seldom lov'd,So deeply, purely, well;I've prov'd what man has seldom prov'd,Since first from bliss he fell.11.Mine eye again can never seeWhat once mine eye has seen;This world to me can never beWhat once this world has been.12.Speed on! O speed! my bark, speed on--Quick o'er life's troubled waves;The one that comes, the one that's gone,What lies beneath them? Graves.
1.
I know not, and I care not, how
The hours may pass me by,
Though each may leave upon my brow
A furrow, as they fly;
2.
What matters it? Each still shall take
One link from off the chain,
Which binds me to this bitter stake
Of sorrow and of pain.
3.
Time, like a rower, plies his oar,
And all his strokes are hours;
Impelling to a better shore
Of sunshine and of flowers.
4.
I've tasted all that life can give
Of pleasure and of pain;
And is it living, thus to live
When joys no more remain?
5.
I've tasted women's ardent lip,
Glowing with Love's first fire;
And yet been forc'd the cup to sip
Of coldness or of ire.
6.
All nature has had charms for me,
The sunshine and the shade;
The soaring lark, the roving bee,
The mountain and the glade.
7.
And I have been the tempest's child,
And known the lightning's touch;
Mark'd midst the mad storm's warfare wild
Too little or too much.
8.
And I have seen my own blood flow
Red, in the deadly strife;
And others I have taught to know
How dear they held to life.
9.
I've play'd with being as a toy,
Till things have lost their form,
Till danger has become a joy,
And joy become a storm.
10.
I've lov'd as man has seldom lov'd,
So deeply, purely, well;
I've prov'd what man has seldom prov'd,
Since first from bliss he fell.
11.
Mine eye again can never see
What once mine eye has seen;
This world to me can never be
What once this world has been.
12.
Speed on! O speed! my bark, speed on--
Quick o'er life's troubled waves;
The one that comes, the one that's gone,
What lies beneath them? Graves.
The first apartment we were show into contained the prisoners sentenced to detention for longer or shorter periods, according to their crimes. They were all working hard, and, seemingly, cheerfully; and the jailer told me, that a great object of those to whom the government of the prison was committed was to give the prisoners habits of industry, and to prevent them, by all means, from becoming utterly debased; so that, when they again receive their liberty, they may become better members of society instead of worse. Their principal occupation seemed in straw-work; and as this is an easy and light task, and fills up the moments which would otherwise prove tedious in confinement, they all appeared rather glad of it than otherwise. A portion of the emolument proceeding from their labour goes towards defraying the expenses of the prison, and a portion is reserved for the prisoner, in order that, when he goes back into the world, he may not again be driven to crime by poverty.
We next visited the apartment where were confined prisoners who had incurred severer punishment. They were generally persons condemned to the galleys for seven years or for life, and were waiting here till their sentence should be put in execution. When we entered there were several groups playing at piquet for sums of one or two sous. Amongst others was a lawyer, who had been sentenced to the galleys for forgery. I have generally remarked that those condemned for any serious crime have a heavy stupid expression of countenance and dull unmeaning eye; but this man was an exception. In his face there was plenty of keen, piercing cunning, with a touch of sarcastic bitterness, which showed itself also in his speech. He spoke to us for some time, and, like all villains, tried to darken his view of mankind till it became of the same hue as his own character. He took it for granted that all men were rascals, but only that he had been an unfortunate one.
From hence we went to the dungeons, where still deeper crimes awaited their reward. A damp obscure stone passage led to the cell where two murderers were confined expecting their execution. They were Spaniards, and had left nothing in the perpetration of their crime to excite anything but horror. Their victim had been one of their countrymen, who, having fled from the troubles and dangers which distressed his native land, had contrived to carry away a small sum to support him in his exile; and this proved the cause of their guilt and of his death. The evidence against them had left not a doubt of the facts, but yet they were suffered to linger on from week to week, not knowing which day would be their last, while (as we were told,) the Spanish ambassador pleaded their cause at Paris, and endeavoured to procure a commutation of their punishment, on account of their having shown themselvesstaunch royalists. They seemed to be heavily and almost cruelly chained, but nevertheless to mind it but little, smoking their cigars, and counting their rosaries with greatsang froid.
I spoke a few words to them in Spanish concerning their situation, to which they replied without any show of feeling, appearing very cheerful, quite careless about dying, and not particularly contrite.
