Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

Juan, I claim all that a friend should claim—
Thy confidence. When thou art given to mirth,
I'd know the cause on't; and when thou'rt in tears,
I would weep with thee.

JUAN.

Thou hast all my heart.
RAYMOND.

Juan, thou dost not play thee honest there!

Thou hast not told me all. I've seen thee, Juan,

When thou hast deemed I saw not, drown'd in tears; Have seen thee start-have seen thy cheek grow paleAnd thy lip quiver with some strange emotion

Not known to me. Now if I am thy friend,

Read me that riddle.

JUAN.

Thou hast read me well;

I'd hoped thou'st ever ta'en me at my seeming,
Mostly a laugher; one who took the world
E'en as he might-determined to set off

The good to the evil. Thou hast read me deeper,
And read me right; I have such griefs as lie

Close on my heart; so close, they foil my mirth,

And with mirth's tears mingle the drops of sorrow.

RAYMOND.

Juan, shall I not know thy sorrows?

JUAN.

Raymond,

Some griefs there are where human sympathy

But mocks, and mars, and tears the wounds afresh;
And such is mine. It is not poignant sorrow,
But something that hangs o'er me like a cloud,
Coming betwixt the sunshine and my heart,
Making all night. My father-

RAYMOND.

Ah!

JUAN.

His love!

O it is tenderer than the turtle's is

O'er her young brood! and such his love for me,

I could wear out my life for him, and never

Cancel the debt! Yet he is oft most strange.

His thoughts are blacker than the thunder-cloud

Nigh to its bursting; and there's something round him, That makes me feel there is a bolt on high

Ready to crush our house.

RAYMOND.

Pshaw! Shadows, shadows

That spleen doth breed in thy distemper'd brain

They'll go off with the surfeit.

[blocks in formation]

Fellow, how now! Ah is it thee, good Sancho?

(Sancho walks round the stage grumbling and gesticulating.) Why what's the matter, Sancho? Thy lank face

Bodeth sad news. Come, ope thy stomach, man,
And out with't-what's the matter?

SANCHO. Matter, master-matter, quotha-Diabolo! matter enough. Bedlam is loose, master-Bedlam! and all the devils in't have come post horse to Madrid. I would'nt stay another night in't for the Duke's best guinea.

RAYMOND. Why, I can make nothing out of this, Sancho.

SANCHO. No! and that nasty fellow there-he could make nothing, I guess. RAYMOND. No, for thou art nothing.

SANCHO. Nothing hit nothing then-I knocked him down.

RAYMOND. Knocked who down?

SANCHO. Why, that fellow there.

RAYMOND. What fellow there?

SANCHO. Why, the one that tweaked my nose and call'd me ass—you know him, master.

RAYMOND. I know him?

SANCHO. Lord! lord! Why I thought every fool knew him-he, he, he! RAYMOND. Thou shalt know me, sirrah! and thou wagg'st thy tongue thus saucily.

SANCHO. No, master, no, I'd rather not-I like not the friendship of the great. RAYMOND. Friendship!

SANCHO. Well, service then.

RAYMOND. And why, pray?

SANCHO. They pay so.

RAYMOND. Why, they're good pay masters.

SANCHO. Aye! I'll be sworn-witness it my back-it's had more blows than the best drum-head in the regiment.

RAYMOND. Aye, and because you merit it.

SANCHO. No-that I'll disprove.

RAYMOND. Well, for thy proof.

SANCHO. Why, I never merited any thing in all my life-he, he, he.

RAYMOND. Sirrah, thy back shall smart worse, and thy wits be no sharper.

SANCHO. No, master, I like not the acquaintance.

RAYMOND. Aye, but the acquaintance likes thee.

SANCHO. Ehem! gentlemen differ sometimes.

RAYMOND. Rascal, take that, and let it buy thee manners. (Gives a blow.)

SANCHO. O lord! O lord! master, don't-don't be false. (Falls on his knees.) RAYMOND. False, sirrah!

SANCHO. I mean, don't play me false.

RAYMOND. Play thee false, sirrah!

SANCHO. I mean, don't couple false friends.

RAYMOND. False friends! the whip and thy back are good friends.

SANCHO. No, master, no.

RAYMOND. Well, for thy metaphysics

SANCHO. Why thus, master. False friends quarrel-the whip and my back quarrel-ergo, they are false.

RAYMOND. Rise, villain-for once thy wits have saved thee. But what art thou doing here in the streets of Madrid at this late hour? Are the mules ready for our departure?

SANCHO. No, master, no. Said I not Bedlam was loose, and emptied into this same Madrid? Sancte Maria! they've got into that off donkey, and he won't work. RAYMOND. Wont work?

