[Last update December, 10, 2007]
[This OCR was prepared from a scan of the original 1821 edition. A critical edition of this text is available from Oxford University Press (2007)]

FAUSTUS

FROM THE GERMAN OF
GOETHE LONDON:

BOOSEY AND SONS, 4, BROAD-STREET, EXCHANGE, RODWELL g- MARTIN, NEW BOND-STREET. 1821.

Introduction
THE " Faust" of Goethe is considered one of the most original productions of the German drama. It is not modelled in the form of a re­ gular play, neither does it seem adapted for scenic representation ; but it is said to have been written for the performance of puppets. The tale on which it is founded is not new to our language : the Devil and Dr. Faustus are the heroes of nursery romance, and have been elevated to a higher distinction in the " Tragi­ cal! Historie" of Christopher Marlowe, a genius who delighted to soar above ordinary fiction into regions of wonder and dismay, and of whom it would be difficult to determine whether his ta­ lents best suited his subject, ur whether such a subject was best suited to his talents. Marlowe's play is too well known to require more particu­ lar mention here, and it would be idle S to at­ tempt drawing any comparison between it and. the " Faust" of Goethe, as the two pieces have nothing in common besides the adoption (as a plot) of the popular fiction, which tradition has strangely enough attached to a German printer. The main-spring, which originates the interest in both, rests upon common associations, that connect the world of spirits with our humbler sphere of existence ;—associations which are, perhaps, little more than the relics of sensations impressed on the memory by the fears of child­ hood. The Principle of Evil is delineated by Goethe with great skill. He is abject in se­ ducing, diligent in ensnaring, cruel and re­ morseless in punishing his victim : in human shape he is yet distinguished from his mortal companion by the total want of personal interest which he takes in the scenes through which they pass, and by the bitter, scornful, yet uncom­ plaining tone of his remarks. Faustus is a sin­ gular compound of strength and weakness. He is daring and timid by turns; ambitious and ir­ resolute; not wholly vicious, yet far from vir­ tuous : he despises the power of the demon to whose arts he yields himself a willing prey, and half detects the snares laid for his destruction. Margaret is the only character for whom we feel undivided interest ; she is entangled in the web of temptation, which the fiend has woven to catch the proud soul of his confident disciple; she is betrayed into crime through the kindest of affections : the potion which destroys her mother is unwittingly administered by her hand, and the murder of her child may be supposed to take place in a moment of insanity. Her doom is not, therefore, final. She is punished on earth, but experiences the grace of a repentant sinner. It is not pretended that the following pages contain a full translation of this celebrated drama. The slight analysis drawn up as an accompani­ ment to Retsch's Outlines being out of print, the Publishers felt desirous to supply its place with a more careful abstract of " Faust," which, while it served as a book of reference and ex­ planation for the use of the purchasers of the plates, might also possess some claims to interest the general reader as an independent publica­ cation. With this view the most striking pas- sages and scenes of the original have been translated into blank verse, and connected by a detailed description in prose, in which the writer has aimed at nothing more than to render the progress of the plot clearly understood. Some parts are omitted which, it was thought, would be offensive to English readers, from the free, and occasionally immoral tendency of the allusions which they contain : other parts of the scene have been thrown into narrative, where the difference of taste subsisting between the two nations would have rendered a clear trans‑ lation of that which in Germany is considered sublime, ift.eur language ludicrous : the general features of the whole have, nevertheless, been endeavoured to be preserved. The original is written in a great variety of metres, but in con­ fining himself to blank-verse in all parts of the play except those which are strictly lyrical, the translator believes that he has adopted the only measure that would enable him to imitate the tone, without sacrificing the sense of his text. "Faust" is preceded by a prelude, between the manager, author, and a kind of merry fellow or clown. This is nothing more than an intro­ ductory dialogue, like that to Gay's " Beggars' Opera," and as it bears no relation to the plot of the piece, has not been translated. For a dif­ ferent reason the prologue has also been passed over : it carries the scene to heaven, whither Mephistopheles ascends for the purpose of obtain­ ing permission to tempt Faustus; and, both in conception and execution, is repugnant to no­ tions of propriety such as are entertained in this country.

FAUSTUS

TIME.—Night.

SCENE.- A high-arched narrow Gothic Chamber.
FAUSTUS seated at his desk: he appears in a state (If restlessness.

SOLILOQUY.
FAUST.—Now I have toil'd thro' all; philosophy,
Law, physic, and theology: alas
All, all I have explor'd ; and here I am
A weak blind fool at last : in wisdom risen
No higher than before: Master and Doctor
They style me now ; and I for ten long years
Have led my pupils up and down, thro' paths
Involv'd and intricate, only to find
That nothing can be known. Ah! there's the thought
That wastes my heart away 'Tis true, most true,
That I am wiser than that silly herd—
Doctors and magisters, and priests and scribblers:
No scruples startle me, no doubts perplex me,
Nor shrink I at the thought of hell or devil:
Therefore has joy departed from me; now
No sweet imaginings of hoarded blessings,
Which knowledge guards the key of—no bright hopes
Of mending or enlight'ning dull mankind
Beam on my darkling spirit. Wealth, or rank,
Or worldly honours, I have none:—a dog
Would loathe such base existence: therefore have I
Given up my soul to magic, and essay'd
If from the lips of spirits I could gather
Secrets worth learning, that I may no more
In bitterness of heart attempt to teach
What my mind cannot grapple with, but fathom
The secret places of the earth, and trace
The seeds of things before they burst to being,
Nor deal in words alone. O, thou pale moon!
Would that those beams of beauty were the last
Should visit these sad eyes! thou, who so oft
Bright'ning my vigils, with the learned page
Hest shar'd my adoration, would that I
Could by thy sweet light, wander on the tops
Of the far hills, in mountain-caves converse
With hov'ring spirits, flit o'er twilight meads,
And bathing in thy dew, free from the thirst
Of knowledge, live in peace again! Alas!
Still am I rooted, chain'd to this damp dungeon,
Where thro' the painted glass ev'n heav'n's free light
Comes marr'd and sullied, narrow'd by dark heaps
Of mould'ring volumes, where the blind worm revels—
Of smoke-stain'd papers, pil'd ev'n to the roof—
Glasses and boxes—instruments of science—
And all the old hereditary lumber
Which crowds this cheerless chamber. This is then
Thy world, O Faustus! this is called a world!
And dost thou ask, why thus tumultuously
Thy heart is throbbing in thy bosom why
Some nameless feeling tortures ev'ry nerve,
And shakes thy soul within ? Thou hast abjur'd
The fair fond face of nature, ever beaming
With smiles on man, for squalid loathsomeness,
Dank vapours, and the mould'ring skeletons
Of men and brutes: away! away! is not
This wondrous volume, by the pow'rful hand
Of Nostrodamus penn'd, society
Sufficient for thy soul ? There thou canst learn
To trace the starry course, and if instructed
By nature, she will strengthen thy mind's pow'rs,
Till thou bast learn'd to hold with her high converse,
As spirits speak with spirits. But in vain
Would human wisdom read these holy symbols:
Ye teaching spirits, ye are hov'ring near me I

[He opens the book and sees the sign of Macrocosmus.

Ha! what delight does in a moment fill
My senses at this sight! I feel at once
The renovated streams of life and pleasure
Bubble thro' every vein. Was it a god
Who wrote this sign? it stills my soul's wild warfare;
Fills my lost heart with joy, while some strange impulse
Tears down the veil from nature's mysteries,
And lays them bare before me. 'Tis most strange:
Am I a god? It seems so palpable;
I see in these clear signs the bidden workings
Of nature all reveal'd. Now do I know
The wise man's meaning, when he said, "The world
"Of spirits is not closed: thy sense is dull:
"Thy heart is dead. Arise, my son, arise!
"Faint not! but in the redness of the morning
"Bathe thy earth-sullied bosom."

[He considers the sign with attention.

How divinely
Are all things blended! how each lives and moves
But with the rest! how heav'nly powers descend,
And re-ascend, balancing reeling worlds;
And from the winnowing of their radiant wings,
Scatter eternal blessings! how they press
From heav'n to earth, and ever in their course
Utter immortal harmony! How bright!
How splendid an illusion! but, alas!
Illusion only! Oh! how may I gaze
Upon thee, boundless nature? where embrace thee?
Ye fountains of all life, whose living tides
Feed heav'n and earth: the wither'd bosom yearns
To taste your freshness! Ye flow sparkling on,
And yet I pant in vain.

[He turns over the book with marks of dissatisfaction,
and perceives the sign of the SPIRIT of the EARTH

How diff'rently
Does this sign move me! SPIRIT of the EARTH!
Thou art allied to me. I feel already
My pow'rs increase. Already do I glow
As if with wine. I feel unusual courage
To venture forth into the world, to bear
The bliss of earth, the woe of earth; to plunge
Amid the howling tempest, and to dare
The shipwreck undismay'd. Clouds gather round me—
The moon conceals her light—now the lamp trembles,
Expires—red beams of light play round my head—
A shiv'ring feeling from the roof descends,
And seizes on each sense—I feel thee near,
Spirit, whom I invok'd; thou hov'rest near me:
Reveal thyself! Ah! how my heart is torn—
How all my senses labour with new feelings—
I feel my whole heart given to thee. Appear!
Thou must, thou must, tho' my life pay the forfeit!

[He seizes the book and pronounces mysteriously the
sign of the SPIRIT.—A red flame appears, and the
SPIRIT in the flame

SPIRIT.
Who calls me?
FAUSTUS. (turning away)
Fearful sight!
SPIRIT.
Thy potent bidding
Compels me hither from my distant sphere.
And now—
FAUSTUS.
Alas! I cannot bear thy sight.
SPIRIT.
Anxiously, fervently thou didst desire
To see me face to face—to hear my voice—
To gaze upon my countenance: the yearnings
Of thy soul brought me hither. I am here!
What pitiful weakness has seized on thee now?
Where's the stout heart which did within itself
A world create, and which from earth aspiring,
Would with the bodiless creation blend
Its grosser essence? Where, where art thou, Faustus?
Thou whose voice I have heard; whose spirit press'd
Until it reach'd to mine. And art thou he?
Thou whose whole frame, whose ev'ry power is shaken,
By my mere breath: a fearful crawling worm
Coiling itself in dust.
FAUSTUS.
Thou form of flame!
Shall thy sight blanch my cheek?—No! I am he,
Faustus, thine equal!
SPIRIT.
In the floods of life, in the tempests of action,
Up and down I rave;
Hither and thither in motion;
Birth and the grave,
An unbounded ocean
A changing strife
A kindling life
At the rustling loom of Time I have trod,
And fashion'd the living vesture of God.
FAUSTUS.
Thou active spirit, circling the wide world,
How near allied I feel myself to thee!
SPIRIT.
Thou'rt like the spirit whom thy fancy paints,
And not like me. [Vanishes
FAUSTUS.
Proud Spirit! not like thee!
Read'st thou God's image on my brow, yet say'st
I do not equal thee?

