idle thoughts of an idle fellow-第4部分

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And　how　madly　we　did　worship！　　And　how　sweet　it　was　to　worship！　　Ah；　lad；　cherish　love's　young　dream　while　it　lasts！　　You　will　know　too　soon　how　truly　little　Tom　Moore　sang　when　he　said　that　there　was　nothing　half　so　sweet　in　life。　　Even　when　it　brings　misery　it　is　a　wild；　romantic　misery；　all　unlike　the　dull；　worldly　pain　of　after…sorrows。　　When　you　have　lost　herwhen　the　light　is　gone　out　from　your　life　and　the　world　stretches　before　you　a　long；　dark　horror；　even　then　a　half…enchantment　mingles　with　your　despair。

And　who　would　not　risk　its　terrors　to　gain　its　raptures？　　Ah；　what　raptures　they　were！　　The　mere　recollection　thrills　you。　　How　delicious　it　was　to　tell　her　that　you　loved　her；　that　you　lived　for　her；　that　you　would　die　for　her！　　How　you　did　rave；　to　be　sure；　what　floods　of　extravagant　nonsense　you　poured　forth；　and　oh；　how　cruel　it　was　of　her　to　pretend　not　to　believe　you！　　In　what　awe　you　stood　of　her！　　How　miserable　you　were　when　you　had　offended　her！　　And　yet；　how　pleasant　to　be　bullied　by　her　and　to　sue　for　pardon　without　having　the　slightest　notion　of　what　your　fault　was！　　How　dark　the　world　was　when　she　snubbed　you；　as　she　often　did；　the　little　rogue；　just　to　see　you　look　wretched；　how　sunny　when　she　smiled！　　　How　jealous　you　were　of　every　one　about　her！　　How　you　hated　every　man　she　shook　hands　with；　every　woman　she　kissedthe　maid　that　did　her　hair；　the　boy　that　cleaned　her　shoes；　the　dog　she　nursedthough　you　had　to　be　respectful　to　the　last…named！　　How　you　looked　forward　to　seeing　her；　how　stupid　you　were　when　you　did　see　her；　staring　at　her　without　saying　a　word！　How　impossible　it　was　for　you　to　go　out　at　any　time　of　the　day　or　night　without　finding　yourself　eventually　opposite　her　windows！　　You　hadn't　pluck　enough　to　go　in；　but　you　hung　about　the　corner　and　gazed　at　the　outside。　　Oh；　if　the　house　had　only　caught　fireit　was　insured；　so　it　wouldn't　have　matteredand　you　could　have　rushed　in　and　saved　her　at　the　risk　of　your　life；　and　have　been　terribly　burned　and　injured！　　Anything　to　serve　her。　　Even　in　little　things　that　was　so　sweet。　　How　you　would　watch　her；　spaniel…like；　to　anticipate　her　slightest　wish！　　How　proud　you　were　to　do　her　bidding！　　How　delightful　it　was　to　be　ordered　about　by　her！　　To　devote　your　whole　life　to　her　and　to　never　think　of　yourself　seemed　such　a　simple　thing。　　You　would　go　without　a　holiday　to　lay　a　humble　offering　at　her　shrine；　and　felt　more　than　repaid　if　she　only　deigned　to　accept　it。　　How　precious　to　you　was　everything　that　she　had　hallowed　by　her　touchher　little　glove；　the　ribbon　she　had　worn；　the　rose　that　had　nestled　in　her　hair　and　whose　withered　leaves　still　mark　the　poems　you　never　care　to　look　at　now。

And　oh；　how　beautiful　she　was；　how　wondrous　beautiful！　　It　was　as　some　angel　entering　the　room；　and　all　else　became　plain　and　earthly。　　She　was　too　sacred　to　be　touched。　　It　seemed　almost　presumption　to　gaze　at　her。　　You　would　as　soon　have　thought　of　kissing　her　as　of　singing　comic　songs　in　a　cathedral。　　It　was　desecration　enough　to　kneel　and　timidly　raise　the　gracious　little　hand　to　your　lips。