SANCHO. No, master. When I led him from his crib this morning, some how or other he'd got turn'd round-he followed his tail instead of his head. Well, seeing he'd a mind to go thus, I harnessed him thus, his head to the chariot-and now he wont go at all-he, he, he.

RAYMOND. Sancho! (walking up to him sternly,) I tell thee what. Thou knowest my free nature.

SANCHO. Aye, that I do, (rubbing his back and shoulders,) he, he, he.

RAYMOND. Rascal, thou presum'st on't, and lik'st a joke e'en to the detriment of thy service. Now mark me-if thou playest off another of thy waggish tricks for the next six months, I'll have thee whipp'd like a dog, just as thou art-dost hear?

SANCHO. Nature gave me ears, master.

RAYMOND. Aye, and long ones, too.

SANCHO. The better hear I the world bray, master.

RAYMOND. See thou remember it! I go for the lord Juan-an hour hence sees us forth-and if thou be not ready on the instant-I have a whip, (shakes it at him, and exit.)

SANCHO. Well, let me but once get out of this cursed Madrid, and if thou catch me in't again, why I give thee leave to whip me like a dog, aye! and hang me too-so here goes, (runs off.)

Yale College.

END OF FIRST ACT.

PHILOSOPHY AND NATIONAL SECURITY.

THE world at all times presents an ample field for the study of the wise, the inquiries of the doubting, and the solicitude of the benevolent. Every portion of its history reveals some distinct feature, upon which the mind may rest with interest, though it may be often painful interest. Error and suffering make up the most of its experience, and have rendered the past a sepulcher of buried greatness. For man is great even in his ruin, were there in his history no other proof of his capacities. But he has at times, even in his cabin, dreamed of a nobler nature, and realized after patient pursuit the refinements of civilization. These instances make us proud of our race, notwithstanding its errors, for they are fragments of a broken statue, each specimen declaring the beauty of the original whole. In these scattered limbs we find a memento that unites our sympathies in a firmer bond with the world, and constrains us to extend the limits of patriotism, and say, man

"With all thy faults we love thee still."

But the attainments of all preceding ages have been limited when compared with the present. It was reserved for us to proclaim the true relations of man, and the proper ends of government;—for us to penetrate the mysteries of nature, and bring out new elements to

affect the condition of society. No age has been so marked with the full development of all its resources. Science no longer stands aloof regardless of our wants, nor does benevolence turn away to weep over sufferings she cannot relieve.

It would be interesting to follow the history of each particular science down to the present time, to observe its successive influence upon the welfare of society, and to mark the steps by which each has contributed to make the present age so eminently practical. But this is not our object. We wish only to remind the reader of the general neglect, at this day, of one important science, and of some reasons why such neglect is fearfully dangerous.

It is well known that mental philosophy has fallen into almost universal neglect. We do not stop to prove that our circumstances as a nation, by the attention requisite for establishing our government and fortunes, tend naturally to exclude from the public mind all subjects of only abstract nature or remote interests; we only notice the fact that philosophy is neglected, and proceed to show that such neglect is unsafe. The ability to discover moral truth is involved in the true knowledge of the mind's operations. For the difference between truth and error is not to be found in those states of the mind when it rests upon its final convictions; these convictions cannot be taken and pronounced true or false in themselves, but the conditions of their error or truth are to be sought in the steps which the mind has taken to arrive at those convictions. If the preliminary process has been undeviating, the conclusion is true; if not, it is false. The ability then to discover truth involves the power of inspecting, discriminating and classifying thoughts, which is the work of mental philosophy Now, if the mind were in no danger of being misled by specious appearances; or if there were no connection between error and the harm of him who embraces it ;-if individual mistakes were not contagious, endangering communities; or if the present age were one of apathy and inaction, or of blind subservience to ancient maxims and institutions, there might be no occasion of alarm in neglecting the means of ascertaining truth. But the world has always been full of errors and consequent suffering. Men have erred in their notions of religion, and clung with eager assurance to every dream of superstition or of atheism; they have erred in their opinions of government, and groaned under every possible system of oppression; they have erred in their estimate of knowledge, and groped their way through ignorance to oblivion, thus fearfully illustrating the liability of the whole race to error and consequent misery. Hence in the growing experience of the world, no question has come down to us invested with such interest as the oft repeated inquiry, what is truth? As to facts in the external world, there is little danger of mistake, for they strike the mind with immediate conviction. But the great questions of right and religion, with all their varied applications to morals and government, are decided only

« FöregåendeFortsätt »