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Dreams-Part3_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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plagiarism, that's what that child is. You've been wasting your time,

madam. If you can't do anything more original than that, we should



advise you to give up the business altogether."

That was the end of criticism in that strange land.



"Oh! look here, we've had enough of you and your originality," said

the people to the critics, after that. "Why, _you_ are not original,



when one comes to think of it, and your criticisms are not original.

You've all of you been saying exactly the same thing ever since the



time of Solomon. We are going to drown you and have a little peace."

"What, drown a critic!" cried the critics, "never heard of such a



monstrous proceeding in our lives!"

"No, we flatter ourselves it is an original idea," replied the public,



brutally. "You ought to be charmed with it. Out you come!"

So they took the critics out and drowned them, and then passed a short



act, making criticism a capital offense.

After that, the art and literature of the country followed, somewhat,



the methods of the quaint and curious school, but the land,

notwithstanding, was a much more cheerful place to live in, I dreamed.



But I never finished telling you about the dream in which I thought I

left my legs behind me when I went into a certain theater.



I dreamed that the ticket the man gave me for my legs was No. 19, and

I was worried all through the performance for fear No. 61 should get



hold of them, and leave me his instead. Mine are rather a fine pair

of legs, and I am, I confess, a little proud of them--at all events, I



prefer them to anybody else's. Besides, number sixty-one's might be a

skinny pair, and not fit me.



It quite spoiled my evening, fretting about this.

Another extraordinary dream I had was one in which I dreamed that I



was engaged to be married to my Aunt Jane. That was not, however, the

extraordinary part of it; I have often known people to dream things



like that. I knew a man who once dreamed that he was actually married

to his own mother-in-law! He told me that never in his life had he



loved the alarm clock with more deep and gratefultenderness than he

did that morning. The dream almost reconciled him to being married to



his real wife. They lived quite happily together for a few days,

after that dream.



No; the extraordinary part of my dream was, that I knew it was a

dream. "What on earth will uncle say to this engagement?" I thought



to myself, in my dream. "There's bound to be a row about it. We

shall have a deal of trouble with uncle, I feel sure." And this



thought quite troubled me until the sweet reflection came: "Ah! well,

it's only a dream."



And I made up my mind that I would wake up as soon as uncle found out

about the engagement, and leave him and Aunt Jane to fight the matter



out between themselves.

It is a very great comfort, when the dream grows troubled and



alarming, to feel that it is only a dream, and to know that we shall

awake soon and be none the worse for it. We can dream out the foolish



perplexity with a smile then.

Sometimes the dream of life grows strangely troubled and perplexing,



and then he who meets dismay the bravest is he who feels that the

fretful play is but a dream--a brief, uneasy dream of three score



years and ten, or thereabouts, from which, in a little while, he will

awake--at least, he dreams so.



How dull, how impossible life would be without dreams--waking dreams,

I mean--the dreams that we call "castles in the air," built by the



kindly hands of Hope! Were it not for the mirage of the oasis,

drawing his footsteps ever onward, the weary traveler would lie down



in the desert sand and die. It is the mirage of distant success, of

happiness that, like the bunch of carrots fastened an inch beyond the



donkey's nose, seems always just within our reach, if only we will

gallop fast enough, that makes us run so eagerly along the road of



Life.

Providence, like a father with a tired child, lures us ever along the



way with tales and promises, until, at the frowning gate that ends the

road, we shrink back, frightened. Then, promises still more sweet he



stoops and whispers in our ear, and timid yet partly reassured, and

trying to hide our fears, we gather up all that is left of our little



stock of hope and, trusting yet half afraid, push out our groping feet

into the darkness.



End



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