Although there be no doubt that the long habit of indulging in any passion gives a peculiar expression to the countenance and sometimes even a cast to the features, I put little faith in physiognomy, in the general acceptation of the word; but I could not help remarking, that the heads of these two men were precisely similar to those of all murderers whom I have seen, almost spherical in shape, with the forehead low but rather protuberant, and the eye dull and heavy.
We went next to see the room in the castle where Jeanne d'Albret brought forth the heroic Henry IV., heard the story of her singing even in the pains of child-birth in order that the infant might prove a strong and resolute man, and were gratified with a sight of the tortoise-shell in which he was cradled--though, be it remarked that one tortoise-shell cradle was burnt during the revolution. Afterwards, however, the governor of the castle produced the present one as genuine, asserting that the one demolished was not that which had served the monarch for a cradle. Thus that which is shown at present has acquired the additional interest of uncertainty, notwithstanding which, the Bourbon family have surrounded it with gilt helmets and spears, tinsel and tawdry, which might well suit a toy-shop but not the birth-place of Henri Quatre.
As we were to set out very early the next morning for the mountains, we proposed to rest early, but did not fulfil that purpose. On the contrary, we sat late talking over all the pleasant moments which we had snatched from fate, in the little capital of Bearn, and our lucubrations ended in an
Adieu, perchance for but a day,Perchance for many a year;While life's bright part shall slip away,And Hope shall yield to Memory,With many a tear.But if imagination too,Be not amongst things been,Her magic power shall call to view,The kind, the good, that brightened you,Re-peopling the scene.Adieu, sweet congress of fair things,Stream, mountain, valley, plain;And e'en when Time man's winter brings,Remembrance still shall lend me wings,To visit thee again.
Adieu, perchance for but a day,
Perchance for many a year;
While life's bright part shall slip away,And Hope shall yield to Memory,
With many a tear.
But if imagination too,
Be not amongst things been,
Her magic power shall call to view,The kind, the good, that brightened you,
Re-peopling the scene.
Adieu, sweet congress of fair things,
Stream, mountain, valley, plain;
And e'en when Time man's winter brings,Remembrance still shall lend me wings,
To visit thee again.
Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.
I believe it to be all the same, after all, whether a man travels or not; he's a stupid, cross-grained, drudging animal, not half so good as the horse that drags him on his road. Blest with reason, it serves him less than the instinct of the brute; with experience constantly flogging him for his errors, he never corrects them; half of his time he forgets what is right, and when he remembers it he never puts it in practice.
Such were my reflections on finding--what? that John had forgotten that most indispensable requisite to an Englishman's comfort, the tea-kettle, at the instant we were leaving Pau. He had done so at every place where he had stopped on the road, and now he had to bring it down stairs, to tie it on the carriage, to cover it with the oil-skin, and, in short, to detain the whole party, postilion, and horses, and all, for at least five minutes.
Now, being very well aware that when I begin to moralize on trifles I am never in the best humour in the world, and judging by this infallible sign that I was in an ill temper, from having got up at four o'clock in the morning, I placed myself deep in the corner of the carriage, and pretended to fall asleep, for fear I should quarrel with my companion, which, Heaven knows, would have been no easy matter. However, as the carriage drove out of Pau, and began rolling along, in a dull gray morning, over smooth ground, it became no longer a pretence, and I began seriously to make reparation for my morning's idleness--I mean for not having slept; as I consider, not to sleep at the moments properly appropriated for it, just as great a piece of idleness as any other misuse that man makes of his time.
I finished my nap as we crossed a bridge over the Gave not very far from Lastelle. My friend who, it appears, had occupied himself much like myself, woke up at the same time, and looking back to Pau, which we saw diminishing afar, I am sure we both, thought of the friends we left there, of the kindness they had shown to wandering strangers, and the peaceful hours we had known in their society. I may never more see them again; if so, God bless them, for I am sure they deserve it.
It was scarcely past midday when we arrived at Lourdes. The approach is not unlike some of Mrs. Radcliffe's descriptions; the hills beginning to rise high and craggy on each side, with a wild torrent rushing in a valley below; and beyond, the Castle of Lourdes, starting up on a high rock in the midst, sometimes seen and sometimes hidden, as the road winds along the side of the mountain. It was market-day at Lourdes, and a curious scene, the whole place being impassable for the crowd of the Bearnais, with their Calmuck countenances and broad berrets, and the Bearnaises, each covered with a red or white triangular hood, edged with a black border, hiding the greater part of the head, and falling low down on the shoulders.