A knocking is heard, which proceeds from
Faustus' pupil or amanuensis, Wagner, who en­
ters "in a night-gown and cap, with a lamp in
his hand."Faustus evinces great impatience
at this interruption, and reluctance to partici­
pate in Wagner's insipid society, after the awful
conference he has just held with a being of ano­
ther world; but finding that Wagner had been
attracted by the sound of his voice, in (as he
conceived) solitary declamation, he turns the
conversation to the subject of eloquence, and
expatiates in general terms on the inadequacy
of art without the stimulus of natural feeling.
The character of Wagner seems designed as a
foil or contrast to that of Faustus. He is also a
student, but his inquiries are merely human,
and he evinces none of his master's anxiety to
wander into the field of forbidden speculation:
still he seems overawed and confounded by the
more daring spirit of Faustus. The following is
the conclusion of their conversation; in which
the latter succeeds in convincing his friend of
the inutility of human learning:—

WAGNER.
Pardon me; 'tis delight ineffable
For the maz'd spirit to transport itself
Back into former times: mark how the wise
And learned thought in ages past, and see
To what a wondrous height we soar beyond them.
FAUSTUS.
Oh, yes! even to the stars! Alas! my friend,
The ages that are past are unto us
A book with seven seals seal'd; and what you deem
The spirit of the times, is but the spirit
Of a few men, which to our mind's eye shews
The times as in a mirror, and in truth
Oft shews a sight of sorrow. The first glance
Makes the heart sick. We shrink from the dull lumber,
The worthless refuse, which at best contains
Only some great state-action, garnish'd forth
With sage, trite precepts, and such wondrous lore
As fills the mouths of puppets.
WAGNER.
But the world
Man's heart and soul—surely a little knowledge
Of these things is not valueless.
FAUSTUS.
Yes, knowledge;
What the wise world calls knowledge; yet, who dares
To give it its right name? The few who knew
Aught worth recording, and were fools enough
To vent their free opinions, what has been
Their recompense, and their reward?—the stake,
The faggot, and the cross. I pray you, friend,
The night is far advanced, and we must now
Break off our conference.
WAGNER.
Oh! I could wake
For ever, but to listen to the words
Of wisdom from your lips. But to-morrow
Is the first day of Easter; let me then
Propound a few more questions. I have studied
With ardour, and 'tis true that I have learn'd
Much, but my grasping spirit will not rest
Till it has master'd all. [Exit.
FAUSTUS.
How hope will linger,
An inmate of the heart, which still, still leans
On some weak reed; delving with eager haste
For fancied treasures, and with joy o'erflowing,
Though it find nought but earth-worms!
Did the voice
Of grov'ling human nature dare to mar
My meditation, when ethereal beings
Were hov'ring all around me? But, alas!
This once I thank thee—the most miserable
Of all earth's children. Thou hast rescued me
From despair's iron clutches. Ah! the phantom
Had lineaments so giant-like, methought
I dwindled to a pigmy. I, the image
Of God himself, deeming I had, at length,
Grasp'd Truth's own hand, and was about to gaze
With eye undazzled on her stainless mirror:
Basking in heav'n's pure light, and earthliness
Thrown like a worthless garb aside: the cherubim,
Whose faculties the veins of nature fill,
Who live the life of gods, I deem'd beneath me.
My heart was full of hopes unutterable!
What must my'expiation be? one word
Of thunder has destroy'd those hopes for ever.
I may not mete myself with thee, proud Spirit!
Power had I to compel thee here, but none
To bid thee stay. Oh! in that wondrous moment,
How little and how great I felt myself!
But thou hast driven me back to the dull lot
Of blind humanity. Who now shall teach me?
What must I shrink from? what obey?—this impulse?
Alas! our actions, like our sufferings,
Impede the course of life.

He proceeds in the same strain of despair,
feeding the bitterness of his feelings with reflec-
tions on the objects by which he is surrounded,
until his eye glances on a phial of poison, and
he instantly determines on self-destruction. He
seizes it eagerly, and is raising the poison to his
lips, when he hears the sound of the town-bells,
which usher in Easter-Sunday, and, mingling
with the hosannahs of the people, resounds the
following:—

Chorus of Angels.
Christ has ascended,
He sits thron'd in heaven:
Man's fetters are riven,
His sins are forgiven,
His sorrows are ended.

FAUSTUS.
Ha! what deep sound was that? What soft, clear tones
Wrench from my trembling hand the glass just rais'd
To reach my lips? Oh! you deep-sounding bells,
Do you already usher in the morn
Of Easter's joyful festival? Sweet voices!
In holy chorus join'd, do ye already
That song of consolation sing, which once
Around the midnight grave, from angel lips,
Peal'd a new covenant of peace?

Chorus of Women.
With spices the sweetest,
A rich grave we made him;
And here, heavy-hearted,
His followers laid him;
Linen and bandage
We wrapp'd clean around him:
Ah! where is he now?
We have sought, but not found him.

Chorus of Angels.
Christ has ascended!
They are happy who gave
Their faith to his grave,
And his power to save,
And humbly his rising attended.

FAUSTUS.
Powerful and soft! what seek ye here? ye sounds
Of heaven! what seek of me, encompass'd round
With dusk and darkness! Breathe your lovely notes
To softer hearts. I hear, but have not faith;
And miracle is faith's lov'd progeny.
I dare not strive to reach those happy spheres
Where the glad tidings sound; and yet those notes
On which my infant ear delighted dwelt,
They woo me back again to life. Oh! once
In the still sabbath-day, when on my cheek
The kiss of heaven descended, then those bells
Full and sonorous in my ear would ring
Notes such as angels warble. Prayer was then
Unutterable rapture. Some strange feeling,
Powerful, yet pleasing, would impel my steps
Thro' wood, o'er mead, and drew down burning tears—
While to my sight a new world seem'd reveal'd,
Better and far, far lovelier. Then, those notes
Spoke of youth's cheerful sports, of spring's glad hours.
Memory holds back my hand; around my heart
She steals her light soft spells. Ring on! ring on!
Sweet symphonies of heaven! tears bathe my cheek;
And I am earth's again.

Chorus of Youths.
The buried One has risen!
He sits on high,
Exaltedly,
Free'd' from the grave's dark prison:
Heav'n's bright and glorious morrow
Beams on him now.
While men below,
Toil thro' earth's night of sorrow.
He left us here to languish,
In grief behind;
Oh! as thou art kind,
Take pity on our anguish.

A Second Chorus of Angels concludes the scene.

This drama is not divided into acts, but the
next scene is before the town-gates and in the
neighbouring country. Hundreds of artizans,
citizens, their daughters, maid-servants, and
the whole idle population of the place are seen
swarming forth to enjoy their holiday-sports.
They form separate groups, and all utter sen-­
timents characteristic of their stations. The
mechanics and labourers propose parties of plea-­
sure, and little journies to favourite spots in the
vicinity. Some young women in humble life
are looking out for their sweethearts, and are
reconnoitred by two students on the watch for
amusement. A second pair of females of higher
rank stand by observing the motions of the
former, and pitying the bad taste of the students.
The citizens break forth into invectives against
the mayor, others converse on politics. A beg-­
gar with his song, and a fortune-teller with her
predictions, diversify the scene, and the whole
seems designed to exhibit a concentrated view
of the popular diversions 'and manners in the
large towns of Germany. The several parties
advance and retreat in succession, singing songs
and passing rude jokes on each other. Faustus
enters with Wagner, and mingles with the
crowd: Wagner seems to feel little interest in
the scene before him, but the following are the
reflections of the former:—

FAUSTUS.
The warm and vivifying glance of Spring
Has melted the cold fetters of the brooks;
Green with the young year's promise is the vale;
And Winter in his weakness hath withdrawn
To the rough hills. Thence his hoar frost he breathes
Upon the verdant meadow; yet the sun
Permits him not that one poor trophy, but
Dries up the envious mists, and all things paints
With his own glitt'ring hues; and even here,
Tho' bare of flowers, the human prospect spreads
In gay and glad profusion. Turn thee hither,
And look back on the city. From the black
And yawning gate, a many-colour'd swarm
Is pressing forth: all here to-day will come
To feel the sun's warm beams. They celebrate
Their Saviour's resurrection: they themselves
Have for a few hours risen above the cares
And miseries, and bus'ness of this world,
From the damp rooms of low-roof'd tenements—
From trades and manual drudgery—from th' oppression
Of beams and roofs—from dark and narrow streets,
And the monastic gloom of churches: all
To bask in heav'n's own brightness. 'Tis a sight
Of joy and wonder. How the active crowd
Sweep thro' the smiling gardens and the fields!
How many merry oars beat on the river,
Distant and near! behold that boat just starting
Laden almost to sinking. The gay dresses
Gleam in our sight e'en on the fair hill tops.
Already do I hear the joyful hum
Of the glad village. 'Tis the people's heav'n
And ev'ry loud huzza, which high and low
Conspire to raise, speaks of contented hearts.
Oh! here I feel that I am human still.

A dance of peasants and a pastoral song suc-­
ceed. In the interim an old countryman recog-­
nizes Faustus, and addresses him in respectful
terms, offering him a pitcher, from which the
Doctor drinks to the health of the multitude as-­
sembled round him. The old peasant relates to
the rest how, during the plague, Faustus and
his father went from house to house, and ad-­
ministered medicines to the sick at the risk of
their lives. They all invoke a blessing on his
benevolence, but he tells them
To bend in gratitude to Him above,
Who prompts the helper, and who sends the help.
Wagner declaims in a strain of pompous congra-­
tulation, on the happiness he must experience
in reaping such a reward for his charitable ex-­
ertions, but Faustus motions him to retire to a
stone, a little apart from the crowd, and there
confesses that neither he nor his father greatly
merited these testimonies of respect from the
crowd, as during that plague many had fallen
victims to his father's nostrums. Wagner con-­
soles him with the suggestion of his own inexpe-­
rience, being then a mere youth, acting under
his father's directions, and Faustus recurs to the
description of the wild reveries of his imagina-­
tion, which his companion does not seem to
understand. The Doctor proceeds with the fol-­
lowing admonition to his disciple:—

FAUSTUS.
Thou hast but one desire,
Oh! never learn another. In my bosom
Two spirits are contending, each attempting
To separate from the other. One with strong
But sensual ties is fettering me to earth;
The other powerfully soars, and spreads
Its wings to loftier emprize. Oh! if there
Be spirits hov'ring in the air, who rest
'Twixt heav'n and earth, from your bright seats descend,
And bear me on your happy wings to scenes
Of new and varied being. Were that mantle,
That magic mantle mine which bore the wearer
To distant realms at pleasure, I would not
Exchange it for the costliest garb which e'er
Was wrapp'd round regal limbs.

WAGNER.
Do not invoke
That well known host, whose'countless myriads
People the atmosphere, and from all quarters
Swarm arm'd for man's destruction. From the north
With arrow-pointed tongues in clouds they come;
Or from the withering east they press and feed
Upon the spring of life; or from the south
Quick from the burning desert bring with them
Intolerable fires; or from the west
With deluging swarms first charm, then inundate,
Man, fields, and meads alike. They listen readily;
Awake to mischief willingly obey,
Because they willingly deceive; they seem
From heav'n commission'd, and like angels whisper,
When what they breathe in our deluded ears,
Is damnable as hell. But, let us hence:
The sky is grey already, and the air
With ev'ning mists grows cool. Home is the place
Best suited for us now. Why do you stand,
And seem thus bound what attracts your notice
In the dusk twilight?
FAUSTUS.
See'st thou yon black dog,
Scouring thro' fields and stubble?
WAGNER.
Long ago
I saw him, but he dwelt not in my thoughts.
FAUSTUS.
Consider him well. What do you take him for?
WAGNER.
For a rough poodle, tracking as 'tis wont,
Its master's footsteps.
FAUSTUS.
But do you observe
How he in spiral circles wheels around us,
Nearer at ev'ry moment, and mine eyes
Are much deluded if his black paws leave not
A track of fire behind them?
WAGNER.
I see nothing
But a black dog. Some ocular deception
Obscures your senses.
FAUSTUS.
Nay, methinks he draws
Light magic snares around us to enthral
Our steps hereafter.
WAGNER.
Doubtfully, I think,
And fearfully he jumps around us, seeing
Two strangers for his master's well-known face.
FAUSTUS.
The circle gradually grows narrower:
Now he is near us.
WAGNER.
Do you not perceive
'Tis a dog, and no spectre: snarls and bites,
Lies on his belly, wags his tail, and does
As other dogs do.
FAUSTUS.
Join us: come, come here!
WAGNER.
'Tis a strange dog: stand still, he waits for you;
Speak, and he jumps upon you: had you lost
Aught, he would soon recover it, and leap
Into the water for your stick.
FAUSTUS.
You're right,
It is a dog; I see nought that resembles
An evil spirit: 'tis th' effect of teaching.
WAGNER.
A wise man loves the brutes: aptest of scholars,
They win our favour soon.

