Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents — John Shaqi
Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and IncidentsBeckford, William
General
Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents
Beckford, William
Beckford, William, 1760-1844
I was so much struck with the exotic appearance of this sequestered
family, that, crossing a rivulet, I clambered up to their cottage and
begged some refreshment. Immediately there was a contention amongst the
children, who should be the first to oblige me. A little black-eyed girl
succeeded, and brought me an earthen jug full of milk, with crumbled
bread, and a platter of strawberries fresh picked from the bank. I
reclined in the midst of my smiling hosts, and spread my repast on the
turf: never could I be waited upon with more hospitable grace. The only
thing I wanted was language to express my gratitude; and it was this
deficiency which made me quit them so soon. The old man seemed visibly
concerned at my departure; and his children followed me a long way down
the rocks, talking in a dialect which passes all understanding, and
waving their hands to bid me adieu.
I had hardly lost sight of them and regained my carriage before we
entered a forest of pines, to all appearance without bounds, of every age
and figure; some, feathered to the ground with flourishing branches;
others, decayed into shapes like Lapland idols. I can imagine few
situations more dreadful than to be lost at night amidst this confusion
of trunks, hollow winds whistling among the branches, and strewing their
cones below. Even at noonday, I thought we should never have found our
way out.
At last, having descended a long avenue, endless perspectives opening on
either side, we emerged into a valley bounded by swelling hills, divided
into agreeable shady inclosures, where many herds were grazing. A
rivulet flows along the pastures beneath; and after winding through the
village of Boidou, loses itself in a narrow pass amongst the cliffs and
precipices which rise above the cultivated slopes, and frame in this
happy pastoral region. All the plain was in sunshine, the sky blue, and
the heights illuminated, except one rugged peak with spires of rock,
shaped not unlike the views I have seen of Sinai, and wrapped, like that
sacred mount, in clouds and darkness. At the base of this tremendous
mass, lies a neat hamlet called Mittenvald, surrounded by thickets and
banks of verdure, and watered by frequent springs, whose sight and
murmurs were so reviving in the midst of a sultry day, that we could not
think of leaving their vicinity, but remained at Mittenvald the whole
evening.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account