University of Virginia Library

The rest that man runs after lures the wretch
From every place where he at rest may be;
So that his legs are ever on the stretch,
And not one moment of repose hath he.
This frenzy is in certain folks so strong
That, when they find the pavement of the city
Where they walk up and down the whole day long
Not rough enough, however hard and gritty,
It is their wont, some once or twice a year,
To slip away, as wild as hawk or merlin,
From all that city folks hold justly dear
In London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, Berlin,
And seek out mountain places nature made
On purpose for uncomfortable walking.
To swell the number of these fools, I paid
A visit to the Alps; which, after stalking
Thro' stony vales, I reach'd, and sought repose
Fatiguingly a whole flea-bitten night,
Outfidgeted in a chill Châlet, close
By a green Glacier. There, before the light
I from bed's antisoporific rose,
And set forth booted on my bootless road;
Wondering which first would wear the other out,
The mountain or the boots that o'er it strode.
But both the granite strong and leather stout
Remain'd intact: and tho' to own it loth,
'Tis I that was worn out between them both.
And, when I reach'd the summit where I thought
To pluck pure rapture, life's high alpine flower,
Faint in the snow I stumbled, and besought
My guide to let me sleep away the hour
'Twas settled we must pass there. He replied
“As Monsieur pleases: but make haste he must.”
“I'll sleep, then, in a hurry, friend,” I sigh'd.
The good man nodded: fish'd a cheese and crust
Out of his wallet; sat down at my side;
And munch'd his breakfast while his watch he kept.
Dim round about me wink'd the prospect wide,
Down sank my heavy eyelids, and I slept.

Or slept not? That's the question. Sleep or waking,
No change of scene across my vision came.
The mountains, which I had erewhile been taking
Such stupid pains to mount, with frozen frame
Still clasp'd the picture which, of Fancy's making
Or Nature's own, was round me, still the same.
The only change (for which I can't account)
Was that my sense of lassitude was gone,
And force was mine to pass from mount to mount,
For miles and miles, still upward and still on.
But what is certainly just now surprising
Is that I felt not then the least surprise
Either at this continual uprising
And journeying onward, just as the bird flies,
Or at the strange means of mine own devising
I found within me (how, I can't surmise)
Of getting, to my mute interrogation,
From all those mountains, marvellous replies.

Much this discovery pleased me as a new one.
And to a modest mamelary peak
Which, tho' an Alp (a genuine and a true one)
Yet, being milder-minded, so to speak,
Of aspect than the rest (who seem'd to view one
With countenances anything but meek)
Inspired me with less awe than all his brothers,
I said as much. “Ay,” musingly quoth he,
“The others speak not.”—“Friend,” said I, “what others?”
“The other mountains,” short he answer'd me.
“What other mountains?” With a touch of mirth
Sublime, he laugh'd “The mountains of the earth.”
“Pray, may I ask, then, of what kind they be,
The mountains I've the honour of addressing?”
“Certainly. Mountains, not of Space, are we,”
He answer'd, “but of Time.”—“Of Time?” confessing
Imprudently mine ignorance, said I,
“This is the first time I have ever heard
That Timehas mountains. Pray what are they made of?”
As tho' he thought this question most absurd,
Mine Alp survey'd me sternly, icily;
Then with a slight shrug I felt sore afraid of
Half loosed an avalanche, and grumbled “Pooh, man!
Are they not peers and kinsmen, Time and Space?
And pray to Time, the peer of Space, do you, man,
Deny his rights, his mountains?”—“Heaven forbid, no!”
I hasten'd to reply. “But, save Your Highness,
I know not (heartily I wish I did know!)
Nor can I” (here I stammer'd, seized with shyness)
“Imagine what they're made of. As for Space,
Why, all the earth affords to Space material
For mountain-making. But that's not the case
With Time, which is” ... “What's Time?” mockmagisterial
Of mien, he interposed in accents quizzical,
“What's Time?”

Now, tho' 'tis true I might have quoted
A dozen learnèd authors metaphysical
Who have ... well, well, not wasted, but devoted
A deal of time to the consideration
Of what Time is,—yet (as with shame I noted)
Ere I had time to bring out one quotation,
Contemptuously looking down on me,
My questioner relieved the hesitation
His question caused me; for “Whate'er Time be,”
He added, answering his own query, “Time,
Whose child am I .... Tho', if I say I am,
Since naked truth's too freezingly sublime
I use, for your sake, a mere verbal sham:
For, truth to say, I'm nothing of the kind,
And Time is nothing, and there's nothing true.
But that's beyond the limits of your mind,
And naturally bounded point of view.
Oh, no offence, man! Certes you'd not find
Such terms offensive, if you only knew
The advantage of those bounds; wherein confined,
Man's reason moves with accuracy thro'
The crowded thoroughfares of sense, that wind
In all directions up and down his brain.
These bounds are paved off pathways which allow
The poor foot-passenger, who else were slain,
Keeping along the narrow tracks they show,
To walk securely, and escape the train
Of steeds and chariots that, fast speeding, flow
And flash all round him, in a roaring tide
Certain to crush him if he once broke thro'
His pavement barriers upon either side.
So, to the point. We here, who people Time,
As bodies people Space,—the Hours are we.
The Past upheaves us. Some of us, sublime,
And others lowly, as no doubt you see.
That's as Time makes us, of what men make him.
I'm but the Hour of a small office clerk,
Whose whole life was so quiet, dim, and prim,
There's nothing in me to invite remark.
The man who made what Time hath made of me
Lived seventy years; full fifty years of which
He served the State. When just about to be
Promoted to a post that was the pitch
Of his life's aim (tho' naught to boast of) he,
Poor devil, died an hour too soon. And thus
The mouse with which I am parturient
Remains within me, evermore, a mus
Nondum obortus. His own fault, I grant.
But since your time is short, make much of us.
Seize the occasion. Ask whate'er you want.
Many a point remains yet to discuss.
Question the higher Hours.”

