[She and I, Volume 2 by John Conroy Hutcheson]@TWC D-Link bookShe and I, Volume 2 CHAPTER SEVEN 7/10
But, how many of us rush madly, headlong to destruction, without a thought of what they are doing; never mindful of their course, till that dreadful refrain, "Too late!" rings in their ears. As the poetical author of the ode to the "Plump Head Waiter at The Cock," has philosophically sung,--and, as many a weather-beaten sufferer has cruelly proven,-- "So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the empty cup: And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches!" I remembered now having come across a passage in Massillon's _Petit Careme_, some two or three years before, during a varied course of French reading at the library of the British Museum,--an old haunt of mine long previously to my ever knowing Min; and this passage occurred to me in my present condition, expressing a want I had long felt, and which I was now all the more bitterly conscious of.
It is in one of the sermons which the seventeenth century divine probably preached in the presence of the Grand Monarque.
It is entitled "Sur la Destinee de l'Homme;" and might, for its practical point and thorough insightedness into human nature, be expounded to-morrow by any of our large-hearted, Broad Church ministers.
In its truth, I'm sure, it is catholic enough to suit any creed:-- "Si tout doit finir avec nous, si l'homme ne doit rien attendre apres cette vie, et que ce soit ici notre patrie, notre origine, et la seul felicite que nous pouvons nous promettre, pourquoi n'y sommes-nous pas heureux? Si nous ne naissons que pour les plaisirs des sens, pourquoi ne peuvent-ils nous satisfaire, et laissent-ils toujours un fond d'ennui et de tristesse dans notre coeur? Si l'homme n'a rien au- dessus de la bete, que ne coule-t-il ses jours comme elle, sans souci, sans inquietude, sans degout, sans tristesse, dans la felicite des sens et de la chair ?" Because he can not! The pleasures of life, however varied, and grateful though they may be at the time, soon wither on the palate; and then, when we appreciate at last the knowledge of their dust and ashes, their Dead Sea-apple constituency, we _must_ turn to something better, something higher--the joys of which are more lasting and whose flavour proceeds from some less evanescent substance. Such were my reflections now; and, in my abasement and craving for "the one good thing," I thought of the kind vicar. During all the time of my rioting and sin, I had never been near either him or Miss Pimpernell.
I would not have profaned the sanctuary of their dwelling with my presence! Both had tried to see me--in vain; for, I had separated myself entirely from all my former friends and acquaintances, burying the early associations of my previous life in the slough of the Bohemian-boon- companionship, into which I had thrown myself in London. The kind vicar had written to me a long, earnest, touching letter, which did not reproach me in the least but invited me to confide in him all my troubles; and, the dear old lady, also, had sent me many an appeal that she might be allowed to cheer me.
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