[Exuent through the Town-gates.

SCENE.—Faustus's Study.

Enter FAUSTUS with the DOG
.
Faustus soliloquizes, in a tone of feeling and sentiment, on the stillness of the night, calming every passion to repose. He is interrupted at intervals by the growling of the Dog, whom he
in vain attempts to pacify. He feels a sudden desire to translate a passage from the New Testament, but cannot determine on an expression in his native language sufficiently comprehensive to express the creating power.

"In the beginning was the Word,"'tis written;
Here do I stumble: who can help me on?
I cannot estimate "the Word" so highly;
I must translate it otherwise, if rightly
I feel myself enlightened by its spirit.
"In the beginning was the Mind," 'tis written:
Repeat this line, and weigh its meaning well,
Nor let thy pen decide too hastily:
Is it the mind creates and fashions all?
"In the beginning was the Power," it should be;
Yet, even while I write the passage down,
It warns me that I have not caught its meaning:
Help me, then, Spirit! With deliberation,
And perfect confidence, I will inscribe,
At last, "In the beginning was the Deed."

At this juncture the yelling and howling of the Dog increase, and Faustus again commands himto be quiet, and threatens to expel him. Suddenly he becomes enlarged to an enormoussize, and assumes the form of a hippopotamus, whilst without, spirits are heardbemoaning the loss of their comrade. Faustus tries to subdue him with a spell of the four elements; but, finding that charm inefficient, concludes that he is under the dominion of a higher power, and has recourse to this stronger incantation:—

Art thou one who fell,
Deserter from hell?
Then look at this sign,
Whose virtues incline
The legions of hell to obey it.

At this potent bidding the Dog reluctantly issues forth from behind the stove, whither he had retreated, and swells till he appears as large as an elephant, and nearly fills the room. He at length bursts in a cloud of smoke, which gradually dissipates, and discovers Mephistopheles
"drest like a travelling student."

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Wherefore this noise? what can I do to serve you?
FAUSTUS.
This was the kernel then, the dog inclosed;
A travelling student! why it makes me laugh.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
All bail, most learned doctor! I salute you:
In truth, I must confess you made me tremble.
FAUSTUS.
What dost thou call thyself?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
That question seems
To me a simple one, from him who lately
Despised the Word.

He, however, at length designates himself as—

A portion of that power,
Whose wills are evil, but whose actions good.
FAUSTUS.
What does this dark enigma signify?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I am the spirit who says "nay" to all,
And rightly so; for all that have existence
Deserve, that they should perish; so 'twere better
That nothing earthly should enjoy existence.
All, therefore, that you mortals mean by Sin,
Destruction, in a word, what you call Evil,
Is my peculiar element.

The conversation is continued in this strain until Mephistopheles expresses a wish to depart. Faustus wonders that he should meet with any impediment, having free access to the window,
door, and chimney, but Mephistopheles explains that there is a slight hindrance, which is no
other than a pentagon on the threshold. He got in, 'tis true, because there was a little opening left in one corner.

The dog did nothing note, as in he sprung,
But now the case assumes another shape,
The Devil has no means to make an exit.
FAUSTUS.
But why not make your exit by the window?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
It is a rule with spirits and with devils,
By the same way they enter they depart;
The first is a free choice, the last a law.
FAUSTUS.
Hell then, it seems, has laws. I like it well:
With gentry so precise, a solemn compact
May, I presume, be made, and will be kept.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Whate'er we promise you may safely trust to;
We will not bate one jot of the agreement.
But that requires some slight consideration,
So let us speak of it anon more fully;
But, for this time, I beg you earnestly
To let me take my leave,
FAUSTUS.
A moment stay,
And answer a few questions ere we part.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Nay, now release me. I will soon return,
You then may as you please interrogate me.
FAUSTUS.
I did not drag you here. You freely came
And fell into the trap without a bait.
He who has caught the devil should hold him fast,
He may not light on such a prize again.

Mephistopheles then begs permission to entertain Faustus with a display of his art, to which the latter acceeds, provided it be an agreeable one. Mephistopheles promises to enchant his
eyes with delightful visions, his ears with harmonious sounds, and his sense of smelling with the most exquisite odours. He summons the spirits over whom he has controul, who obey his commands, and conclude by lulling Faustus with a song into a deep sleep. Mephistopheles dismisses them with this acknowledgment:—

He sleeps! 'Tis well. Ye tender airy spirits,
Ye have entranc'd him nobly with your songs,
And for this concert bind me still your debtor.
Thou art not yet the man to hold the devil.
Amuse his fancy with some pleasing dream,
And plunge him in a sea of wild conceits,
Whilst I invoke a rat's tooth to gnaw off
The magic obstacle which bars my passage.

As lord of rats, and mice, and all reptiles, he then summons a rat, by whose aid the angle of the pentagon, being moistened with oil, is at length severed. Mephistopheles then takes leave of his sleeping companion, exclaiming,—

Now, Faustus,
Now dream away, until we meet again.
FAUSTUS. (waking)
Am I then once again deceiv'd? and has
That crowd of hovering spirits all, all vanished?
Methought I saw the devil in my dream,
And lo! a little dog sprang forth and left me.

SCENE.—Faustus's Study.

FAUSTUS.
Hark! 'twas a knock: come in: who now is coming
To torture me?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
'Tis I.
FAUSTUS.
Come in.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
You must
Pronounce it thrice.
FAUSTUS.
Come in then:
MEPHISTOPHELES.
So: 'tis well!
We soon shall be sworn friends. I come to shake
Your fetters from you. Like a gay young lord
I come arrayed in gold and scarlet, wearing
My stiff silk mantle; in my cap, a plume;
And my long pointed rapier by my side.
Do you in like array bedeck yourself,
That free and unconfined you may observe
The changing scene of life.
FAUSTUS.
'Tis no matter
What dress I wrap around my limbs: in all
I shall be sensible of man's cramp'd powers
And limited existence. What have I,
(Too old for sport, too young for listlessness,)
To hope for from the world? "Forbear! forbear!"
That is th' eternal theme rung in all ears,
And hoarsely sounding thro' each hour of life.
I wake with horror ev'ry morn, and weep
To see a day dawn, which will not, midst all
The anxious fluterings of my heart, fulfil
One solitary wish.
And when night comes, I stretch my tortured bones
Upon a restless couch—wild dreams affright me—
The god within me can stir up my soul
Even from its lowest depths, yet has not power
To move the world without. Therefore existence
Is but a burthen to me—death a blessing—
And life the thing I loathe.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yet still is death
Not quite a welcome guest.
FAUSTUS.
Oh! happy he
Whose brows Death in the hour of triumph binds
With blood-stained laurels; happy too is he,
After the nimble dance, whom he finds lock'd
Fast in his true love's arms. Oh! would that I
Had sunk before the awful Spirit's power—
Entranced, unsouled, absorbed.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
And yet there was
A certain man this night who feared to quaff
A certain dark brown liquor.
FAUSTUS.
Then it seems
It has become your pleasure to perform
The spy's high office.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I am not omniscient,
Yet I know much.
FAUSTUS.
Tho' from my heart's wild tempest
A sweet remembered tone recovered me,
And all my youth's remaining hopes responded
With the soft echo of joys long gone by,
Yet do I curse them all—all—all that captivates
The soul with juggling witchery, and with false
And flattering spells into a den of grief
Lures it, and binds it there. Accursed be
All the proud thoughts with which man learns to pamper
His haughty spirit—cursed be those sweet
Entrancing phantoms which delude our senses—
Cursed the dreams which lure us to the search
Of fame and reputation—cursed all .
Of which we glory in the vain possession,
Children and wife, and slave, and plough—accursed
Be Mammon, when with rich and glittering heaps.
He tempts us to bold deeds, or when he smoothes
The pillow of inglorious dalliance—
Accursed be the grape's enticing juice—
Cursed be love, and hope, and faith—and cursed,
Above all cursed, be the tame dull spirit
Which bears life's evils patiently.
Chores of Invisible Spirits.
Woe! woe!
Thou bast destroyed it.—
This lovely world
Thou but crushed into ruin!
It totters—reels—and falls:
A demi-god has crushed it.!
Mournfully
We bear its fragments oft to vacancy,
And weep
Over its ruined beauty.
Son of the Earth!
As thou art powerful,
In splendour build
The fabric up again:
In thy own bosom build it up!
A renovated life
Begin with clearer sense,
And let new songs resound!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Listen: 'tis the humblest band
Of the spirits whom I command.
Hear how they, so old and wise,
To action and to joy advise.
In the wide world far away,
To no lonely thoughts a prey,
Withering both blood and sense—
Listen, they entice thee hence.
O learn to daily with your misery,
Which like a vulture feeds upon your heart!
The very wont society will teach you
To feel you are a man, with men girt round.
Still must you not beneath your burthen sink.
I do not rank among the great, and yet
With me you are content to spend your life:
If this be so, then here I bind myself
Your firm associate, or if you please,
Your servant or your slave.
FAUSTUS.
And what must I
Perform in recompense.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
For that you have
A long, long respite.
FAUSTUS.
Nay, nay,—answer me;
The Devil is an egotist, and ne'er
Does good to others for the love of God.
Let me know the condition. Such a servant
Brings danger to a house.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Then Faustus, here,
Here do I bind myself to be thy servant,
And at thy nod forsake repose and ease:
When in another place we meet hereafter,
Thou'lt do the like for me.
FAUSTUS.
That other place
Gives me but small concern. When thou hast crushed
This world to ruin, let another rise.
From this earth all my sorrows spring; this sun
Shines upon all my sorrows: once set free
And separate from them, then let the worst
That will and may, betide. I'll bear no more
On such a subject, nor enquire again
Whether beyond the grave man loves and bates,
Or the distinctions of mortality
Exist in yonder spheres.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
With such a feeling
Yon may proceed. Then bind yourself, and soon
My arts shall minister to your delight,
And I will give thee things which human eye
As yet ne'er feasted on.
FAUSTUS.
What can'st thou give,
Thou miserable fiend? can man's high spirit,
Full of immortal longings, be by such
As thou art, comprehended? Thou profferest food
Which mocks its eager appetite; yellow gold,
That melts like quicksilver in the grasping hand;
Games at which none e'er won; enchanting woman,
To lean upon my breast, and while she leans there
Woo with her treacherous smiles another victim,
To sport and perish in them; and bright honour,
Object of highest worship, yet a meteor
Around which darkness closes. No, no, no:
Shew me the fruit that withers ere 'tis plucked,
And trees that day by day their green renewing,
Bloom in perennial beauty.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Thou demandest
Hard things, and yet I shrink not. Thou shalt have
The treasures which thou seekest; but, my friend,
The hoar is coming when we may enjoy
All that is good, in safety.
FAUSTUS.
Would that I
Could but for one short moment rest in peace,
Tho' the next should destroy me. Could you, by
Flattery or spells, seduce me to the feeling
Of one short throb of pleasure; let the hour
That brings it be my last. Take you my offer?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I do accept it.
FAUSTUS.
Be the bargain ratified!
And if at any moment I exclaim:
"Linger, still linger, beautiful illusions,"
Then throw me into fetters; then I'll sink,
And willingly, to ruin. Ring my death-knell;
Thy service then is o'er; the clock may pause,
And the hand fall, and time be mine no longer.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Think of your contract well; 'twill be remember'd.
FAUSTUS.
You're fully authorized. I have not rashly
Plighted my vow. Remorseless fate has doom'd me
To be a fettered slave. What matters it,
Or thine, or whose
Mephistopheles then requires the contract to
be written and signed with blood, to which
Faustus assents, declaring that he is weary of
human knowledge, dissatified and disgusted with
his state and occupation; that he looks forward
to no enjoyment in future, but that which is to be
derived from the practice of magic, and wishes
to experience all the feelings, as well of pain as of
pleasure, which were divided amongst the whole
human species. Mephistopheles• tells him that
man is not made "to digest the old and bitter
leaven of sorrow,"and advises him to plunge
into the vortex of society, and woo the pleasures
of sense. Whilst they are discussing this mys­
tical lore, the step of one' of Faustus's pupils is
heard on the stairs. Faustus declares that he
will not see him, and Mephistopheles offers to
sustain the interview in the Doctor's gown and
cap, and in the short interval during which he is
left alone, soliloquizes thus, on the thoughts and
condition of his absent disciple.
Yes; despise
Reason and knowledge; man's sublimest powers.
Permit thy heart to be by the foul spirit
Hardened in magical delusions; then
Thou wilt be all my own. Fate has bestowed
A soul upon him that still presses forwards,
And whose unlimited desires outstrip
The joy of dull mortality. I'll drag him
Thro' the world's wilderness—thro' tame inanity:
He still shall sprawl, stop, cleave to me; the food
For which he thirsts and hungers shall torment
His aching vision, yet elude his lips:
Still, still unsatisfied, he shall in vain
Pant after new delights. Tho' he had ne'er
Bartered his soul to man's eternal foe,
Ruin must have overtaken him at last.
The student enters, and discourses, as he sup­
poses, with his master, on the prosecution of his
studies. The Devil seems to please. himself by
confusing the senses of his auditor with an ela­
borate survey of the sciences, all of which he
treats with equal sarcasm and contempt. Logic,
metaphysics, law, and divinity, fall successively
under the lash of his satire, until the poor be­
wildered student protests, that "all seems a
dream to him,"and begs but one favour, which
is, that the Doctor will inscribe a sentence in his
album. Mephistopheles writes, and the student
reads this inscription:
Eritis sicut Deus, sciatica batmen et nealum.
He then puts up the book with great reverence,
and retires.
Enter FAUSTUS.
FAUSTUS.
Whither shall we go now?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Whither you please
We will explore the great and little world.
What joy, what benefit, you will experience!
FAUSTUS.
But with this long, grey beard, methinks I want
The easy manners of the world. I cannot
Make this attempt successfully. I never
As yet could learn the happy art of moving
In the world's pageant gracefully. The presence
Of others makes me insignificant.
I shall be ever awkward and ungainly.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
That happy art, my friend, may soon be learned.
So soon as you feel confidence, so soon
The art of life is learned.
FAUSTUS.
How shall we proceed?
Where are your horses, grooms, and carriages?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Look at this mantle! only spread it forth,
And it will bear us through the impassive air.
Take thou nor store, nor scrip: a little gas
Which I will presently prepare, will bear us
From the earth nimbly; if we be but light,
We shall mount rapidly. I give you joy
Of your new course of life.