I took the hint;
And, having scarcely time to question Time,
Address'd a mount whose purple brows did print
The azure air with pines, that strove to climb
From cloud to cloud into the golden tint
That wrapp'd his summit from the rosy prime.
And “I,” said he, “am, in a lover's life
The longest Hour. For ten impatient years
He, with relentless fortune, lived at strife.
At length love triumph'd over foes and fears.
And in a wood, where she had sworn to meet him,
The coming of his mistress did he wait,
While every rustling leaf conspired to cheat him,
Mocking her steps. She came—an hour too late.
And, in that hour, such doubts and such despairs
Convulsed his amorous imagination
That I became volcanic unawares,
And choking with internal conflagration,
As you perceive.”

But I, the truth to say,
Perceived not even the slightest indication
Of fires internal in that mountain grey.
Tho', after somewhat closer contemplation,
I spied, 'tis true, a bare patch on his pate,
Which some long empty crater might have been;
But I believe 'twas only baldness.

Straight
I turn'd me towards a giant glacier, green
With hideous glooms. “What art thou?” I exclaim'd.
“I,” sigh'd the icy Horror, and his breath
Froze the blood in me when his name he named,
“Am the Last Hour of one condemn'd to death
For having murder'd life. Look at me close.
Throughout the Hour I am, one after one,
All the lost moments of that man's life rose
Up to the surface of his soul. Deeds done,
Days undone, wild desires, and wicked wishes,
Pure joys defiled, and faded memories fond.
One after one they rose up like dead fishes
To the sick surface of a poison'd pond.
He, in this Hour a hundred times eternal,
A child once more, the games of childhood play'd;
Felt on his brow the kiss of lips maternal;
A father's counsels heard and disobey'd;
Far, far away, by flowery paths infernal,
From innocence, repose, and virtue stray'd;
Felt in his breast love's primal passion burning,
The pang of jealousy's envenom'd dart,
The shock of faith betray'd, the bitter turning
Of love to hate, the ravage of the heart,
Despair, debauchery, destruction, crime,
Conscience, and memory—the soul's last cry!
Behold me. All the emptiness of Time,
And all the wretchedness of Life, am I!”

Smitten with fear, I fled. Nor dared I deem
My soul in safety till I 'scaped the sight
Of that atrocious solitude. My dream
Meanwhile pursued me till I reach'd a height
Surpassing all the others. 'Twas so high
That I perceived below me, far below,
The tallest Alps no bigger to mine eye
Than grains of salt. Naught breathed between the brow
Of this stupendous berg and the bare sky.
Oh never yet with such a load of snow
Was earth encumber'd! “Here, at last,” said I,
“Must be the Chimborazo, nothing less,
Of human thought. For surely, surely, he
Who raised to such a height the heaviness
Of this all-else-surpassing pile must be
Earth's master-mind. Time meets eternity,
Stretch'd to this altitude.” Then loud I cried
“O Atlas, Atlas! tell me, who created
Thy giant form?” Long while no voice replied,
And in the silence of the waste I waited
Wondering, what bard had built this mighty epos:
At length, a plaintive, sleepy whisper sigh'd
“I am the weariest Hour yet known to fate,
Pass'd by a schoolboy, in midsummer tide,
Condemn'd, for misdemeanours, to translate
A dozen chapters of Cornelius Nepos.”

Soon as that voice I heard, I seem'd to see
And feel myself transform'd—evaporated,
Then again frozen—and, at last, to be
That mountain in wide azure isolated.
Or, rather, seem'd that mountain part of me.
For I remember'd that my life had dated
Just such an hour. My soul became one yawn.
My lassitude return'd. Again I stumbled
And sank down, just where I had sunk at dawn,
As faintly “Alcibiades,” I mumbled,
“Cliniæ filius, Atheniensis”...

“Come, wake, sir! Time's up, and we've miles to make yet.”
My guide's voice thus recall'd me to my senses.
I rose, and rubb'd mine eyes; and, scarce awake yet,
Look'd round—and recognised them every one:
The amorous and agèd Don-Juanic
Volcano, with his bald head in the sun,
Proud of his long-quench'd spritely spurts volcanic;
The mamelon in labour with its mouse;
The convict's frozen conscience; that titanic
Alp-upon-alp of taskwork tyrannous;
At whose sight, I sprang forward with a thrill
Of anguish, trying vainly to complete
My chapter of Cornelius Nepos still.
The guide, in front, cried “Eh sir, mind your feet!
Nor look down yonder till we've turn'd the hill.
The tug's to come yet.” In his winding-sheet
The convict glared upon me, grim and chill.
“How call you yonder glacier, my good man, eh?”
“Sir,” said the guide, “we call it Le Condamné.
Mind where you step now.”—“Yes,” I murmur'd, “yes,
Atheniensis Alcibiades”...