The subject than your stool-allowed to be
A notable advantage)...
I laugh? Ha, ha! thank heaven,
I charge you, if't be so! for I forget
Much-and what laughter should be like! No less, However, I forego that luxury,
Since it alarms the friend who brings it back. True, laughter like my own must echo strange To thinking men; a smile were better far— •So make me smile! If the exulting look You wore but now be smiling, 'tis so long Since I have smiled! Alas, such smiles are born Alone of hearts like yours, or shepherds old Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks, Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven, In earth a stage for altars, nothing more. Never change, Festus: I say, never change! Fest. My God, if he be wretched after all! Par. When last we parted, Festus, you declared, -Or did your Michal's soft lips whisper words I have preserved ? She told me she believed I should succeed (meaning, that in the search I then engaged in, I should meet success), And yet be wretched: now, she augured false.
Fest. Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely! could
To think bare apprehension lest your friend,
Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find Henceforth less sweetness in his own, awakes
Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend, That I shall leave you, inwardly repining
Your lot was not my own!
Forever! gull who may, they will be blind! They will not look nor think-'tis nothing new In them; but surely he is not of them! My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you— Though all beside were sand-blind-you, my friend, Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye, Untroubled by the false glare that confounds A weaker vision; would remain serene, Though singular, amid a gaping throng.
I feared you, or had come, sure, long ere this, To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end, And Rhasis is a sage, and Basil boasts A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest Past all dispute ! 'Tis vain to fret at it.
I have vowed long since that my worshippers Shall owe to their own deep sagacity
All further information, good or bad: And little risk my reputation runs,
Unless perchance the glance now searching me Be fixed much longer-for it seems to spell, Dimly, the characters a simpler man
Might read distinct enough. Old eastern books
Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space
Remained unchanged in feature-nay, his brow Seemed hued with triumph: every spirit then Praising; his heart on flame the while :-a tale! Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray?
Fest. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else Were raised supreme?
Good: I do well-most well!
Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves With what 'tis past their power to comprehend?
I would not strive now: only, having nursed The faint surmise that one yet walked the earth, One, at least, not the utter fool of show,
Not absolutely formed to be the dupe Of shallow plausibilities alone;
One who, in youth found wise enough to choose The happiness his riper years approve,
Was yet so anxious for another's sake, That, ere his friend could rush upon a course Mad, ruinous, the converse of his own,
His gentler spirit essayed, prejudged for him The perilous path, foresaw its destiny,
And warned the weak one in such tender words, Such accents-his whole heart in every tone- That oft their memory comforted that friend When rather it should have increased despair: -Having believed, I say, that this one man Could never lose the wisdom from the first His portion-how should I refuse to grieve At even my gain if it attest his loss,
At triumph which so signally disturbs Our old relation, proving me more wise? Therefore, once more reminding him how well He prophesied, I note the single flaw
That spoils his prophet's title: in plain words You were deceived, and thus were you deceived—
I have not been successful, and yet am
Most wretched; there 'tis said at last; but give No credit, lest you force me to concede
That common sense yet lives upon the earth.
Fest. You surely do not mean to banter me? Par. You know, or (if you have been wise enough To cleanse your memory of such matters) knew, As far as words of mine could make it clear, That 'twas my purpose to find joy or grief Solely in the fulfilment of my plan, Or plot, or whatsoe'er it was; rejoicing Alone as it proceeded prosperously, Sorrowing alone when any chance retarded Its progress. That was in those Würzburg days! Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate, I have pursued this plan with all my strength; And having failed therein most signally,
Cannot object to ruin, utter and drear
As all-excelling would have been the prize Had fortune favoured me. I scarce do right To vex your frank good spirit, late rejoiced By my supposed prosperity, I know, And, were I lucky in a glut of friends,
Would well agree to let your error live, Nay, strengthen it with fables of success: But mine is no condition to refuse
The transient solace of so rare a chance, My solitary luxury, my Festus- Accordingly I venture to put off
The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me, Secure when he is by. I lay me bare, Prone at his mercy-but he is my friend! Not that he needs retain his aspect grave; That answers not my purpose; for 'tis like, Some sunny morning-Basil being drained Of its wise population, every corner
Of the amphitheatre crammed with learned clerks, Here Ecolampadius, looking worlds of wit, Here Castellanus, as profound as he,
Munsterus here, Frobenius there,-all squeezed, And staring, and expectant,-then, I say, "Tis like that the poor zany of the show, Your friend, will choose to put his trappings off Before them, bid adieu to cap and bells And motley with a grace but seldom judged Expedient in such cases:―the grim smile That will go round! Is it not therefore best To venture a rehearsal like the present In a small way? Where are the signs I seek, The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn Due to all quacks? Why, this will never do!
Fest. These are foul vapours, Aureole; nought beside
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