The first picture of life which Mephistopheles
presents to the observation of Faustus, is a
club of companions singing and drinking in a
cellar at Leipzig. These are the easy sojourners
in the land of existence, who, as the demon re­
marks, "move in a narrow circle, like kittens
hunting their own tails."Faustus and Mephisto­
pheles are welcomed by the revellers, who never­
theless seem struck with the strange shape and
halting gait of Mephistopheles, on which they
pass some' jokes, and ask him to sing them a
song. He complies, and says he would drink if
they had better wine to give him. He offers,
however, to supply them with some of the best-
wine from his own cellar,. if they will bring him
a gimblet. They get one, and he tells each to
choose the wine he prefers, requesting also some
wax, to serve for stoppers. Mephistopheles then
bores a hole in the .table, opposite the spot at
which each person is seated, and stops all the
holes up with the wax, repeating with strange
ejaculations the following spell:

Grapes does the vine bear;
Horns does the goat wear;
The vine is wood, tho' wine is juice,
This wooden table can wine produce;
Here a lesson profound of Nature receive,
Here is a miracle only, believe.
Now draw the corks, and make merry.

They draw the corks, and each has the wine he
longed for. Mephistopheles warns them not to
spill a drop. They drink immoderately. Mean­
while Mephistopheles desires Faustus to observe
the boors, and he will see them punished for their
bestiality. One of the party carelessly lets some
of his wine fall on the ground: it turns to fire,
but Mephistopheles appeases the flame with this
charm, "Be quiet, friendly element." The
boors, who by this time are pretty well advanced
in liquor, begin to quarrel with Mephistopheles.
Another unlucky guest draws one of the waxen
stoppers from the table, and fire flies in his face.
He shrieks with the pain; the whole company
unsheath their knives, and approach Mephisto­
pheles, who with a solemn voice and gesture,
pronounces

False word and face,
Change sense and place;
Be here and be there.

They stand amazed and look at each other. A
momentary frenzy and mental delusion seize
them: they imagine themselves transported to a
vine-yard, and each, imposed upon by a ludicrous
deception, seizes his neighbour's nose, and pre
pares to cut it off, mistaking it for a bunch of
grapes.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Delusion from their eyes the spell withdraw,
Remember, how the devil sported with you.

He vanishes with Faustus. The boors release
each other, and express their mutual astonish­
ment.
Faustus is then taken with Mephistopheles in
search of the elixir of life. With the view of
discovering this, they explore

A WITCH's KITCHEN.

On a low hearth a large cauldron stands over
the fire. In the smoke which arises from it
several figures appear. A female cat-monkey is
sitting by the cauldron, skimming it, and watch­
ing, lest it should boil over. A male cat-
monkey, with the young ones, sits near, warming
itself. The walls and roof are covered with the
strange furniture of a witch's habitation. Faustus
is disgusted with this scene of witchcraft, and
still more at the uninviting appearance of the
liquid contained in the cauldron. He desires re­
course to be had to some other means of renova­
ting life. The devil declares that he knows of
no other, except the natural specifics of air, regi­
men, diet, and hard labour. This is too grovel­
ling a process for one who strives to match him‑
self with spirits. "But why,"he enquires,
"cannot you prepare the draught yourself?"
The answer is ready:—'tis the work of time,
and requires the patient care of the hag, who
possesses the knowledge of its singular and mar­
vellous ingredients. Mephistopheles directs the
attention of Faustus to the familiars, half mon­
keys, and half cats. There is a demi-human in­
telligence in their behaviour and language,
which are nevertheless ludicrously absurd. Me­
phistopheles enquires after their mistress. They
answer in a confused jingle of rhyme

She feasts away
From home to-day,
Up at the chimney's top.

Faustus again testifies his disgust, when the
male monkey crawls up to Mephistopheles, and
fawns upon him, making an almost unintelligible
demand for money. The young animals are
meanwhile amusing themselves with rolling a
large ball or globe, backwards and forwards, the
old monkey uttering a wild comment on their
sport, of which the following is a part:

Like that ball
Does earth rise and fall,
And keep rolling rolling around;
Like glass it jingles,
Like that in dust mingles,
And 'tis hollow beneath the ground.

This mummery continues, until Faustus, who has
been standing before a mirror, approaches it, and
then hastily retreats, exclaiming:

What do I see? what heavenly form is that
Reflected on yon magic mirror's surface?
O love! the swiftest of thy pinions lend,
And bear me to her presence. Wonderful!
When nearer I approach, and leave the spot
Where I now stand entranced, as in a mist
I trace her lovely form. Fairest of Women!
And can it be that Woman is so fair?
Oppressed and fetter'd by this baser form,
Gaze I on all the beauty heaven contains,
Or is there aught so excellent on earth?

Mephistopheles mocks his transport, and as
Faustus still remains with his eyes rivetted on the
illusion, the devil throws himself into a chair,
and sports with the animals. These exhibit
several extraordinary antics, and present him with
a crown, which they immediately drop on the
ground and dash to pieces.
The cauldron, which during their awkward
attempts to ingratiate themselves with Mephisto­
pheles, they had neglected, now boils over, and a
great flame darts up the chimney; whence the
witch descends with a terrific shriek. She first
vents her imprecations on her familiars, and then,
perceiving Faustus and Mephistopheles, thus ad­
dresses them.

What do I see?
And who are ye?
What want ye with me?
What brought you hither?
May the fire-pain wither
Your bones together!

She then stirs the cauldron, and sprinkles
Faustus, Mephistopheles, and the animals, with
flames. The monkeys utter a cry of anguish,
but Mephistopheles discovers himself, and sharply
reprimands the witch for not recognizing her
visitor before. She excuses herself by pleading
that she did not observe his cloven foot, and that
he was unattended by his ravens. He admits the
excuse for once, and infonps her that the im­
provement which has taken place in the world,
has extended to the devil: the northern phantom
with his tail, claws, and horns, he informs her, is
a non-entity; that he still retains the hoof as a
mark of distinction, but disguises his legs as
much as possible. He now requires a glass of
the elixir for Faustus, which the witch readily
gives, first calling Mephistopheles aside, and re­
minding him that if the stranger drinks unpre­
pared, he will not live an hour. The Devil says
there is no danger, for he is a friend.
The witch, making strange gesticulations,
then draws a circle, and places several extraordi­
nary implements within it. The glasses begin to
jingle, and the cauldron to bubble and simmer'
The witch takes a large book, places the cat-
monkeys also within the circle, and gives them
a light to hold, resting her book upon them.
She motions Faustus to approach her.
She then, with strong emphasis, pronounces a
mystical spell, and finally pours out the elixir,
which Faustus is about to drink, when he per­
ceives a light flame rise from it. He starts back,
but, encouraged by Mephistopheles, at length
drains the goblet. The witch breaks the circle;
Faustus steps out, and is desired by his conductor
not to remain passive, but to keep in constant
motion, that the elixir may produce its effect.
Faustus still casts a lingering look towards the
mirror, but Mephistopheles hurries him away,
consoling him with the assurance that' he shall
soon behold the model of female perfection, but
adding, in an under tone, "After the draught
you have swallowed, you will soon think every
woman a Helen."

SCENE.—The Street.

FAUSTUS mod MARGARET crossing the Stage.

FAUSTUS.
Lovely lady, may I venture to offer you my arm and
protection?
MARGARET.
I am neither a lady, nor lovely, and I can go home
without protection.

[Disengages herself, and Exit.

FAUSTUS.
By heaven! this girl is beautiful, more beautiful than
any woman I ever saw; she is so modest and virtuous,
although a little pert. Red lips, blooming cheeks—I shall
never forget this day! the manner in which she cast
down her eyes is indelibly stamped upon my heart. How
quickly she was displeased! This is quite transporting.

Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.

FAUSTUS.
Hear me: I must have that maiden.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Which?
FAUSTUS.
She who has just passed.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
She? She came from her confessor, who has just given
her absolution. I listened hard by: she is quite an inno­
cent creature, who had nothing to confess. I have no
power over her.

