him felt inclined to write a continuation. What Niebuhr wisely refrained from doing, a host of young men attempted; but, as Goethe himself said, all these so-called continuations were but repetitions. It was for the great master alone, who had so clearly stated the problem in the first part, to bring about a final solution, which would leave the reader satisfied that all individual exertion is not in vain, and that higher activity, purer knowledge and enjoyment might be gained without detriment to either body or soul. Often, and with great truth, has it been said that Faust is a representation of Goethe's own life. We may read of his life in biographies and histories, yet in none do we see the inner working of his mighty mind so faithfully delineated as in Faust, arising from those wild tones of the first scene to the gentle accords in the garden-scene; sinking down to those low unearthly octaves at the conclusion of the first part, and swelling again into that melody of wisdom in the second part; to finish in the last scene with the reconciling and triumphant chorus of the angelic host. Let us now turn to Mephistopheles and his witches. That Mephistopheles should at first appear in the shape of a black dog, then in the guise of a travelling student, and in the second part as a court-fool, as Phoreyas, a wizard and a steward, is in accordance with the tradition. According to the belief of the middle ages, the devil could assume any shape. In one of the old plays, several devils appear before Faust muffled in long grey cloaks. Are you men or women?' he asks them. Whereupon they answer: We have no sex.' What form do you hide under your grey cloaks?' 'We have no form; but, according to thy pleasure, we shall always assume that form in which you wish us to appear; we shall always look like your thoughts.' In another play the devil appears at first in the shape of various animals, as a pig, an ox, a monkey; but Faust always tells him, You must look still uglier if you will frighten me.' He then appears as a roaring lion, and as a snake; but Faust is still dissatisfied. At last he appears as a well-formed man, with a red cloak on his shoulders. Faust is astonished at this, but the red cloak answers: There is nothing more horrible than man; he is filthy, like a pig; brutal, like an ox; ridiculous, like an ape; passionate, like a lion; and venomous, like a snake. He is a compound of all bestiality.' Another trait of the popular devil is his skill in logic. Of this Goethe has made an excellent use. The sophistry of Mephistopheles is managed with consummate skill. In all the old documents which have been preserved to us, and which contain compacts with the devil, clauses are introduced for securing the compliance of the spirit in every case imaginable. And, after all, he finds a loophole by which to escape and to cheat his victim. The bond of Faust and Mephistopheles is communicated at full length in Hayward's notes. The belief in the possibility of a compact with the devil is very old. The Empress Eudosia, of whose three books on the martyr Cyprian some extracts have been preserved, tells in what manner her hero succeeded in releasing himself from his obligations. Also, Gregory Nazianzen knew this tradition. Well known are the stories of Theophilus of Sicily and Pope Sylvester II. Most remarkable is the circumstance that in all the older poems the souls of these necromancers are saved, generally by the intercession of the Virgin Mary, as representative of Divine mercy. The oldest poem on Pope Sylvester II., which dates from the beginning of the thirteenth century, dilates on his repentant end and final salvation. But as the power of the devil increased in people's imagination, as the most innocent pleasures were supposed to be temptations of the evil one, and even the nightingale was suspected of being an incarnate devil as much as the phantom with horns, claws, and tail, then no intervention of the Virgin, no invocation of the name of Christ, could save the culprit. But Luther already believed in the possibility of forcing the bond from the devil. Yes, he believed that in one instance he himself had succeeded in wresting from the claws of Satan the signature of one of his students. Thus illumination and superstition go hand in hand! In Goethe's time this belief had certainly become a myth, but he was perfectly justified in making it a symbolic expression of that constant simultaneous appearance of illumination and superstition; for the age which disbelieved with the philosophers, believed also in Lavater, Gall, and Cagliostro. But there is another and equally important meaning attached to this bond; namely, that if a man once renounces reason and knowledge, and, as a confirmed sceptic, believes in the importance of man's highest powers, he must, as the only object of life, pursue sensual enjoyment. He falls a prey to the medieval devil, who is an incarnation of sensuality. Materialism is a necessary consequence of scepticism. Since Goethe uses the compact as such a symbol, it follows, as a matter of course, that as the hero returns from scepticism to a belief in the power of good, and leaves mere sensual enjoyment for higher pursuits, the compact loses its validity. The hold which Mephistopheles has on Faust becomes gradually looser, until he finishes in the second part with being merely his steward. We now come to the consideration of the elementary spirits and witches, about whom we have as much reliable and accurate information as the most ardent student of the aberrations of the human mind may desire. Dr. Nicholaus Remigius, a criminal judge in Lorraine, has, in his Démonologie, recorded his own experiences, which are highly valuable, considering that he burned no less than eight hundred witches. Having finished his work on witchcraft, he found himself so expert an adept in the black art, that he surrendered at his own court, was found guilty, and burnt alive, a martyr to science. Goethe himself had assiduously read Theophrastus Paracelsus. The chief characteristic of German witches is, that they are