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 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!"

And if men passed over this as a youthful distemper, rather often
recurring, what would they make of his saying that "Fame after death is
better than the top of fashion in life"? Would they not accuse him of
entertaining them, as he did his companion and half-sweetheart of the
dingle, Isopel Berners, "with strange