Ah；　those　foolish　days；　those　foolish　days　when　we　were　unselfish　and　pure…minded；　those　foolish　days　when　our　simple　hearts　were　full　of　truth；　and　faith；　and　reverence！　　Ah；　those　foolish　days　of　noble　longings　and　of　noble　strivings！　　And　oh；　these　wise；　clever　days　when　we　know　that　money　is　the　only　prize　worth　striving　for；　when　we　believe　in　nothing　else　but　meanness　and　lies；　when　we　care　for　no　living　creature　but　ourselves！



ON　BEING　IN　THE　BLUES。

I　can　enjoy　feeling　melancholy；　and　there　is　a　good　deal　of　satisfaction　about　being　thoroughly　miserable；　but　nobody　likes　a　fit　of　the　blues。　　Nevertheless；　everybody　has　them；　notwithstanding　which；　nobody　can　tell　why。　　There　is　no　accounting　for　them。　　You　are　just　as　likely　to　have　one　on　the　day　after　you　have　come　into　a　large　fortune　as　on　the　day　after　you　have　left　your　new　silk　umbrella　in　the　train。　　Its　effect　upon　you　is　somewhat　similar　to　what　would　probably　be　produced　by　a　combined　attack　of　toothache；　indigestion；　and　cold　in　the　head。　　You　become　stupid；　restless；　and　irritable；　rude　to　strangers　and　dangerous　toward　your　friends；　clumsy；　maudlin；　and　quarrelsome；　a　nuisance　to　yourself　and　everybody　about　you。

While　it　is　on　you　can　do　nothing　and　think　of　nothing；　though　feeling　at　the　time　bound　to　do　something。　　You　can't　sit　still　so　put　on　your　hat　and　go　for　a　walk；　but　before　you　get　to　the　corner　of　the　street　you　wish　you　hadn't　come　out　and　you　turn　back。　　You　open　a　book　and　try　to　read；　but　you　find　Shakespeare　trite　and　commonplace；　Dickens　is　dull　and　prosy；　Thackeray　a　bore；　and　Carlyle　too　sentimental。　　You　throw　the　book　aside　and　call　the　author　names。　　Then　you　〃shoo〃　the　cat　out　of　the　room　and　kick　the　door　to　after　her。　　You　think　you　will　write　your　letters；　but　after　sticking　at　〃Dearest　Auntie：　I　find　I　have　five　minutes　to　spare；　and　so　hasten　to　write　to　you；〃　for　a　quarter　of　an　hour；　without　being　able　to　think　of　another　sentence；　you　tumble　the　paper　into　the　desk；　fling　the　wet　pen　down　upon　the　table…cloth；　and　start　up　with　the　resolution　of　going　to　see　the　Thompsons。　　While　pulling　on　your　gloves；　however；　it　occurs　to　you　that　the　Thompsons　are　idiots；　that　they　never　have　supper；　and　that　you　will　be　expected　to　jump　the　baby。　　You　curse　the　Thompsons　and　decide　not　to　go。

By　this　time　you　feel　completely　crushed。　　You　bury　your　face　in　your　hands　and　think　you　would　like　to　die　and　go　to　heaven。　　You　picture　to　yourself　your　own　sick…bed；　with　all　your　friends　and　relations　standing　round　you　weeping。　　You　bless　them　all；　especially　the　young　and　pretty　ones。　　They　will　value　you　when　you　are　gone；　so　you　say　to　yourself；　and　learn　too　late　what　they　have　lost；　and　you　bitterly　contrast　their　presumed　regard　for　you　then　with　their　decided　want　of　veneration　now。

