 | THREE HOURS WITH TIME. Sporting scenes and sundry sketches |  |
9. THREE HOURS WITH TIME.
It was a sultry afternoon in the month of August. Clara
was not, as I had hoped she would be, in her seat at church.
My disappointment and a hearty dinner made me wish myself
back at home; and I beheld with dismay the Rev. Dr. Spin-text,
so celebrated for his acuteness in drawing distinctions,
and for his ability in expounding mysteries, wipe away the
perspiration with his blue cotton handkerchief, as he repeated
for the third time, in a climacteric of emphasis, a text from
the Apocrypha. A wicked, heathenish languor came over
me; my head was dropping upon the desk in front of me,
when I felt my elbow slightly touched by some person in the
aisle. I turned around, and observed a significant, queer-looking
appearance of youth and age. His face was wrinkled all over;
yet the wrinkles were not the furrows of decay; each one was
full of elasticity and life; and his eye, which was protected
by long grey lashes, exhibited the buoyancy and good humor
of youth. His person was enwrapped in a loose grey cloak,
which effectually prevented a close scrutiny into the figure of
the wearer. I had, however, no time for observation, for the
old man, leaning over the pew door, immediately addressed
me in a low voice, and asked,
“Will you step out with me one moment?”
I was heartily glad to get an excuse for leaving the theopolemic
arena; and hoping that the congregation would think
I was suddenly sent for on important business, I immediately
unbuttoned the door, and followed the old man out of church.
As we proceeded down the aisle, I observed that the doctor
stopped, and the people stared, as if astounded at my irreverence;
and all eyes were turned upon me. To my surprise
not a creature looked at, or seemed even to observe the old
man, who moved along as noiselessly and swiftly as a cloud.
When we had at last fairly got out into the churchyard, and
were alone, my new friend turned to me.
“You have no disposition, I perceive,” said he, with a humorous
yet courteous glance of his eye, “to stay and see that
old screw-driver boring into non-essentials, and destroying
bad instruments in trying to prove worse theories? Come, I
have invited some friends of mine to a symposium with me
to-day. You will be pleased with their acquaintance. You
will go with me? Get on my back?”
This was all said sooner than I can repeat it, and the deed
followed the invitation with infinite rapidity. Quicker than
thought I found myself astride of the old gentleman's shoulders,
steeple of the church. As we began to ascend, my future host
stretched out from underneath me a pair of huge black wings,
with which he made the air to scream, as if severely wounded
by the rapid strokes of their pinions. His old gray cloak
floated off behind us, in the shape of a dark vapor, and was
soon lost in ether. The rushing wind struck off a very genteel
wig, with which his bald head had been protected; and
my new friend, now stripped off his different masks and
coverings, flew, confessed and proven to my astonished eyes,
old father Time. There could be no illusion. There was
his horrid scythe in one hand, and his hour-glass in the other,
and his single gray forelock, floating in the wind; and certainly
no genius nor devil could fly half so fast. Up, up we
flew. What a situation for a poor sinner like me!
My health was not very good; and my friends had lately
been telling me that my days were short, and that my time
was passing fast away; but this was rather faster work than
either my friends or myself expected to see going on. My
whole life, and all the thoughts and feelings of my life, seemed
centered in a single point. I thought of my many insults,
neglects, and abuses of the old gentleman; and horror stupified
me when I remembered that I had several times, tried
even to kill him. “It is all over with me, now!” thought
I: “this autocrat of the world, this ruiner of empires, this
humbler of proud and wicked hearts, is about to take his
swift revenge.” My limbs relaxed, my muscles seemed to
melt, when the old gentleman, turning his head partly round,
spoke in a sharp tone,—as if to chide me for my want of confidence,—and
bade me hold on tighter. I felt re-assured by
his manner.
“You much mistake my character,” said he; “you have
your feelings. I am not revengeful; no man ever suffered
ill from acquaintance with me, unless he abused my gifts.
But I can't talk and fly well at the same time. I will converse
with you more at freedom when we get to our journey's
end. In the mean time carry my hour-glass, for I have got
more than my usual load, and can scarce grasp all.”