Faustus threatens Mephistopheles to part from
him at midnight, if he does not procure her for him
that very night. Mephistopheles declares that
he dares not use force, but must employ cunning,
for which a fortnight at least is requisite, but
promises to introduce Faustus into her chamber.

FAUSTUS.
Can we go now?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
It is too early.
FAUSTUS.
Take care, and procure a present for her.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Making presents already! Bravo! He gets on. I know
many hidden treasures, and many a good spot to search
in. I must look about me a little.
[Exit.

TIME.—Evening.

SCENE.—A small but neat Chamber;

MARGARET, braiding and binding up her Hair.

MARGARET.
I would give something to learn who that gentleman was
whom I met to-day: he had a noble mien, and was cer­
tainly of high birth: I could read it in his looks: he
would not else have been so presuming.
[Exit.

Enter MEPHISTOPHELES and FAUSTUS.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Come in, softly, come in.
FAUSTUS. (After a short pause)
Pray leave me alone.
MEPHISTOPHELES. (prying about.)
Not many maidens are so neat.
[Exit.
discovered the jewels; that being convinced they
had been left for an unworthy purpose, she had
obliged her daughter to make an offering of them
to the virgin; and that with this intent she had
sent for her confessor, and delivered the casket
into his hands. Faustus enquires how Margaret
bore the loss of her finery. Mephistopheles an­
swers that she was very unwilling to part with
it, and adds that now
Uneasily she sits,
Nor knows she what she wants, or what desires;
Thinks of the precious jewels morn and night,
But thinks still more of him who sent them to her.
Faustus expresses compassion for her mortifica­
tion, and directs Mephistopheles to procure for
her another casket more splendid than the first,
and to continue to pay court to the convenient
neighbour, Martha. With these injunctions he
departs.

MEPHISTOPHELES. solus.
So fond a fool would blow into the air
Earth, sun, and moon, and all the heavenly bodies,
As a mere pastime to amuse his love.
[Exit.

FAUSTUS. (lashing around.)
Hail, thou soft twilight, sweetly hallowing
This sanctuary. Pleasing pain of love,
Pierce to my inmost heart, which still is feeding
On Hope's soft dew. A lovely stillness seems
To reign within this chamber. 'Tis th' abode
Of order and content. Oh I there is wealth
In poverty like this, and happiness
Can dwell within a dungeon.

He continues in this train of meditation until
Mephistopheles re-enters.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Quick! I see her coming below.
FAUSTUS.
Away! away! I ne'er will leave this spot.

Mephistopheles produces a casket, which he places
in the cupboard. He then again urges Faustus
to depart, which the latter at length consents
to do.
[Exeunt.

Ester MARGARET bearing a Lamp.

MARGARET.
How close and sultry it is here! (Opens the window,)
and yet it is not warm without. I feel I know not how.
I would my mother were come home. A shivering runs
through my whole body.. What a foolish fearful girl I
am!

She sings a ballad, undressing at the same
time. She then opens the cupboard to put by
her clothes, and discovers the casket of jewels.

MARGARET.
How did this beautiful casket come here? I am sure I
locked the cupboard. 'Tis very wonderful. What can
be in it? Perhaps somebody left it as a pledge, and my mo­
ther has lent some money upon it. There is a small
key tied to it; I think I will open it. What is this? Hea­
vens I look here. I never saw any thing like it. Jewels
A noble lady might wear these on the gayest holiday.
How would this chain become me? To whom can all this
finery belong?
[She decorates herself with the jewels,
and walks before the glass.]
I only wish these ear-rings were mine. I look quite
another thing with them on. What avails beauty, young
girls? It is very well, but that's all. You are praised
and pitied with the same breath. All hunt after gold.
All depends on it. Alas! we poor maidens.

SCENE.—A Public Walk.
Enter FAUSTUS in deep meditation, and to him MEPHISTOPHELES.

Mephistopheles pretends extreme vexation,
and Faustus desiring to know the cause, the for­
mer acquaints him that Margaret's mother had
discovered the jewels; that being convinced they
had been left for an unworthy purpose, she had
obliged her daughter to make an offering of them
to the virgin; and that with this intent she had
sent for her confessor, and delivered the casket
into his hands. Faustus enquires how Margaret
bore the loss of her finery. Mephistopheles an­
swers that she was very unwilling to part with
it, and adds that now
Uneasily she sits,
Nor knows she what she wants, or what desires;
Thinks of the precious jewels morn and night,
But thinks still more of him who sent them to her.
Faustus expresses compassion for her mortifica­
tion, and directs Mephistopheles to procure for
her another casket more splendid than the first,
and to continue to pay court to the convenient
neighbour, Martha. With these injunctions he
departs.

MEPHISTOPHELES. solus.
So fond a fool would blow into the air
Earth, sun, and moon, and all the heavenly bodies,
As a mere pastime to amuse his love.
[Exit.

SCENE—Neighbour Martha's Dwelling.

Martha is discovered in tears. She laments
the state of uncertainty she is in with respect to
the fate of her husband, who has abandoned her,
and whom she believes. to be dead. She ex­
presses a wish to have a certificate of the fact of
his death, to .set her mind at rest. Margaret
enters with'the second casket, which she has just
found, and brought to shew to her friend Martha.
The latter advises her not to inform her mother,
lest she should transfer this casket also to the con­
fessor. Margaret is half wild with joy at the
sight of so many brilliant ornaments. She tries
them on, and looks at herself in the glass; but.
one' cause' of mortification still remains; she can­
not wear them in the streets, or exhibit them at
church for fear of her mother's anger. Martha
invites her to call upon her frequently, when,
she says, they can admire them together; she
suggesta.that some opportunity may offer for dis­
playing them; some festival may take place, at
which she can bring them out singly, and thus
elude observation. Whilst they are engaged in
conversation, Mephistopheles enters, and enquires
for Martha by her name. Martha discovers her­
self, and Mephistopheles takes her aside, declaring
that he has something of importance to commu­
nicate, but that he is reluctant to intrude in the
presence of Margaret,. whom he pretends to take
for a young lady of quality. The garrulous old
woman immediately communicates his mistake
to Margaret, who seems flattered by it, but in­
forms him that she is of but humble birth and
that the jewels which she wears do not belong to
her. Mephistopheles politely observes that it
was not the jewels, but the dignity of her appear­
ance, which occasioned his error. He then in­
forms Martha that her husband is dead, and
desired to be remembered to her with her latest
breath. Martha bursts into tears. Margaret
attempts to console her, and Mephistopheles begs
her to listen to the conclusion of the melancholy
tale. "Her husband,"he adds, "lies buried in
consecrated ground, attached to Saint Anthony's
church at Padua."She enquires-if he had sent
her any thing. "Yes,"rejoins Mephistopheles,
"one strict injunction, to cause three hundred
masses to be said -for his soul; for the rest my
pockets are empty."Martha is offended that
he did not send her a keep-sake, and is still more
so when she learns that he attributed his deser­
tion of home to the usage he received from her,
and that he had spent all he gained upon a fair
damsel at Naples. Mephistopheles advises her,
when the term of mourning is expired, to look
out for another husband. He sportively makes
her a half-offer of himself, but perceiving that
she is "nothing loath,"says aside, "now it is
time to be off; she would tie the devil himself to
his word." He turns to Margaret

MEPHISTOPHELES.
What is the state of your heart
MARGARET.
What do you mean, Sir?
MEPHISTOPHELES. (aside)
A good girl—quite innocent.—(aloud.)—Ladies! Fare­
well!

Martha begs him, as he is going, to procure for
her a certificate of the time and manner of her
husband's death and burial, in order that she may
have it inserted in the Weekly Gazette. Me­
phistopheles observes that the testimony of two
witnesses is requisite, and offers to bring a friend
of his with him who will willingly depose to the
fact before the proper tribunal. He expatiates
on his friend's courteous manners. Margaret
makes a timid remark, and Martha concludes the
conversation, by stating that they will wait the
arrival of their visitors that evening in the garden.

SCENE.—The Street.

Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHELES.

FAUSTUS.
How now can it be done? Shall we succeed, and speedily?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
'Tis well: I find you hot.
Margaret will soon be yours; for at the house
Of her near neighbour, Martha, who seems born
To play the procuress, we shall this night see her.
FAUSTUS.
'Tis well.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yet something still will be required of us.
FAUSTUS.
One service well deserves another.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
We must give valid evidence that the body
Of Martha's husband rests in holy ground
At Padua.
FAUSTUS.
A rare project truly: we must make
The journey first.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Sancta simplicitas!
There is no need of that: you can depose,
Tho' you know nought about the fact.
FAUSTUS.
If you
Have nothing better plann'd than this, the project
Must be abandoned.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Oh, most pious man!
Has this become a stumbling-block? Would this
Be the first moment of your life in which
You've borne false witness? Did you never give
Sage definitions of God—earth—and all
That dwells therein;—of man, and every impulse
Of head and heart; all given positively .
With unseared conscience and unblushing front?
Yet weigh the subject duly; you'll confess
You had as little knowledge of these things
As of this good man's death.
FAUSTUS.
Devil! thou art,
And will be still a sophist and a liar.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes, yes I if that were all I knew. Will you,not,
Honourable as you call yourself, to morrow
Delude poor Margaret, and swear you love her
Even from your very soul.
FAUSTUS.
Aye, and swear truly.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
'Tis wond'rous well: and then you'll add love, truth,
Eternal truth, and passion uncontrolable.
Will that be truly sworn too?
FAUSTUS.
No more: it will:
When my heart labours with impassioned feelings,
I seek for names to call them by, and find none.
Then do I wander through the world, and catch
Words of high import, and this fire which wastes me
I call eternal, endless, everlasting.
Is that a false and lying trick of hell?
Faustus finally yields to the reasoning of Me­
phistopheles, and they depart together.

SCENE.--A Garden.

Enter MARGARET leaning upon the arm of FAUSTUS­
MEPHISTOPHELES leading Martha.—They walk up and
down.

The conversation between Faustus and Margaret in this scene, is interrupted at the parts marked with asterisks by another disconnected dialogue between Mephistopheles and Martha, who advance and deliver their sentiments as the former retreat. In this dialogue Martha lays strong siege to the heart of Mephistopheles, who answers in his usual ironical and sarcastic manner.

MARGARET.
I see you put up with my rudeness, Sir,
And in your goodness thus demean yourself,
To make me blush. Travellers are so polite!
I'm well persuaded, to so learn'd a man
My simple prating must be dull indeed.
FAUSTUS. (kissing her hand)
One look from you, one word of yours contain
More than the wisdom of this world.
* * * * * * *
MARGARET.
Aye, out of sight, and out of mind. Politeness
Yields you full store of compliment, but friends
You have, yes, many friends, who're wiser far
Than I.
FAUSTUS.
Nay, dearest! what the world calls wisdom,
Believe me, oft is vanity and folly.
MARGARET.
How?
FAUSTUS.
O ne'er do innocence, and simple virtue,
Know their own value, and their holiest worth.
Sweet modesty and mild humility
Are the most precious blessings which the hand
Of bounteous, lovely Nature, showers down
Upon an earthly head.
MARGARET.
Think of me only for a single moment:
I shall have time enough to think of you.
FAUSTUS.
Are you, then, often much alone?
MARGARET.
Yes; for our family is but small; and yet
Requires attendance: we maintain no servant:
It is my task to cook and tend the house,
Knit, sew, and toil from morn till eventide:
Besides, my mother is so strict and nice,
Not that she need, indeed, be quite so frugal;
My father left a competence—a small house
And garden; yet I rarely cease from toil.
My brother is a soldier; my young sister
Is in her grave: I had much trouble with her,
Yet willingly would I endure it all
Again, I loved her so—even from my heart.
FAUSTUS.
If she resembled you she was an angel.
MARGARET.
One moment stay.— (She gathers a flower, and plucks the
leaves off one by one.)
FAUSTUS.
What is that for? a nosegay?
MARGARET.
No, only play.
FAUSTUS.
What play?
MARGARET.
Go to: you'll laugh.—(She tears the flower, and mutters
something indistinctly.)
FAUSTUS.
What is that you say so softly?
MARGARET, (half aloud.)
He loves me—loves me not.
FAUSTUS.
Sweet heavenly countenance!
MARGARET. (repeating)
He loves me—loves me not.—He loves me—not.
(Plucks the last leaf, and exclaims, with wild delight)
He loves me!
FAUSTUS.
Yes, yes, my love, and be this flowery omen
To thee an oracle of heaven. He loves thee!
Know'st thou the meaning of these words, "he loves thee?"

