chaotic terrors of the mind as fell on this young man, and made him
cover his eyes from the innocent morning. We all have by our

bedsides the box of the Merchant Abudah, thank God, securely enough
shut; but when a young man sacrifices sleep to labour, let him have

a care, for he is playing with the lock.
CHAPTER III. OLD MORTALITY

I
THERE is a certain graveyard, looked upon on the one side by a

prison, on the other by the windows of a quiet hotel; below, under
a steep cliff, it beholds the traffic of many lines of rail, and

the scream of the engine and the shock of meeting buffers mount to
it all day long. The aisles are lined with the inclosed sepulchres

of families, door beyond door, like houses in a street; and in the
morning the shadow of the prison turrets, and of many tall

memorials, fall upon the graves. There, in the hot fits of youth,
I came to be unhappy. Pleasant incidents are woven with my memory

of the place. I here made friends with a plain old gentleman, a
visitor on sunny mornings, gravelycheerful, who, with one eye upon

the place that awaited him, chirped about his youth like winter
sparrows; a beautiful housemaid of the hotel once, for some days

together, dumbly flirted with me from a window and kept my wild
heart flying; and once - she possibly remembers - the wise Eugenia

followed me to that austere inclosure. Her hair came down, and in
the shelter of the tomb my trembling fingers helped her to repair

the braid. But for the most part I went there solitary and, with
irrevocable emotion, pored on the names of the forgotten. Name

after name, and to each the conventional attributions and the idle
dates: a regiment of the unknown that had been the joy of mothers,

and had thrilled with the illusions of youth, and at last, in the
dim sick-room, wrestled with the pangs of old mortality. In that

whole crew of the silenced there was but one of whom my fancy had
received a picture; and he, with his comely, florid countenance,

bewigged and habited in scarlet, and in his day combining fame and
popularity, stood forth, like a taunt, among that company of

phantom appellations. It was then possible to leave behind us
something more explicit than these severe, monotonous and lying

epitaphs; and the thing left, the memory of a painted picture and
what we call the immortality of a name, was hardly more desirable

than mere oblivion. Even David Hume, as he lay composed beneath
that "circular idea," was fainter than a dream; and when the

housemaid, broom in hand, smiled and beckoned from the open window,
the fame of that bewigged philosopher melted like a raindrop in the

sea.
And yet in soberness I cared as little for the housemaid as for

David Hume. The interests of youth are rarely frank; his passions,
like Noah's dove, come home to roost. The fire, sensibility, and

volume of his own nature, that is all that he has learned to
recognise. The tumultuary and gray tide of life, the empire of

routine, the unrejoicing faces of his elders, fill him with
contemptuous surprise; there also he seems to walk among the tombs

of spirits; and it is only in the course of years, and after much
rubbing with his fellow-men, that he begins by glimpses to see

himself from without and his fellows from within: to know his own
for one among the thousand undenoted countenances of the city

street, and to divine in others the throb of human agony and hope.
In the meantime he will avoid the hospital doors, the pale faces,

the cripple, the sweet whiff of chloroform - for there, on the most
thoughtless, the pains of others are burned home; but he will

continue to walk, in a divine self-pity, the aisles of the
forgotten graveyard. The length of man's life, which is endless to

the brave and busy, is scorned by his ambitious thought. He cannot
bear to have come for so little, and to go again so wholly. He

cannot bear, above all, in that brief scene, to be still idle, and
by way of cure, neglects the little that he has to do. The parable

of the talent is the brief epitome of youth. To believe in
immortality is one thing, but it is first needful to believe in

life. Denunciatory preachers seem not to suspect that they may be
taken gravely and in evil part; that young men may come to think of

time as of a moment, and with the pride of Satan wave back the
inadequate gift. Yet here is a true peril; this it is that sets

them to pace the graveyard alleys and to read, with strange
extremes of pity and derision, the memorials of the dead.

Books were the proper remedy: books of vivid human import, forcing
upon their minds the issues, pleasures, busyness, importance and

immediacy of that life in which they stand; books of smiling or
heroic temper, to excite or to console; books of a large design,

shadowing the complexity of that game of consequences to which we
all sit down, the hanger-back not least. But the average sermon

flees the point, disporting itself in that eternity of which we
know, and need to know, so little; avoiding the bright, crowded,

and momentous fields of life where destiny awaits us. Upon the
average book a writer may be silent; he may set it down to his ill-

hap that when his own youth was in the acrid fermentation, he
should have fallen and fed upon the cheerless fields of Obermann.

Yet to Mr. Arnold, who led him to these pastures, he still bears a
grudge. The day is perhaps not far oft when people will begin to

count MOLL FLANDERS, ay, or THE COUNTRY WIFE, more wholesome and
more pious diet than these guide-books to consistent egoism.

But the most inhuman of boys soon wearies of the inhumanity of
Obermann. And even while I still continued to be a haunter of the

graveyard, I began insensibly to turn my attention to the grave-
diggers, and was weaned out of myself to observe the conduct of

visitors. This was dayspring, indeed, to a lad in such great
darkness. Not that I began to see men, or to try to see them, from

within, nor to learn charity and modesty and justice from the
sight; but still stared at them externally from the prison windows

of my affectation. Once I remember to have observed two working-
women with a baby halting by a grave; there was something

monumental in the grouping, one upright carrying the child, the
other with bowed face crouching by her side. A wreath of

immortelles under a glass dome had thus attracted them; and,
drawing near, I overheard their judgment on that wonder. "Eh! what

extravagance!"
To a youth afflicted with the callosity of sentiment, this quaint

and pregnantsaying appeared merely base.
My acquaintance with grave-diggers, considering its length, was

unremarkable. One, indeed, whom I found plying his spade in the
red evening, high above Allan Water and in the shadow of Dunblane

Cathedral, told me of his acquaintance with the birds that still
attended on his labours; how some would even perch about him,

waiting for their prey; and in a true Sexton's Calendar, how the
species varied with the season of the year. But this was the very

poetry of the profession. The others whom I knew were somewhat
dry. A faint flavour of the gardener hung about them, but

sophisticated and dis-bloomed. They had engagements to keep, not
alone with the deliberateseries of the seasons, but with man-

kind's clocks and hour-long measurement" target="_blank" title="n.测量；尺寸；宽度">measurement of time. And thus there
was no leisure for the relishing pinch, or the hour-long gossip,

foot on spade. They were men wrapped up in their grim business;
they liked well to open long-closed family vaults, blowing in the

key and throwing wide the grating; and they carried in their minds
a calendar of names and dates. It would be "in fifty-twa" that

such a tomb was last opened for "Miss Jemimy." It was thus they
spoke of their past patients -familiarly but not without respect,

like old family servants. Here is indeed a servant, whom we forget
that we possess; who does not wait at the bright table, or run at

the bell's summons, but patiently smokes his pipe beside the
mortuary fire, and in his faithful memory notches the burials of

our race. To suspect Shakespeare in his maturity of a superficial
touch savours of paradox; yet he was surely in error when he

attributed insensibility to the digger of the grave. But perhaps
it is on Hamlet that the charge should lie; or perhaps the English

sexton differs from the Scotch. The "goodman delver," reckoning up
his years of office, might have at least suggested other thoughts.

It is a pride common among sextons. A cabinet-maker does not count