and of great works: it is the
dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten on his
way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be 'Onward'; if thou
tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! build great works--'tis urging
thee--it is ever nearest the favourites of God--the fool knows little of
it. Thou wouldst be joyous, wouldst thou? then be a fool. What great
work was ever the result of joy, the puny one? Who have been the wise
ones, the mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth? the joyous? I
believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so--certainly the least
sorrowful, but he is still a fool: and whose notes are sweetest, those of
the nightingale, or of the silly lark?

'What ails you, my child?' said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch
under the influence of the dreadful one; 'what ails you? you seem
afraid!'

_Boy_. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me.

_Mother_. But of what? There is no one can harm you; of what are you
apprehensive?

_Boy_. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of,
but afraid I am.

_Mother_. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was
continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was
only an imagination, a phantom of the brain.

_Boy_. No armed man threatens me; and 'tis not a thing like that would
cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and
fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then,
perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and
there the horror lies.

_Mother_. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know
where you are?

_Boy_. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are
beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a
Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid.
I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain--but, but--

And then there was a burst of 'gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai.' Alas,
alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to
sorrow--Onward!

CHAPTER XIX

Agreeable delusions--Youth--A profession--Ab Gwilym--Glorious English
law--There they pass--My dear old master--The deal desk--Language of the
tents--Where is Morfydd?--Go to--only once.

It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that,
in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes