WHAT PROFESSION?--NOT FITTED FOR A CHURCHMAN--ERRATIC COURSE--THE BITTER
DRAUGHT--PRINCIPLE OF WOE--THOU WOULDST BE JOYOUS--WHAT AILS YOU?
So the gypsies departed; Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest to London:
as for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, passing my time in
much the same manner as I have already described, principally in
philological pursuits; but I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary
that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my
existence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me birth;
but what profession was I to choose? there being none in the wide world
perhaps for which I was suited; nor was there any one for which I felt
any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within me a lurking
penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enough, as, from
my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed to military sights and sounds;
but this profession was then closed, as I have already hinted, and, as I
believe, it has since continued, to those who, like myself, had no better
claims to urge than the services of a father.
My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high opinion
of the advantages resulting from this career, would have gladly seen me
enter the Church. His desire was, however, considerably abated by one or
two passages of my life, which occurred to his recollection. He
particularly dwelt on the unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the
Irish language, and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted
by nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. 'He will
fly off in a tangent,' said he, 'and, when called upon to exhibit his
skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish; I have observed the
poor lad attentively, and really do not know what to make of him; but I
am afraid he will never make a churchman!' And I have no doubt that my
excellent father was right, both in his premises and the conclusion at
which he arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken
Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine for
those of a Papist gossoon, the card-fancying Murtagh; and of late, though
I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a great measure the study
of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of
the Divine Comedy; in which at one time I took the greatest delight, in
order to become acquainted with the broken speech, and yet more broken
songs, of certain houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair.
Such an erratic course was certainly by no means in consonance with the
sober and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was a
man of excellent common sense, displayed it in not pressing me to adopt a
profession which required qualities of mind which he saw I did not
possess.
Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; but now an event
occurred which had nearly stopped my career, and merged all minor points
of solicitude in anxiety for my life. My strength and appetite suddenly
deserted me, and I began to pine and droop. Some said that I had
overgrown myself, and that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline; I
grew worse and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it
seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the physicians
themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery: as for myself, I made
up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. I was sadly ignorant at that
time, and, when I thought of death, it appeared to me little else than a
pleasant sleep, and I wished for sleep, of which I got but little. It
was well that I did not die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly
ignorant of many important things. I did not die, for somebody 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 co-existent 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!