So saying, he reached me his glass, and I felt not more comforted
by his words than by the view of sundry black bottles,
nicely wired and waxed, which disclosed themselves to my
eyes in his act of turning. I took courage and a firm seat at
once. If I had been singing the third verse of “Away with
melancholy” in mine own parlor, I could not have felt more
easy and comfortable. Our conversation was momentary and
monosyllabic, until I observed that we were descending over
a sharp ledge of the Rocky Mountains. Here we laid on our
wings, and soared along more leisurely, while old Time looked
about, as if uncertain where to land. Occasionally he
struck with his scythe at some projecting point or eminence,
when instantly the face and surface of the mountain became
changed. A single touch of that magic weapon wrought
wonders as we passed along. A fertile plain would in a moment
occupy the place of a barren ledge of rocks; or a lake
reflect back the clouds and the neighboring scenery, where
just before some bleak Atlas had reared his head. While
hovering about this region we had a very unembarrassed conversation
upon the subject of the future destinies of this part
of the world. The prospects of the Indians—the growth of
the western states—the dissolution of the Union—these, and
other topics of the same character, seemed to be familiar matters
with my companion; and I must say, that upon this occasion
I gained some knowledge of Time's intentions, which
possess. But I need not say, perhaps, that as to my prospective
information thus obtained, my mouth is sealed. At length
we alighted upon a romantic lawn, which nature had made a
garden after her own sweet simple fashion, where wild roses
gave their sweets, and the honeysuckle encircled the untrimmed
althea, receiving and breathing perfume. We directed
our footsteps to a grove of venerable oaks, which spread their
magnificent branches hard by.
“These oaks,” said Time, “mortals would say have defied
my power. But I feel pride in stating that they have been
planted and nurtured and preserved by myself. Here is my
favorite retreat. When sick of the abuses and unkindness
of mankind, here I have often found the wished-for retreat of
the philosopher of nature. How sweet retirement is, Mr.
Cypress.”
I was glad to find that the old gentleman was getting to be
sentimental; for the seclusion and sweetness of the spot had
already made me rather lack-a-dasical. But suddenly checking
himself,
“Here,” said he, “I have invited my friends to meet me,
I must apprise you who they are. You must not expect to
find my equals; I of course, have none. They are my dependent
family connections. Spirits, like me; all alike, and
yet all different; parts of me, yet distinct, and to a certain extent
independent sovereigns; not so old as I am, yet born at
the same time. These are mysteries, I grant you, and you
need not ask to understand them. My friends are the Hours.
Not the sickly nymphs whom the mawkish fancy of the Grecian
poet conjured up. No, my young friend, I know that it
has been abusively said of me, more than once, that I occasionally
am lazy, and borrow speed and swiftness from the
are only the base slanders of my enemies.”
Here the old gentleman spoke with emphatic indignation,
and unconsciously striking his scythe against a huge rock,
upon which we were treading, there sprang up where the
blow was given a pure, bubbling spring of water. I smothered
an ill-restrained exclamation. The old gentleman took no
notice of the matter.
“Pardon my feelings,” he continued, “I am getting old,
and perhaps peevish. My friends are twelve young gentlemen,—I
say young, according to our mode of computation,—
hearty, hard-working, industrious, good fellows, who have
been fellow-laborers with me since I first followed my present
business. You will find them agreeable if you choose to
have them so, or they will be cross and ill-natured, as you see
fit. They partake a great deal of the fashion of the times,
and are not unfrequently a little irregular; but this, I assure
you, arises from nothing but their accommodating disposition.
Within that grotto, which you see upon your right, we sometimes
meet, and talk over matters, leaving some one or more
of the twelve on the watch; and if any thing goes wrong in
our absence, we rectify the error at the next leap year, or—if
that wont answer—we have a new calendar, or new style,
manufactured, to set things right again. But come, let us
go in.”
So saying, we entered a spacious grotto, where I perceived
the company had already begun to assemble. I have read
of the cave in Antipharos; of the heaped up treasures, and
kingly glories of the chambers of the east. I have seen in my
dreams the gorgeous magnificence of the palaces of Arabian
magi, but what, O Time, can compare with the spectacle which
now burst upon me! Here was indeed the museum of ages.
here have each claimed some precious curiosity. The crowns
and sceptres of monarchs, the robes and stoles of orators, the
gowns of philosophers, the cimiters of heroes, were here.
The riches of the world, spiritual as well as physical, here met,
and were apparent to the eye of sense; and I found that
my heart was affected by their contemplation, with the same
emotion—though to an intenser degree—which I have felt
when reading what history has said of them. Here were embalmed
and encased in ethereal adamant the faith and constancy
of suffering martyrs, the tears of oppressed virtue, the
fame of the conqueror, the pangs of the vanquished, the pride
of the usurper, the aspirations of the poet. In fine,—for I cannot
attempt even the heads of a catalogue of the collection,—
here were the essences of all the virtues and vices, passions
and emotions, glories and disgraces, which ever entered into
the hearts of men, or marked their career, embodied and
rendered palpable to vision. I had no opportunity for a close
examination, although my curiosity drew me very powerfully
towards an immense collection of books and manuscripts,
over which was written in golden characters, “Alexandrian
Library.” I could barely make a few reflections, when my
host, taking me by the arm, whispered in my ear, “Here are
treasures which the world accuses me of having destroyed;
bear witness how I am belied.” We had entered so noiselessly
that the Hours did not at first perceive our approach.