I have before mentioned the sightseeing propensities of my companion and myself; and though I had abjured grottos, as the most unsatisfactory of all things, the first of our movements was towards the "Spelunque(or cavern,)du Loup." It lies some way on the other side of the river, and, on arriving, we found the entrance so low that we were obliged to go in, not upon our hands and knees, but upon our faces. The guide went first, and then my friend, who is six feet three, so that I thought he would never have done--there was such a quantity of him.
The cave widens rapidly after the entrance, elevating itself to a great height, and resembling in many places the niches and aisles of a Gothic cathedral. In the end it is terminated by a deep well, into which the guide threw some pieces of stone, which continued echoing, as they fell, for several minutes. But the most curious thing we observed was the soil near the mouth of the grotto, which appeared entirely formed from the fragments of insects. We examined several portions of this black sort of earth and uniformly found it composed of parts of the legs, wings, and corslets, of what had apparently been small beetles.
After the cavern, we went, in a different direction, to visit a lake said to occupy the spot where a mountain once stood, which suddenly disappeared at the time of an earthquake. The only beauty of the place was the reflection of the hills around in the deep smooth water, and one might almost fancy they saw the ghost of the vanished mountain haunting its old abode and looking up from the bottom of the lake.
The whole of the country round is strewed with old towers and castles, which have been erected at different periods; some to check the descent of the mountaineers, who used here, as well as in Scotland, to exact a kind of black mail from the inhabitants of the low lands; some to guard against the Moors, who, during their residence in Spain, used frequently to invade and ravage the country; and some are even attributed to the Romans, but I should think, from their appearance, with little foundation for the supposition.
However, like all mountaineers, the people are full of old legends; and ancient superstitions, driven from the more civilized globe, seem to have refuged themselves in the obscurity of these unfrequented hills.
They tell a droll story of the lord of one of the old castles of which I have just spoken, not at all unlike "Alonzo the Brave and the fair Imogine," but still more like the story of the noble Morringer.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,He met wi' auld Nick, wha said, how do ye fen,And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint.And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.Kellyburn Braes.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,
Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,
He met wi' auld Nick, wha said, how do ye fen,
And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.
I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,
Hey and the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint.
And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime.
Kellyburn Braes.
Is those good old times so much to be regretted, when every noble had the right and privilege of administering justice or injustice on his own vassals, when hanging was in the hands of the gentry, and law in the mouth of every feudal chief--when the crumbling towers, where the moping owl now sits in melancholy solitude, were peopled with the gay, and the bright, and the fair--when the courts where the lonely wind whistles as in mockery of their emptiness, resounded to the clang of arms and the voice of the trumpet--when feast and revel filled those halls, where now sits nothing but silence and desolation;--the bravest of the brave was the Lord of the Château de B----, and the fairest of the fair was his lady. Beauty and wit were her's, and courage and wealth were his, and all thought the Marquis the happiest of mortals, except himself. How it came about, and why, does not appear, but a violent hatred took place between the Marquis and a neighbouring Baron, but histories do not mention that the Marchioness participated in her husband's dislike.
Some said, that the Marquis was jealous, and called him "poor man!" but as if to give them all the lie, and prove that he loved his wife dearly and suspected her not at all, he came to a sudden resolution to call together his vassals and retainers and join the crusade, for it was just about this time that Peter the Hermit went through Europe like a mad dog, infecting everybody with a desire to bite the Saracens. Every wise man makes a will, and the Marquis wisely calculating that a man who goes to cut other folk's throats, may find some one by the way to cut his own, caused to be made and delivered his last will and testament, leaving all his goods and effects, real and personal, to his dearly beloved wife in case of his death; and further adding a proviso, that if he did not return or send a messenger announcing his existence within seven years, she might look upon him as dead to all intents and purposes, and marry again to her heart's content: but he made it a private request, that she would never espouse the obnoxious Baron, which she promised faithfully, not to do.
Now when the will was made as above stated by the Marquis's chaplain, who could read and write, the Marquis, who could not, made a cross at the bottom and stamped the wax with the pommel of his sword, and the Marchioness kissed her lord and wept bitterly to think of his dying at all.
