r 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! {112}

CHAPTER XIX.

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 tri