They had all arrived except Twelve O'clock, and also except
Four, Five, and Six O'clock, whom Time said he had directed
to stay behind, and wait upon Dr. Spintext and his congregation.
We concealed ourselves behind an ancient statue,
while Time hastily sketched the characters of some of the
guests. There was a strong family likeness between all of
sickle hanging at his back, under his wings, yet all were
dressed differently, and were dissimilar in their conduct.
“That tall, lean, straight young man, standing by himself,”
said Time, “is One O'clock. He is the most unsociable of the
whole family, and feels vain of his being number one. He
has to work in the heat of the day, however, and you observe
his retiring shirt collar and moistened kerchief give proof of
his exertions. I often attribute his apparent melancholy to
fatigue and exposure to the sun. He possesses some singular
and unique qualities, and we are always happy to own him
for one of us. Two O'clock stands a little on his right, with his
back half turned towards us. He is as fat again as One O'clock,
but I assure you not the less active. He eats a great deal, and
yet is always hungry and full of business. He has lately got
into the brokerage profession, and has almost as much to do
with exchanging money and taking up notes as Three O'clock,
whom you see approaching him. I have expostulated
with both of them against pursuing a profession for which
they are certainly not so well qualified as Five, Six, or even
Seven O'clock; but young men now-a-days, you know, will
choose their professions for themselves. Seven O'clock is taking
a seat there at the tomb of Thersites. I'll lay you a wager
now that fellow's got his hour-glass filled with an infusion
of tea, instead of sand. I am afraid, sir, that young man has
acquired an affection for some old maid. He's become scandalous,
and makes remarks upon his absent companions; but
what is most suspicious, he will not drink wine. It will do
your heart good presently to see him fill his glass half full,
and when his health is proposed, sip it with a simper, like
nothing temporal, I assure you. That fine looking fellow,
combing his whiskers, and who looks as though he had just
has many good qualities, sir, and possesses infinite versatility
of talent. He has chosen, it seems, to-night to be tricked out
for a ball, or an opera; and to carry his operations among the
fair sex; not that he cares two-pence for them. By no means;
the girls have laid a great many traps for him, particularly in
the country; but they have found out, at last, that he was
born too early in the evening for them. He is a literary and
political character besides, and many a public meeting for
charitable purposes has been held under his auspices. What
I say of him now, Mr. Cypress, I may say of all of us.
Though each has his own business to attend to, yet we all
attend to each other's; we have to be like lawyers, `omni
laudé cumulate,' a sort of jack-of-all-trades people, learned
in `omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis.' We have all manner
of people to deal with. You will perceive, sir, by examining,
closely, that Master Eight has a pack of cards sticking out of
one pocket, and a camp-meeting hymn book out of the other.
Whether piety or picking pockets employs his next moment
depends mainly upon the character of the mortal he meets.
Nine O'clock, whom you observe figuring about those mirrors,
is nothing more nor less than Master Eight set in motion. He
has not so much starch but more fire and vivacity; but when
he chooses, he is insipid enough.”
Here old Time gave a tremendous yawn.
“By my hour-glass,” said he, “I never can look at that
cross fellow with two heavy eyes, without getting sleepy.”
I directed my gaze to the person who gave cause to this
exclamation, and perceived a sleepy looking old fellow with a
book in his hand, whom I took to be Ten O'clock. But that
yawn had closed the lecture on heads. The whole company
simultaneously started and rushed towards our covert. In the
inquiries by timely gratulations and welcomes.
“My dearest friends,” said the old gentleman, bowing with
the grace and elegance of his most polished manner, “I am
quite delighted to meet you all again. I trust I have not
kept you long in suspense. At least, I hope you have made
yourselves happy. Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance
my friend Mr. Cypress. He is a very respectable mortal
of good family—can get tick wherever he goes, and never
suffers his clock to strike the hours. He has a friendship for
us, gentlemen, and wishes to make the most of us.”
Here I was almost crushed by the embraces of half-a-dozen
of my new associates.
“But come, my friends to business. `Tempus fugit,' is
my motto you know. Be seated. I promised you last new-year's
eve, you remember, to give you a taste of the new importation
of Burgundy. I have secured the boys, and have
them here.”
As he said this we seated ourselves at a long table, and our
host drew forth twelve veritable bottles of rich red Burgundy
—burning red.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will give you my certificate that
these are the true, genuine boys; `insignes pietate viros,' as
Virgil has it. But where did I get them? you ask. Why in
a very good place. The same spot where I picked up my
friend Ascanius here. To make a long story short, the sexton's
back was turned, I caught hold of my forelock, the
bottles were under my arm, I touched Mr. Cypress's elbow,
and we were here in no time—fill, gentlemen, fill—bumpers
—your health—I am happy to see you all, at all hours.”
