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lavengro-第40部分
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coming gave me a strange; bitter draught; a decoction; I believe;
of a bitter root which grows on commons and desolate places: and
the person who gave it me was an ancient female; a kind of
doctress; who had been my nurse in my infancy; and who; hearing of
my state; had come to see me; so I drank the draught; and became a
little better; and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter
root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence。
But how much more quickly does strength desert the human frame than
return to it! I had become convalescent; it is true; but my state
of feebleness was truly pitiable。 I believe it is in that state
that the most remarkable feature of human physiology frequently
exhibits itself。 Oh; how dare I mention the dark feeling of
mysterious dread which comes over the mind; and which the lamp of
reason; though burning bright the while; is unable to dispel! Art
thou; as leeches say; the concomitant of disease … the result of
shattered nerves? Nay; rather the principle of woe itself; the
fountain…head of all sorrow coexistent with man; whose influence he
feels when yet unborn; and whose workings he testifies with his
earliest cries; when; 'drowned in tears;' he first beholds the
light; for; as the sparks fly upward; so is man born to trouble;
and woe doth he bring with him into the world; even thyself; dark
one; terrible one; causeless; unbegotten; without a father。 Oh;
how unfrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide
thee from the poor soul of man; and overcast its sunshine with thy
gloomy shadow。 In the brightest days of prosperity … in the midst
of health and wealth … how sentient is the poor human creature of
thy neighbourhood! how instinctively aware that the flood…gates of
horror may be cast open; and the dark stream engulf him for ever
and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim; 'Better that I
had never been born!' Fool; for thyself thou wast not born; but to
fulfil the inscrutable decrees of thy Creator; and how dost thou
know that this dark principle is not; after all; thy best friend;
that it is not that which tempers the whole mass of thy corruption?
It may be; for what thou knowest; the mother of wisdom; 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 short; the
swifter does it pass; until at last; as we approach the borders of
the grave; it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river
about to precipitate itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the
case; provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant thoughts
and delusions; which alone render life agreeable; and to which even
to the very last we would gladly cling; but what becomes of the
swiftness of time; when the mind sees the vanity of human pursuits?
which is sure to be the case when its fondest; dearest hopes have
been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed
secure。 What becomes from that moment; I repeat; of the shortness
of time? I put not the question to those who have never known that
trial; they are satisfied with themselves and all around them; with
what they have done; and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions
with them to the borders of the grave; ay; to the very moment when
they fall into it; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the
last; and such talk of the shortness of time: through the medium
of that cloud the world has ever been a pleasant world to them;
their only regret is that they are so soon to quit it; but oh; ye
dear deluded hearts; it is not every one who is so fortunate!
To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth。 The
generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth; even to
the least so; offers moments of considerable happiness; for they
are not only disposed but able to enjoy most things within their
reach。 With what trifles at that period are we content; the things
from which in after…life we should turn away in disdain please us
then; for we are in the midst of a golden cloud; and everything
seems decked with a golden hue。 Never during any portion of my
life did time flow on more speedily than during the two or three
years immediately succeeding the period to which we arrived in the
preceding chapter: since then it has flagged often enough;
sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader may
easily judge how it fares at the present; from the circumstance of
my taking pen in hand;
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