The bed
of enjoyment succeeded to the board of intemperance. Such was the
history of the life of Roderic.
But man was not born for the indolence of pleasure and the uniformity of
fruition. No gratifications, but especially not those that address
themselves only to the senses, and pamper this brittle, worthless
mansion of the immortal mind, are calculated to entertain us for any
long duration. We need something to awaken our attention, to whet our
appetite, and to contrast our joys. Happiness in this sublunary state
can scarcely be felt, but by a comparison with misery. It is he only
that has escaped from sickness, that is conscious of health; it is he
only that has shaken off the chains of misfortune, that truly rejoices.
The wisdom of these maxims was felt by Roderic. Full of pleasures,
surrounded with objects of delight, he was not happy. Their uniformity
cloyed him. He had received, by supernatural endowment, an activity and
a venturousness of spirit, that were little formed for such scenes as
these. He was devoured with spleen. He sighed he knew not why; he was
peevish and ill-humoured in the midst of the most assiduous attention
and the most wakeful service. And the command he possessed over the
elements of nature was no remedy for sensations like these.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84