He seizes both her hands, but Margaret soon disengages herself, and runs off. He stands a moment lost in thought, and then follows her. Mephistopheles and Martha re-enter.

MARTHA.
Night approaches.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes, we must away.
MARTHA.
I willingly would press your stay, but here
Scandal abounds; here every eye is turned
To watch its neighbour's steps; even we should not
Escape. But where do our young couple loiter?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
They have just flown away up yonder walk,
A pretty pair of sportive butterflies.
MARTHA.
He seems to be enamoured of the girl.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
And she of him—thus runs the world away.
[Exeunt.

SCENE.—A Summer-house.
MARGARET comes jumping in, conceals herself behind the
door, prems her fingers to her lips, and peeps through the
chink.

MARGARET.
He is coming.

Enter FAUSTUS.

FAUSTUS.
You little rogue, and is it thus you trick me?
Ha! have I caught you?— (Kisses her.)
MARGARET, (returning his kiss.)
Thou best of men I love thee from my heart.
[Mephistopheles knocks at the door.
FAUSTUS. (stamping with impatience)
Who's there?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
A friend.
FAUSTUS.
A beast.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Tik time to leave; we must depart.
MARTHA. (entering.)
Indeed, Sir, it is late.
FAUSTUS.
May I not see you home?
MARGARET.
My mother would—Farewell!
MARTHA.
Adieu!
MARGARET.
Soon to meet again.
[Exuent: FAUSTUS sad MEPHISTOPHELES.
MARGARET.
Dear me, how wise he is! I stand before him quite
ashamed, and answer "yes" to all he asks. I am a very
silly creature. I cannot think what 'tis he sees in me.
[Exuent.

SCENE.—A Forest and Cavern.

FAUSTUS.
Oh, thou great Spirit, thou bast given to me
All, all that I desired. Thou bast not turned
Thy beaming countenance in vain upon me.
Thou gav'st me glorious Nature for a kingdom,
The faculty to feel and to enjoy her.
Thou didst not merely grant a cold short glimpse,
But laid her deepest mysteries open to me,
As a friend's bosom. All created things
Thou mak'st to pass before me; and the beings
Peopling the fragile leaf—the air—the waters—
Are to my sight revealed; while, when The storm
Howls crackling through the forest—tearing down
The giant pines, crushing both trunk and branch,
And makes the hills re-echo to their fall,
Then to the sheltering cave thou leadest me,
And there layest bare the deep and secret places
Of my own heart. There I may gaze upon
The still moon wandering through the pathless heaven;
While on the rocky ramparts, from the damp
Moist bushes, rise the forms of ages past
In silvery majesty, and moderate
The too wild luxury of silent thought.
O now I find and feel the lot of man
Is not perfection: with this high delight
Which brings me near and nearer to the gods,
Thou gayest me an associate, without whom
I can exist no mote, though insolent
And cold, he humbles me into myself,
And turns thy gifts to nothing with a breath.
With busy malice in my breast he fans
An ardent flame for that bright form of beauty.
Thus from desire I reel on to enjoyment,
And in enjoyment languish for desire.

Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Are yon not weary of this life? How long
Can it bestow enjoyment? 'Tis enough
To taste but once, then on to something new.
FAUSTUS.
Would you had other occupation
Than to torment me on a happy day!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Well, I can leave you to yourself most willingly;
You would not say thus much to me in earnest.
Such a companion, so unkind, so harsh,
So mad, is verily not much to lose.
All the day long my hands have toil'd for thee,
And yet in my lord's looks I n'er can trace
The purpose of his mind—or what he wishes
Accomplished, what untried.
FAUSTUS.
That's the right tone—
Look you for thanks for being wearisome?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Poor child of earth! how would'at thou have dragged thro'
This life without me? Long ago I rescued thee
From the vain phantasms of imagination;
And were it not for me thou would'st ere this
Have ceased to tread this globe. Why dost thou thus
Flit like a weak-eyed owl in-caves and clefts?
Why like the toad draw nourishment obscene
From moss and dripping stones? fitting pastime—
You have not yet renounced your former calling.
FAUSTUS.
Could'st thou divine what rapturous blissfulness
This wandering in the wilderness imparts,
Thou would'st be devil enough to envy me.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Envy thee what? thy lying on the mountains
Amidst the night-dew? Yearning to embrace
All earth and heaven?—swelling thy pigmy spirit
In fond imagination to a god's?
Rooting from out thee every trace of earth?—
Feeling a whole week's business in thy bosom,
And arrogantly grasping unknown bliss
Till thou seem'st earth's no more; and then the high,
The wond'rous intuition? (with a grimace.) I dare not
Proceed.—
FAUSTUS.
Fye on you!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
You're displeased,
And you must utter now the well-bred "fye."
We must not whisper to chaste ears of that
Which chaste hearts can't dispense with. Briefly, then,
I grant you now and then the bliss of lying,
But it must not last long. You have been sinking
Into your former state, and soon will be
As wretched as at first. Enough of this;
Your true love sits at home, and all goes cross
With her: she cannot root you from her heart;
She loves you—passionately loves you. Once
You could return affection, and your love
Was like a brook swollen with melted snow;
The brook is shallow now again. Methinks,
Instead of reigning like a monarch here,
Amidst the woods and wilds, 'twere well if you
Would stoop your greatness to the poor fond girl
Whose heart is breaking for you. Time seems long,
Piteously long to her, and at her window
She stands and gazes at the busy crowd
Upon the town walls. "Would I were a bird!"
That is her song from morn till eventide;
And sometimes she is cheerful—oftener sad;
Tears then will fill her eyes, and then again
A seeming calmness fills her heart but love
Is its unwearied inmate.
FAUSTUS.
Serpent! serpent!
MEPHISTOPHELES. (aside.)
Aye; I shall catch you yet.
FAUSTUS.
Cursed villain!
Begone: name not that lovely creature:—do not
Invite my half infuriated senses
To wish her mine again.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
What then must be
The sad result? She thinks you have forsaken her;
And so you have almost.
FAUSTUS.
Nay, I am near her;
And were the winds and waves a barrier 'twat us,
I never can forget her, ne'er forsake her.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Well, my friend, often have I envied you
Beneath the roses, like two twins embracing.
FAUSTUS.
Away, base Pandar!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Ah! you abuse me: I must laugh.
Now 'tis great pity—you shall once more enter
Her chamber, not to death.
FAUSTUS.
What joy,
What heavenly joy is in her arms! Oh! let me
Repose upon her bosom: do I not
Participate her woe? Oh! am I not
The fugitive—the houseless wanderer
The wild barbarian without an object?
Or like a cataract that from rock to rock
With eager fury leaps heralding ruin;—
And she with childlike passions undisturbed
In her own little cottage, girt around
With smiling fields, rested, without a wish
Beyond that narrow world? But I, th' abhorred
Of God, was not content to seize the rocks
And beat them into fragments, but even her,
And her young mind's sweet peace I undermin'd,
And made a ruin there. Hell, take thy victim!
Help me, thou Devil, to cut short these hours
Of torture! Let what must be, be at once!
May her fate overwhelm me—when I sink
Let her sink with me!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
How you foam and rave!
Go in, fool, and console her. Your weak fancy,
When it cannot perceive the outlet, thinks
The end is come at once. Long live the brave!
Now, Faustus, thou art well nigh demonized:
There is nought more ridiculous than this—
A Devil that despairs.

SCENE.—MARGARET'S Chamber.

MARGARET, at her Spinning-Wheel,
SINGS.
My peace of mind's ruin'd;
My bosom is sore,
I ne'er meet him now,
I shall ne'er meet him more.

Where he is not present,
A dark grave I see;
The universe round
Is a prison to me.

My poor shatter'd reason
Is quickly departing;
And my poor foolish heart
With sorrow is smarting.

My peace of mind's ruin'd;
My bosom is sore;
I ne'er meet him now,
I shall ne'er meet him more.

I open my window,
And watch for him there,
I go forth and wander,
And search every where.

His firm stately tread,
His form, manly and high,
The smile on his lip,
And the fire of his eye:

And his eloquent tongue
Dropping accents of bliss,
His hand's gentle pressufe,
And, ah! me, his kiss,

My peace of mind's ruin'd,
My bosom is sore,
ne'er meet him now,
I shall ne'er meet him more.

My wild bosom swells
At the thought of his coming,
Oh! could I but clasp him,
And keep him from roaming;

And give him one kiss,
As I should then so madly,
And receive but his kisses,
I would die then, how gladly!

SCENE.—MARTHA's Garden.

MARGARET and FAUSTUS.

MARGARET.
Promise me, Henry.
FAUSTUS.
I promise whatever is in my power.
MARGARET.
Pray tell me what are your sentiments with respect to re-­
ligion? You are a perfectly good man, and yet, methinks,
you do not much regard it.
FAUSTUS.
Abandon that topic, dearest. You feel that I am kind to
you. I would lay down my life for her I love, and will
never rob any human being of his faith and his religion.
MARGARET.
This will not suffice, you must believe.
FAUSTUS.
Must I?
MARGARET.
Ah! if I could but prevail on you. You do not venerate
the holy sacraments.
FAUSTUS.
I do.
MARGARET.
But still without desiring to partake of them. It is long
since you have been to mass or confession. Do you be-­
lieve in God?

Faustus replies to this interrogatory by one of
those mystical definitions of belief in God which
characterize the professors of natural religion.
Margaret, however, notwithstanding her girlish
simplicity, has too much good sense to be imposed
upon by general professions of faith calculated to
cover any kind of religious creed. She tells him
he has no christianity, and, desirous apparently
to turn from so unpleasant a subject, she then
changes the conversation, and then expresses her
dislike to her lover's constant companion, Mephistopheles.

MARGARET.
It has to me been long a source of grief
To meet with you in such society.
FAUSTUS.
How so?
MARGARET.
The man whom you associate with
Is hateful to my sight. In all my life
My heart has never felt so deep a stab
As that man's hideous aspect gives it.
FAUSTUS.
Angel!
Fear him not.
MARGARET.
Oh! his presence stirs my blood.
I have a kindly feeling for all men,
But greatly as I long to see you, Henry,
I meet him with you, with an inward shudder,
And have a deep conviction he's a villain.
May heaven forgive me if I do him wrong!
FAUSTUS.
In this wide world there must be such as he.
MARGARET.
I would not live with any such as he,
No, not for worlds. When in our house he enters,
He casts around him a malicious glance,
And almost grins—'tis plain he feels for none.
'Tis written on his brow, that human soul
He cannot love: when on thy breast reclined
I feel so easy, fondly confident,
That man's appearance withers every feeling.
FAUSTUS.
Oh I thou sweet warning angel.
MARGARET.
It o'erpowers
So strongly every feeling of my heart,
That if his presence shocks my sight much longer,
I think 'twill stifle even my love for you.
When he is near, I have not power to pray;
That thought alone disturbs my peace of mind.
I think that you must feel as I do, Henry.
FAUSTUS.
Nay, nay, my love, 'tis nought but prejudice.
MARGARET.
I must away.