At length the dreaded day of departure came. The vassals and retainers marched out of the castle in gallant array, and the Marquis's page told him that his charger was prepared, whereupon the Marchioness fainted--dead as a stone. The Marquis waited till she had recovered, and then snatched himself away and departed, while the Marchioness, with flowing tears and streaming hair, stood in the highest tower watching the horsemen till the top of the last spear was hid behind the mountain, and then she came down and said to the servant, "At home to nobody but the Baron."
* * * * *
In the mean time the Marquis joined the crusaders, arrived safely in the Holy Land, and for some time performed prodigies of valour; till at length one of these same prodigies conducted him into a Saracen prison, where he lingered, like good King Lusignan, living principally upon roasted chestnuts and mare's milk, for there were no cows in Jerusalem. His fortitude would have melted a heart of stone, but as it did not melt the stones of the prison, it served him but little, although being of an ingenious turn, he used occasionally to carve figures on little sticks, and Make whistles out of a marrowbone when he could get one.
In these dignified employments had the Marquis expended many years, and memory, who impudently keeps throwing in our teeth all that is disagreeable, could not forbear telling him, that the sun had seven times run his course since last he left his mountain castle in the Pyrenees; and on this was he meditating, when suddenly up started a gentleman, whom he instantly perceived to be the devil.
There is no one more ill-used, in my opinion, than the above-named personage. However broad his back may be, surely all the sins are laid to his charge, and of which he is as innocent as the child unborn, are well sufficient to bow it. The poor devil! O luxury, pride, vain glory, avarice, anger, hatred, revenge, and all uncharitableness; what, what would ye do if ye had not his shoulders to cast your burden upon?O vanitas vanitatis!But as I was saying, the devil walked into the dungeon, whereupon the crusader crossed himself. "My dear sir," said his black majesty, "don't disturb yourself; such old friends ought not to stand upon ceremonies."
The crusader made him a low bow, saying, that the devil really had the advantage of him, and that he was not aware of having the pleasure of his acquaintance.
"Not personally, indeed," said the devil, "but you have done me so much service one way or another, that I owe you some return. You stare, my dear sir, but you have sent to my dominions, with your own hand, three-and-thirty Saracens, two renegades, and an atheist. Between you and me, it is all the same to me," said the devil, "of what religion they are, so that I have them safe; and now I have got to give you a piece of news and make you a proposal." And then the devil--whether it was that he does not patronize love of any kind, or whether he thought that the Marchioness had had enough of it to answer his purpose, or what, I don't know, but he told the Marquis, that as he had neither returned nor sent during seven years, his wife was that very night going to give her hand to the obnoxious baron, and he farther offered to carry him back instantly to his own château in the Pyrenees, if they could agree upon the terms.
This tickled the Marquis's fancy, but the devil was rather exorbitant, demanding the knight's heart and soul. The crusader replied, that his heart was his king's and his soul was his God's, and so that would not do. The devil then asked for all his wealth at his death, and to be instantly installed his chaplain, if he could prove that he had taken orders. The Marquis answered, "L'habit ne fait pas le moine." The devil then made several other proposals, but the knight was a stickler, and did not think a bad wife worth much. So at last the devil took off his hat saying, "What your honour pleases," leaving it to his own generosity; and the crusader, who had learnt to be a screw, said he would only give him the remains of his supper.
"You are a hard man," said the devil, "but never mind! jump up!"--and down he bent his back for the Marquis to mount. The knight sprang into the seat, stuck his knees into the devil's sides, and away they went like a flash of lightning till they arrived at the château, where they put the good people in no small confusion. The knight walked first and the devil came after, and all the servants ran into the banquet-hall crying, "The Marquis! the Marquis!" Up jumped the Baron, up jumped the Marchioness, up jumped the guests.
The Marquis's movements were rather rapid; he walked into the hall, claimed his wife, kicked the Baron, wished the company good night, overturned the supper table and spoilt the supper, so that when order was restored, and he called for something to eat, there was nothing to be had but a dozen of nuts and a bottle of wine. The knight cracked the nuts, but, according to his bargain, took care to throw the shells over his shoulder for the devil, and when he had drank his wine, threw the bottle behind him too: but the devil was too old a bird to be caught with chaff, and had been gone half an hour before. So the crusader pulled off his boots and went to bed.