Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and IncidentsBeckford, William
General
Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents
Beckford, William
Beckford, William, 1760-1844
_July_ 28_th_.—I rose early to scent the fragrance of the vegetation,
bathed in a shower which had lately fallen, and looking around me, saw
nothing but crags hanging over crags, and the rocky shores of the stream,
still dark with the shade of the mountains. The small opening in which
Steinach is situated, terminates in a gloomy strait, scarce leaving room
for the road and the torrent, which does not understand being thwarted,
and will force its way, let the pines grow ever so thick, or the rocks be
ever so considerable.
Notwithstanding the forbidding air of this narrow dell, Industry has
contrived to enliven its steeps with habitations, to raise water by means
of a wheel, and to cover the surface of the rocks with soil. By this
means large crops of oats and flax are produced, and most of the huts
have gardens adjoining, which are filled with poppies, seeming to thrive
in this parched situation.
“Urit enim lini campum seges, urit avenæ,
Urunt Lethæo perfusa papavera somno.”
The farther we advanced in the dell, the larger were the plantations
which discovered themselves. For what purpose these gaudy flowers meet
with such encouragement, I had neither time nor language to inquire; the
mountaineers stuttering a gibberish unintelligible even to Germans.
Probably opium is extracted from them; or, perhaps, if you love a
conjecture, Morpheus has transferred his abode from the Cimmerians, and
has perceived a cavern somewhere or other in the recesses of these
endless mountains. Poppies, you know, in poetic travels, always denote
the skirts of his soporific reign, and I don’t remember a region better
calculated for undisturbed repose than the narrow clefts and gullies
which run up amongst these rocks, lost in vapours impervious to the sun,
and moistened by rills and showers, whose continual tricklings inspire a
drowsiness not easily to be resisted. Add to these circumstances the
waving of the pines, with the hum of bees seeking their food in the
crevices, and you will have as sleepy a region as that in which Spenser
and Ariosto have placed the nodding deity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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