Faustus here intreats her to admit him to her
chamber. He offers her a liquid, three drops of
which, he says, will seal her mother's eyes in
sleep, and then he may steal in unobserved.
She demands to be assured that it will have no
other injurious effects, and he gives her that as­
surance. The result iseasily divined. Margaret
administers the potion, that she may indulge her
licentious passion. The mother sleeps, never to
rise again. Margaret becomes pregnant, and
the fiend exults over the ruin he has achieved,

The nest SCENE is at the Fountain.

Margaret and Betty enter with their pitchers,
to fetch water from the spring. The latter en­
quires if Margaret has heard what has happened
to their companion Barbara. 'She tells how that
unfortunate girl has been seduced and aban­
doned. She has no pity for her, but Margaret
seems deeply impressed with the affecting tale;
and, as she returns solitarily to her home, she
applies it to her own situation, and is struck with
remorse of conscience when she reflects on what
she has been and now is.

MARGARET, (Soliloquy.)
Alas! how sternly I could once reproach
When any poor young maid had gone astray;
To expose another's sins, my ready tongue
Could scarce find words enough to vent its spleen!
In vain they blamed; when all of blame was said,
Methought the crime was hardly blamed enough.
How did I bless myself, and raise my head,—
And now behold me pale with sin myself!
But oh! the cause that urged me to transgress,
How dear it was! O Heavens! how beautiful!

The FAUSSE-BRAYE.

In a niche in the wall is an image of the
Mater Dolorosa: before it are some flower-pots;
Margaret places fresh flowers in the pots.

HYMN.
Oh! do not scorn her,
Heavenly mourner,
Who prays thee to behold her woe;
Pierced through his side,
With sufferings tried,
Thou saw'st thy son's last pangs below.
Then to the father turned'st thine eyes;
Thy piteous sobs, thy piercing sighs
Rose up for his, and for thy woe.

None can conceive
How deep I grieve,
And how pain shoots thro' every bone;
How my poor heart in throbs expires,
How trembles still, and still desires,
Thou only know'st, thou know'st alone.

Where'er, where'er I go,
Woe only, only woe,
Is all that change of place can win me;
I scarcely feel alone,
I weep, and sigh, and moan,
And my heart bursts within me.

The stand before my window
I dropped a tear upon,
As with fresh flowers I filled it,
When early morning shone.

When through my chamber darted,
The sun's beams"'gan to play,
I rose up broken-hearted,
And sadly watched his ray.

Help! save from shame, from Death's fell blow!
Oh! do not scorn her,
Heavenly mourner,
Who prays to behold her woe.

TIME.—Night.

SCENE.—Before MARGARET's Door.

Valentine, the brother of Margaret, enters. He
has discovered his sister's infamy, which has now
become the public talk of the town. He thus
bitterly laments the loss of honour to her and to
himself:—

Oh! when with merry comrades I have sat,
When many an idle vaunt broke gaily forth,
And to the flower of.maidens many a glass,
Filled to the brim, has drowned the word of praise;
Hemmed by the circling throng, I proudly listen'd
To every trooper's story, and I smiled,
And stroked my beard, and thought how vain it was.
Then, raising the full goblet to my lips,
I said, let every man think as he lists;
But chew me now, my friends, in all the land,
A maiden equal to my own dear Margaret,
A maiden fit to minister to my sister [forth;
Done! done! cling, clang, such boisterous sounds broke
But some more shrewdly said, "the lad is.right,
She is indeed the jewel of her sex.,"
And every foolish praiser was struck dumb
And now, by heaven! it is, it is enough
To make me tea? my hair, and dash my brains out,
Each scurvy fellow turns his nose up at me,
And pierces, with his bitter taunts, my heart.
I sit me down, as if I were a criminal,
And shrink, and start at every random word,
And tho' I have the power to smite the wretches,
Alas! I have not power to say they lie.

At the close of his soliloquy, he sees Faustus and
Mephistopheles, approaching cautiously under
cover of the night. Faustus describes the state
of his feelings:—

How from the casement of yon sacristy,
The ever-burning lamp gleams dimly out,
And casts a fainter, and a fainter ray
Into the darkness which now gathers round it:­
So darkly, gleams the ray within my bosom!

Mephistopheles replies in his'accustomed ironical manner, declaring that he feels new spirit on the eve of the approaching first of May, which
ushers in the festal night of spirits and witches.
He plays a serenade on the guitar, and sings be­
neath Margaret's window. Valentine then
comes forward, and with violent invectives
assails them both. Mephistopheles desires Faus­
tus to draw his sword, and make a thrust at the
young soldier, whilst he parries his blow. The
soldier's arm is paralyzed by the demon, and
Faustus runs him through the body. He utters
a cry of pain, and falls. Mephistopheles. hurries
Faustus off, and Martha and Margaret appear at
the window, alarmed at the cry of the wounded
man. A crowd assembles. The two females
come forth from the house, and Margaret enquires
who it is that lies on the ground.

THE CROWD.
Thy mother's son.
MARGARET.
Almighty Power! what misery!
VALENTINE.
I'm hurt to death. That is a word soon said,
And sooner still the blow was given that caused it.
Women, why stand ye there, and shriek, and moan?
Come hither, listen to my parting breath.

He addresses himself particularly to Margaret;
he reproaches her with her shame; he tells her of
the progress of vice, from the first commission of
thecrime, to the hardened impudence of practised
infamy. He describes sin, when first born, as
drawing the veil of night over its countenance;
then it may be crushed without resistance. But
soon it grows and waxes great, and displays its
pale face to the light of day. Strange perversity!
As its visage becomes more hideous, the more it
courts notice, and tempts the eye of light. He
prophecies that the time will come when she will
feel the bitter pangs of remorse—when all will
shrink from her touch as from an infected corpse
—when she will not dare to flaunt in her golden
chain and stand at the altar=when she will no
longer captivate in the dance, but shrink into
some dark corner, a beggar and a cripple
when heaven may pardon, but earth will heap
maledictions on her head. Martha interferes,
and entreats him not to burthen his parting soul
with calumny, but he indignantly spurns her as
a shameless pandar, and wishes that he had suf­
ficient strength remaining to enable him to in­
flict on her that vengeance which she merits.
Margaret bursts forth into an exclamation of
bitter anguish, and her brother utters this mourn­
ful admonition, and dies:—

Nay, dry these tears,—'tis now too late to mourn;
Then when you spake the word that yielded honour,
You gave the deepest stab that pierced my heart.
I woo the sleep of death, and go to God,
As best befits a brave man, and a soldier.

SCENE.—The Cathedral.
Celebration of Mass.—Organ and Singing.
A numerous congregation—MARGARET among the rest-an
EVIL SPIRIT standing behind her.

EVIL SPIRIT.
How different, Margaret, were thy feelings once,
When still a child, and young, and innocent,
Here at the altar's foot with reverence kneeling,
From thy worn book, lisping the daily prayer,
Mixing with infant sports, a thought of heaven!
Margaret, how rests thy mind? What evil lurks
Within thy heart? Didst thou come here to pray
For thy poor mother's soul, who by thy crime
Was plunged in lingering pain? What blood is this
Which stains thy threshold? Feel'st thou not within thee
Another proof of sin already stirring,
Another warning of fresh springing torment?•
MARGARET.
Woe! woe! oh, that I were released from thoughts
That rise in spite of me, and 'whelm my soul
In one wild ocean of despair!

THE CHOIR.
Dies irae, dies illa,
Solvet saeclum in favilla.

[The Organ sounds.
EVIL SPIRIT.
Heaven's wrath pursues thee; now the trumpet sounds—
The tombs are shaken—and, again created,
Thy heart arises from its ashy bed,
And wakes to fiery tortures.
MARGARET.
Oh! that I were away from hence. Methinks
The organ drowns my breathing, and the hymns
Sink in my heart, and rend its strings asunder.

THE CHOIR.
ludex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latel adparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.

MARGARET.
I feel oppress'd; the pillars and the walls
Close in upon me, and the vaulted roof
Descends to crush me. Air! a breath of air
EVIL SPIRIT.
What would'st thou seek to hide thee? sin and shame
Cannot be hidden. Ask'st thou air and light?
Woe, woe unto thee!

THE CHOIR.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quern patronum rogaturus?
Cum viz justus sit securus!

EVIL SPIRIT.
The blest avert their faces; the pure souls
Shrink from extending forth their hands to save thee;
Woe!

THE CHOIR.
Quid sum miser tune dicturus

MARGARET, (To a bystander)
Help, neighbour! oh! support me.
[Falls into a swoon.

The famous Walpurgis-Night, or night of the
first of May, is now arrived, and the scene,
changing to the Har/z mountains, discovers
Faustus, under the guidance of Mephistopheles,
pursuing a toilsome journey, climbing up rocks,
and threading the labyrinths of this region of
magic to the heights consecrated to the celebra­
tion of the Witches' Revel. The last breeze of
spring blows coldly; the moon shines dimly
above their heads, scarcely distinguishing the
projecting boughs and jutting cliffs. Mephisto­
pheles calls an ignis-fatuv,s to light them. It
proceeds before them in its usual tortuous course,
till it is commanded by the Evil-One to go straight
forward. The travellers join in a wild strain,
descriptive of the surrounding objects of wonder
—the moving trees—the bending cliffs—the
frilling torrents and rivulets—the unearthly
sounds—and the echo like the voice of other
times. Birds of all kinds are still in concert, as
if it were day; reptiles in motion; knotty trunks
stretched out in all directions, twining like ser­
pents, as if to intercept their path; and swarms
of glow-worms sparkling all around. Mephisto­
pheles directs Faustus's attention to the veins of
ore glowing in a deep cleft of the mountain; he
scents the approach of the concourse of guests
hurrying forward through the air to this great
magic festival, and desires his charge to hold
fast to the rock, or he will be swept to the preci­
pices below. He thus paints the aspect of the
scene before them:—

O'er the night a cloud condenses,
Through the woods a rush commences,
Up the owls affrighted start;
Listen! how the pillars part,
The ever-verdant roofs from under,
Boughs rustle, snap, and break asunder!
The trunks incline in fearful forms,
Roots creak and stretch, as torn by storms;—
In startling, and entangled fall,
Upon each other rush they all,
And through rent clefts and shattered trees,
Now sighs and howls the rushing breeze.
Hear'st thou voices in the air,
Now far distant, and now near?
Yes, the mountain's ridge along
Sweeps a raging, magic song!

The witches then appear in full band, mounted
on broom-sticks, pitch-forks, goats, and sows,
sailing in troughs, and decorated with all the
paraphernalia of their order. They sing a rude
measure, the voices of those above, and of those
who are making their way up the mountain,
mingling in the chorus. Mephistopheles again
warns Faustus to be on his guard, lest they should
be separated. He recommends him to hold fast
to his skirts. The voice of Faustus in reply,
sounds from a considerable distance. Mephisto­
pheles perceives the danger to be imminent, and
exerts his authority in commanding the throng
to make way. He enjoins Faustus to attach
himself to him, and leaps out of the rushing po­
pulation. They approach a detached spot, where
many fires are blazing. Mephistopheles displays
the all-potent sign, the cloven foot; a serpent
recognizes it, and crawls towards him. The two
visitants advance from party to party, listen to
the converse of each, and gaze on their revels.
Mephistopheles suddenly assumes the form of an
old man. He points out to Faustus, Lilith,
Adam's first wife, distinguished by her beautiful
hair. Faustus addresses himself to a fair magi­
cian, and Mephistopheles to an old witch. They
lead them forth to dance. Faustus abandons his
partner, disgusted by an evidence of her un­
earthly nature. He describes to Mephistopheles
the sight which shocked him, and another object
also which has interested him more nearly. The
following dialogue passes between them.

