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.