The indolence I love is not that of a lazy fellow who sits withhis arms across in total inaction, and thinks no more than he acts,but that of a child which is incessantly in motion doing nothing,and that of a dotard who wanders from his subject.I love to amusemyself with trifles, by beginning a hundred things and never finishingone of them, by going and coming as I take either into my head, bychanging my project at every instant, by following a fly through allits windings, in wishing to overturn a rock to see what is under it,by undertaking with ardor the work of ten years, and abandoning itwithout regret at the end of ten minutes; finally, in musing frommorning until night without order or coherence, and in following ineverything the caprice of a moment.
Botany, such as I have always considered it, and of which after myown manner I began to become passionately fond, was precisely anidle study, proper to fill up the void of my leisure, withoutleaving room for the delirium of imagination or the weariness of totalinaction.Carelessly wandering in the woods and the country,mechanically gathering here a flower and there a branch; eating mymorsel almost by chance, observing a thousand and a thousand times thesame things, and always with the same interest, because I alwaysforgot them, were to me the means of passing an eternity without aweary moment.However elegant, admirable, and variegated the structureof plants may be, it does not strike an ignorant eye sufficiently tofix the attention.The constant analogy, with, at the same time, theprodigious variety which reigns in their conformation, givespleasure to those only who have already some idea of the vegetablesystem.Others at the sight of these treasures of nature feelnothing more than a stupid and monotonous admiration.They see nothingin detail because they know not for what to look, nor do they perceivethe whole, having no idea of the chain of connection andcombinations which overwhelms with its wonders the mind of theobserver.I was arrived at that happy point of knowledge, and mywant of memory was such as constantly to keep me there, that I knewlittle enough to make the whole new to me, and yet everything that wasnecessary to make me sensible of the beauties of all the parts.Thedifferent soils into which the island, although little, was divided,offered a sufficient variety of plants, for the study and amusement ofmy whole life.I was determined not to leave a blade of grasswithout analyzing it, and I began already to take measures for making,with an immense collection of observations, the Flora Petrinsularis.
I sent for Theresa, who brought with her my books and effects.Weboarded with the receiver of the island.His wife had sisters atNidau, who by turns came to see her, and were company for Theresa.Ihere made the experiment of the agreeable life which I could havewished to continue to the end of my days, and the pleasure I foundin it only served to make me feel to a greater degree the bitternessof that by which it was shortly to be succeeded.
I have ever been passionately fond of water, and the sight of itthrows me into a delightful reverie, although frequently without adeterminate object.
Immediately after I rose from my bed I never failed, if theweather was fine, to run to the terrace to respire the fresh andsalubrious air of the morning, and glide my eye over the horizon ofthe lake, bounded by banks and mountains, delightful to the view.Iknow no homage more worthy of the divinity than the silentadmiration excited by the contemplation of His works, and which is notexternally expressed.I can easily comprehend the reason why theinhabitants of great cities, who see nothing but walls, and streets,have but little faith; but not whence it happens that people in thecountry, and especially such as live in solitude, can possibly bewithout it.How comes it to pass that these do not a hundred times aday elevate their minds in ecstasy to the Author of the wonderswhich strike their senses? For my part, it is especially at rising,wearied by a want of sleep, that long habit inclines me to thiselevation which imposes not the fatigue of thinking.But to thiseffect my eyes must be struck with the ravishing beauties of nature.
In my chamber I pray less frequently, and not so fervently; but at theview of a fine landscape I feel myself moved, but by what I amunable to tell.I have somewhere read of a wise bishop who in avisit to his diocese found an old woman whose only prayer consisted inthe single interjection "Oh!" "Good mother," said he to her, "continueto pray in this manner; your prayer is better than ours." Thisbetter prayer is mine also.
