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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! 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
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