“My dear Tempus,” said Nine O'clock, “your spirits are
as etherial as your wine. That `iron tongue' of yours, as
the piston of the North America.”
“Like causes produce like effects,” said Seven O'clock, in
a low tone. “They both are set a-going by steam.”
“Not of the tea-kettle,” said Nine.
“Nay, now, my friends, this is ill-timed for gentlemanly
hours,” interposed Time. “I hold that it is quite enough
for us to be abused by our enemies; let us not suffer our keen
wits to wage war either upon each other's spiritualities or temporalities.
I, for my part, am sober and pious as the world
goes, yet, although, I have kept pace with the improvements
of different ages, and have accommodated myself to the
different fashions of the day, yet I find that my enemies are
universal. In attempting to please all, I have pleased none.
Mankind, I find, have been determined to find fault with me
ever since I had any thing to do with them. In every age I
have been accused of being worse than ever I had been before,
and of getting worse and worse every day. Is there a
term of obloquy with which I have not been visited? Am I
not reproached by all manner of cunningly devised phrases
of the poets, and by down-right Billingsgate of the mob? Yes,
gentlemen, and it is so with us all. We are, in the same
breath, accounted swift and tedious, long and short, certain
and unknown. `Tempora mutantur,' says the classic; `the
times are out of joint,' cries the poet; `hard times, bad times,
poor times, miserable times,' ejaculates the canaille. What
are we not in the esteem and on the foul tongues of our malicious
slanderers? Yet, we bring them daily good gifts, and
many of them, particularly the political part of the world,
are content to live and be waiters upon us. I sometimes
seriously think of getting rid of the connection; but the
moment that I hint an intention to move into another country,
However, we must `grin and bear it,' my friends, and in the
mean time, here's to better times.”
Here I ventured to remark, on the behalf of some of my
earthly friends, that I thought the judgment of Time, although
in general impartial and controlling, to be in this instance
prejudiced and too indiscriminate. I insisted that many
mortals loved Time, and the things of Time. above all things;
and that for this very affection they suffered martyrdom every
day. I referred to the cases of newly married lovers, and
people about to be hanged; and was proceeding in my vindication
with some zeal, when I was rather abruptly called to
order by two or three of the company for “making a speech
against time” as they called it, and was reminded that I was
not in congress. As I was attempting an explanation, we
were interrupted by the approaching sound of some bacchanalian
ditty outside the grotto.
“Twelve O'clock has not been at his studies to-night I
opine,” said Seven O'clock. “When he arrives it is generally
time for decent people to go home.”
By these characteristic remarks I was prepared to see Master
Twelve, who now staggered into the room, bowing and bending
with the most ludicrous affectation of dignified politeness,
and after divers circumgyrations, took his seat by One O'Clock.
The appearance and conduct of this personage were rather
disordered. His face was pale and haggard—his eye dead
drunk. His clothes were cut after the newest pattern of modern
grace, but exhibited unequivocal symptoms of having
been in a recent fray. A watchman's broken lanthorn supplied
the place of his hour-glass, and the bladeless handle of
his sickle, suspended from his neck, performed in its wearer's
hand the function of a quizzing glass. These shocking evidences
of dissipation drew down upon the new comer the
“more in sorrow than in anger,” and the old gentleman turning
to me, assured me that these aberations from the right road
were only seldom, and always the unfortunate result of unavoidable
circumstances.
“I will show you that young man,” said he, “night after
night dying his locks gray in the smoky fumes of his lamp,
and wasting his pale cheek over his midnight studies to benefit
the world. But hark what he has to say for himself.”
I turned my head towards the culprit guest, and observed
that he was trying to steady himself by leaning upon One and
Two O'clock, who to my surprise now began to put on entirely
different characters.
“Gentlemen,” he at last stammered out, “I ask to be forgiven—I
have been in bad company, and have had no Burgundy
to drink. But you know it's my nature to be always
last—`but better late than never.' Shall I tell you what
glorious mortals have been with me to night? Well, they
were—they were good fellows—they said I was `the very
witching time of night,' and when I was going, they told me
if I could'nt stay I must send my little brother One. Father
Chronos, your blessing—gentlemen, my love to you. I drink
the hours, all the hours, and nothing but the hours.”
Here the crazy spirit observing me, broke through all restraint,
and pitching his body in a straight direction towards
me, extended both arms for an embrace. I hastily sought to
avoid him by getting under the table, but in the attempt I
struck my head with a cruel violence againt its sharp corner.
The blow for a moment stunned me. At last I recovered,
and raising my head, found that I was back in church. The
gloom of evening was gathering about me; the pulpit and
pews were vacant, and the sexton coming up, told me he
wanted to close the doors.
| THREE HOURS WITH TIME. Sporting scenes and sundry sketches | |