These　reflections　make　you　feel　a　little　more　cheerful；　but　only　for　a　brief　period；　for　the　next　moment　you　think　what　a　fool　you　must　be　to　imagine　for　an　instant　that　anybody　would　be　sorry　at　anything　that　might　happen　to　you。　　Who　would　care　two　straws　（whatever　precise　amount　of　care　two　straws　may　represent）　whether　you　are　blown　up；　or　hung　up；　or　married；　or　drowned？　　Nobody　cares　for　you。　　You　never　have　been　properly　appreciated；　never　met　with　your　due　deserts　in　any　one　particular。　　You　review　the　whole　of　your　past　life；　and　it　is　painfully　apparent　that　you　have　been　ill…used　from　your　cradle。

Half　an　hour's　indulgence　in　these　considerations　works　you　up　into　a　state　of　savage　fury　against　everybody　and　everything；　especially　yourself；　whom　anatomical　reasons　alone　prevent　your　kicking。　Bed…time　at　last　comes；　to　save　you　from　doing　something　rash；　and　you　spring　upstairs；　throw　off　your　clothes；　leaving　them　strewn　all　over　the　room；　blow　out　the　candle；　and　jump　into　bed　as　if　you　had　backed　yourself　for　a　heavy　wager　to　do　the　whole　thing　against　time。　　There　you　toss　and　tumble　about　for　a　couple　of　hours　or　so；　varying　the　monotony　by　occasionally　jerking　the　clothes　off　and　getting　out　and　putting　them　on　again。　　At　length　you　drop　into　an　uneasy　and　fitful　slumber；　have　bad　dreams；　and　wake　up　late　the　next　morning。

At　least；　this　is　all　we　poor　single　men　can　do　under　the　circumstances。　　Married　men　bully　their　wives；　grumble　at　the　dinner；　and　insist　on　the　children's　going　to　bed。　　All　of　which；　creating；　as　it　does；　a　good　deal　of　disturbance　in　the　house；　must　be　a　great　relief　to　the　feelings　of　a　man　in　the　blues；　rows　being　the　only　form　of　amusement　in　which　he　can　take　any　interest。

The　symptoms　of　the　infirmity　are　much　the　same　in　every　case；　but　the　affliction　itself　is　variously　termed。　　The　poet　says　that　〃a　feeling　of　sadness　comes　o'er　him。〃　　'Arry　refers　to　the　heavings　of　his　wayward　heart　by　confiding　to　Jimee　that　he　has　〃got　the　blooming　hump。〃　　Your　sister　doesn't　know　what　is　the　matter　with　her　to…night。　She　feels　out　of　sorts　altogether　and　hopes　nothing　is　going　to　happen。　　The　every…day　young　man　is　〃so　awful　glad　to　meet　you；　old　fellow；〃　for　he　does　〃feel　so　jolly　miserable　this　evening。〃　　As　for　myself；　I　generally　say　that　〃I　have　a　strange；　unsettled　feeling　to…night〃　and　〃think　I'll　go　out。〃

By　the　way；　it　never　does　come　except　in　the　evening。　　In　the　sun…time；　when　the　world　is　bounding　forward　full　of　life；　we　cannot　stay　to　sigh　and　sulk。　　The　roar　of　the　working　day　drowns　the　voices　of　the　elfin　sprites　that　are　ever　singing　their　low…toned　_miserere_　in　our　ears。　　In　the　day　we　are　angry；　disappointed；　or　indignant；　but　never　〃in　the　blues〃　and　never　melancholy。　　When　things　go　wrong　at　ten　o'clock　in　the　morning　weor　rather　youswear　and　knock　the　furniture　about；　but　if　the　misfortune　comes　at　ten　P。M。；　we　read　poetry　or　sit　in　the　dark　and　think　what　a　hollow　world　this　is。

But；　as　a　rule；　it　is　not　trouble　that　makes　us　melancholy。　　The　actuality　is　too　stern　a　thing　for　sentiment。　　We　linger　to　weep　over　a　picture；　but　from　the　original　we　should　quickly　turn　our　eyes　away。　There　is　no　pathos　in　real　misery：　no　luxury　in　real　grief。　　We　do　not　toy　with　sharp　swords　nor　hug　a　gnawing　fox　to　our　breast　for　choice。