stripped of everything ideal. We cannot suppose that even in the gloomy north the elementary spirits, which among all heathen nations present pleasing forms, should have been thus repulsive from the beginning. Nor were they. In the belief in witches lives to this day the old Germanic mythology. When Christianity became the ruling religion of the north, the people did not at once disbelieve the existence of their former gods. They still attributed to them an existence, but an existence shorn of beauty and glory. They continued to live as evil spirits who had lost their power by the victory of Christ. The early Church seems not to have discouraged this belief. Charlemagne made it penal to use the water of holy wells, to say prayers before miraculous stones or under sacred trees, unless a priest had blessed them. Whatever good qualities were formerly ascribed to the elementary spirits were now transferred to saints and angels, and none but works of wickedness, malice, and abomination, were put down to the account of the dethroned gods. Even the gods of Greece and Rome found a place in this popular demonology. Many were the tales told about Venus, who lived an enchanted life in the Horselberg, where she ensnared the knight Tannhäuser. The old German mythology attributed to distinguished women, especially to queens, the power of flying by the aid of feather dresses. These feather dresses of queens are frequently mentioned in the old Danish song-books, and play an important part in the fairy tale of the Schwanenjungfrau. This gave rise in the middle ages to the belief that witches could fly. But also in this instance the poetical conception of flying has been degraded to the ridiculous notion of riding upon a broomstick. Both conceptions of aerial locomotion are made use of by Goethe in his poem. Slowly but steadily has the number of the admirers of Goethe's Faust increased in England. The first introduction came from Shelley, in a translation of the Prologue on the Stage and the Mayday Night. The two scenes, although magnificently rendered, were little calculated to secure to the poem a popular reception from a prejudiced public. Severed from the whole, these two scenes contain many a thing likely to shock the unprepared Το reader; especially the snarling tone in which Mephistopheles speaks to the Lord. Even Dr. Anster thought it necessary, in the preface to his translation, to apologize for this 'revolting language,' although he admits that it would essentially vary the character of the whole drama to disguise or to diminish this effect. Great service was done to the students of the poem by Hayward's prose translation, a service which cannot be overrated. Here the poem was presented, stripped of the indescribable charm of its varying metres, but all the more impressive in its totality, and by the depth and truth of its thought. give a verse-translation of the poem was attempted frequently, but all these attempts, with the exception of Blackie's and Anster's, were great failures. The translators, partly from a mistaken sense of delicacy, so shaded or altered the language of the original as to produce a false impression; partly they were wanting in poetical feeling, and that mastery in versification which is so essential a requisite in a translation of Faust. Throughout the dialogues, the language of Faust and that of Mephistopheles are in tone and expression so widely different, that a man who did justice to the one could hardly be expected to do so to the other. With great delight did we therefore hail the translation of Mr. Theodore Martin, who, in his translations of Horace, Catullus, and of various dramatic poems from the German, had shown a rare power of reproducing the mingled music of all modern bards.' Our expectations have not been disappointed. He has reproduced the musical cadence of the Goethean metres as near as translator could do it, whilst adhering closely to the meaning and wording of the original. Though we therefore unhesitatingly award the palm to Mr. Martin's translation, we must not be understood to detract from the merits of either Dr. Anster or Professor Blackie. Both these gentlemen have devoted much care and thought to their translations, and in those passages, which were especially suited to their genius, they have produced versions which are equal, in some instances superior, to Mr. Martin's. Mr. Anster chiefly fails where Mr. Martin succeeds admirably. Anster never moves with ease in short couplets, especially when they contain but half-articulated utterances of passion. He then increases the number of feet, and thus slackens the impetuous burst into a slow flow. In the lyrical portions, therefore, Martin stands without a rival, excepting perhaps Blackie's rendering of the Easter Hymn. We quote the first verse from Anster and Blackie, which the reader may compare with Martin, whom we shall quote in the analysis of the poem, only with the qualification that Mr. Blackie is far too free and easy in his version: BLACKIE 'Christ has arisen ! Joy be to mortal man, By his sins merited, ANSTER. 'Christ is from the grave arisen, The Lord hath arisen!' In the song of the spirits in the incantation-scene, the songs of the peasants before the gate, Margaret at the spinning-wheel, the King of Thule, in these Martin is unrivalled. Anster, on the other hand, succeeds well in passages where an even stream of feeling is flowing in long metres. In quiet musings and descriptions of nature, he is particularly distinguished. Take, for instance, the beginning of the third study-scene:- 'O'er silent field and lonely lawn When in our narrow cell each night We seem to hear the streams of life, We will select two more passages from Anster, which will well illustrate his peculiarities. The first is from the scene before the gate, a description of homely happiness and quiet nature. As we shall quote Martin farther on, the reader may see what a different form the same thought has assumed in passing through two different minds:-- 'River and rivulet are freed from ice In Spring's affectionate inspiring smile- |