of man or books, he took in his little companion. "Often," said he, "when reason was nearly dethroned, and hope sunk into despair, this little animal would come as a special messenger sent by Providence to recall my senses; and - would you believe it? - I have laughed at  his antic miniature comedies, and talked to him for hours."
Lord Byron makes the prisoner of Chillon thus beautifully express this feeling, and it has in it even more truth than poetry:
The old sailing-master was a great slave to the weed, and it was always gratifying to meet his good-natured  face when his pipe was well filled and protruding full two inches from his contented countenance. Then his happy looks made one feel better; but on those occasions when he could not fill his pipe, both his face and his gait reminded us of a funeral procession, and made us feel sad. Much, however, as he loved his pipe, he did not love it so well but that he would stop, no matter how great his hurry, and let a comrade take a pull at it - half a dozen long, strong pulls. As liberal as he was with his tobacco, still, at times, "the boys," would depredate upon him.
Near the head of his sheepskin, where he slept, there was a crack in the wall, into which, after the lights were blown out, he would carefully transfer his "old