FAUSTUS.
Then saw I——
MEPHISTOPHELES.
What?
FAUSTUS.
Mephisto, dost thou see
A pale fair maid, alone there, standing yonder?
She moves away but slowly, and her step
Appears constrained, as though her feet were fettered.
Methinks—I must confess the thought that strikes me,
She wears the semblance of my own dear Margaret.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Dismiss the thought; 'tis merely idle fancy.
That is a form of magic without life.
It is a phantom which thou must not meet:
Her withering glance would chill thy mortal blood,
And turn thee into stone. Thou know'st the tale
Of her of old, Medusa.
FAUSTUS.
In truth those eyes belong to one not living,
Whom human hand may vainly seek to touch;
But that is like the bosom I have pressed,
And that is the sweet form I have embraced.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
'Tis magic all: thou silly, dreaming fool,
She seems to every lover, like his mistress.
FAUSTUS.
Oh! what delight, and yet, alas! what sorrow!
I cannot turn my eyes from gazing on it;
I marvel why that slender scarlet string,
Not broader than a knife's flat ridge, is twined
Around its lovely neck.

Mephistopheles turns the whole into a jest, and
hurries him away to a little hillock, where an
interlude is represented, entitled Walpurgis­
Night, or Oberon and Titania's Golden Nuptials,
which, as it has no connexion with the main plot
of the piece, we do not translate.

SCENE—The Country.—A gloomy day*

*[Coleridge footnote:] This Scene is in prose in the original, and is therefore so
translated.

FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHELES.

FAUSTUS.
In sorrow! in despair! so long and piteously astray, and
now in prison! That gentle, hapless creature, cast, like a
worthless criminal, into a gloomy dungeon, and reserved
for horrid tortures! And is it come to this; to this—de.
luding, treacherous demon! This then thou kept'st secret!
Aye, roll thy hideous eyes in devilish fury on me. Stand
there with thy insufferable front, and brave my anger. In
a dungeon! In hopeless wretchedness! To fiends aban-­
doned and her merciless human judges; and all this while
hast thou been lulling my attention with thy silly pas-­
times, concealing from me her increasing woe, and leaving
her to perish unrelieved.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
She is not the first.
FAUSTUS.
Dog! horrible monster! Transform him, thou Eternal
Spirit! again transform the reptile to his canine form—
that form in which he crept across my path, rolling before
the harmless passenger, watching his stumbling steps and
clinging to his falling weight. Change him again into
his favourite shape, and let him creep before me on his
belly, that I may trample him beneath my feet into the
dust: the wretch! not the first! Oh! sorrow, sorrow—
beyond all human reason to conceive, that more than one
created being into so frightful an abyss of misery has been
plunged, and that the agonies that one endured, were not
in infinite mercy's sight a just atonement for the crimes
of all. The misery of this one victim harrows the sense
of life within me, and thou—thou lookest with fiendish
sneer upon the fate of thousands.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Now we are again at our wit's end, where Man's sense
cracks. Why didst thou make a compact with us, if thou
cant not go through with it? What, wouldst thou fly,
and art not proof 'gainst giddiness? Did we intrude on
thee, or thou on us?
FAUSTUS.
Gnash not thy hungry teeth at me! I hate thee. Power­
ful, glorious spirit, who deign'dst to shew thyself to me,
who know'st my heart and soul, why bind me to this vile
associate, who feeds on mischief, and exults in ruin?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Hast finished now?
FAUSTUS.
Save her, or woe betide thee! The curse of curses most
appalling light for a thousand years upon thee!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I cannot sever the avenger's bonds, or loose his bolts.
Save her? who was it plunged her into ruin—I or thou?
(Faustus looks wildly around.) Art thou about to grasp
the thunder? 'Tis well it was not given to blind morta­
lity. To crush the innocent who fronts his path; that is
the tyrant's way to 'scape from difficulties.
FAUSTUS.
Take me to her. She shall, she must be free!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
And yet thy own danger—think of that? know that the
guilt of blood, thy hand bath shed, still rests upon the
town. Above the grave, where lies the slain, avenging
spirits hover and await the murderer's second coming.
FAUSTUS.
That too from thee! the death and the destruction of a
world, unholy Send, light on thee I conduct me to her,
I command thee, and release her.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I will conduct thee: hear what I can do! have I all
power in heaven and earth? I will entrance the jailor's
senses; do thou obtain the key, and, with thy mortal
hand, from out the dungeon-walls 'convey her. I will be
waiting near. The phantom-steeds, in readiness, shall
bear you off. This I can do.
FAUSTUS.
Away, then—to it.
[Exeunt.

TIME.—Night.

SCENE.—The open Country.

FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHELES mounted on black horses rush by.

FAUSTUS.
What forms are those hovering about the place of exe-­
cution?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
I know not what they're doing.
FAUSTUS.
See, they flit up and down—they bend and stoop.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
A witches' meeting.
FAUSTUS.
They are sprinkling now,
Hallowing the charm.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
On, on!
[Eseunt.

SCENE—The Prison.

FAUSTUS before the dungeon gates, with a key and a lamp.

FAUSTUS.
A trembling long unfelt assails my limbs,
And all the grief of man now sinks upon me.
There does she dwell, in yonder damp recess;
Her fault, her only fault—a yielding heart.
Thou tremblest to approach her, and thine eye
Dread'st to behold her once again. Away!
Thou lingerest in thy fear while death is nigh.

[He seises the lock. A voice is heard within, singing
a rude ballad, so gross as to indicate insanity.

FAUSTUS, (unlocking the dungeon door.)
She dreams not that her love is listening near,
Hears the straw rustle, and the fetters clank. [He enters.
MARGARET, (striving to conceal herself in her straw-bed.)
Woe, woe! they come: oh! bitter, bitter death!
FAUSTUS, (softly.)
Hush, hush! 'tis I: I come to set you free.
MARGARET, (throwing herself before him)
If thou art human, pity my distress.
FAUSTUS.
You will alarm the slumbering jailors: hush!
[He lays hold of the fetters to unloose them.
MARGARET, (on her knees.)
Ruffian! who gave thee this authority,
To bear me off in the still hour of midnight.
Have mercy! let me live a little longer:
Will not the morning's dawn be time enough? [Rises.
Am I too still so young—so young, and must I
Already die? Fair also was I once,
And that has been my ruin; then my love
Dwelt near me: now, alas! he's far away.
My garland is all torn, and every flower
Is scattered: nay, nay, seize me not so rudely!
Spare me! how have I injured thee? Let me
Not supplicate in vain for mercy to thee:
'Tis the first time I e'er beheld thy face.
FAUSTUS.
Can I survive this sight of agony?
MARGARET.
Thou see'st I'm in thy power—then let me only
Give suck to my poor babe: the whole night long
I pressed it to my bosom: 'twas stolen from me
To drive me mad, and now they say I kill'd it.
No more shall I know joy—no; they sing ballads
Upon me; 'tis unfeeling: there's an old song
Runs in that strain, how came they to apply it?
FAUSTUS, (falling upon his knees)
Behold thy lover at thy feet, he comes
To break the heavy bonds of woe asunder.
MARGARET, (kneels by his side)
O, let us kneel and supplicate the saints!
See, see! beneath these steps, beneath this threshold,
Hell rolls its fires; and, hark! the Evil One
Raves wrathfully, and horribly below.
FAUSTUS, (aloud.)
Margaret, Margaret!
MARGARET, (listens—then jumps up—the fetters fall of)
That surely was the voice of him who loved me;
Where does he stay I hear him call my name.
I am at liberty; none, none, shall stay me:
I fly to embrace, to hang upon his bosom:
Margaret he called; he stood upon the threshold;
Amid the howling and the din of hell,
Thru' fiends, dark taunts, and diabolic laughter,
I know those sweet, those soothing tones of love.
FAUSTUS.
'Tis I!
MARGARET.
And is it thou? Say it again. [Embracing him.
'Tis he—'tis he—where are my torments now
Where is the dungeon's horrors, fetters' weight?
Thou'rt here; thou com'st to save me; I am saved.
Already do I see the street where first
My eyes beheld thee, and the pleasant garden
Where I and Martha waited for thy coming.
FAUSTUS, (striving to remove her.)
Come with me; come away.
MARGARET.
Oh! stay a little;
How willingly where thou art would I stay!
FAUSTUS.
Haste; if thou hastenest not we both shall rue it.
MARGARET.
What, not one kiss! and hast thou then forgot
To kiss in this short absence from thy Margaret?
Why on thy bosom do I feel uneasy,
When once thy words, thy looks to me were heaven
Revealed? and then thou strovest to stop my breath
With kisses. Ah! thy lips are cold, are dumb;
Where is thy love? ah! who has stolen it from me?
[turning from him.
FAUSTUS.
Come, follow me, my love. Take courage, yet
I'll press thee to my hart a thousand times;
But only follow me, 'tis all I ask.
MARGARET, (turning towards him again.)
And is it thou? art thou indeed my love?
FAUSTUS.
I am; come on.
MARGARET.
Thou wilt strike off thy Margaret's cruel chains,
And take her to thy bosom. Shrink'st thou not
From my embrace? Knowest thou whom thou free'st?
FAUSTUS.
Come—come—the night already wanes; come on.
MARGARET.
I am my mother's murderer. I have drowned
My child.—Was it not thine as well as mine?—
Thine also. Art thou he?—I scarce believe it.
Give me thy hand. Is it no dream, in truth?
That hand So dear—but it is moist. Alas!
Wipe, wipe it off. Methinks there's blood upon it.
What bait thou done? For heaven's sake sheath that
sword!
FAUSTUS.
Oh! let the past be past. Thou stabbest me.
MARGARET.
No: thou must stay, while I describe the graves
Which on the morrow thou must see prepared:­
Give the best to my mother; next, my brother;
Myself aside—a little, not too far;
And on my right breast lay my infant, else
Will none rest near. To press me to thy heart
Were sweet, were happiness—but never more
Shall it be so to me. It seems as though
I forced my love upon thee, and thou strovest
My fondness to repel; and yet thou'rt he,
And hest the same kind gentle look as ever.
FAUSTUS.
Oh! if thou feelest all this, I pray thee come.
MARGARET.
Whither?
FAUSTUS.
To freedom.
MARGARET.
Ah! is the grave without? Does Death wait? come then,
From hence to everlasting rest, and not
One step beyond. Thou turn'st away. Oh! Henry,
Would, would that I could go along with thee.
FAUSTUS.
And if thou wilt thou canst; the door stands open.
MARGARET.
I may not go, for me there is no hope.
Ah! what avails to fly—they wait to seize me.
To be obliged to beg, and, conscience struck,
Roaming about through foreign lands to beg:
'Tis wretchedness itself, and still they'll seize me.
FAUSTUS.
I will not move from thee.
MARGARET.
Quick, quick! Away!
Save thy poor child. Fly hence; away—away­
Up yonder by the brook: beyond the stile,
Deep in the wood, there where thou see'st the plank
Across the pool. Oh! snatch it out at once.
It strives to rise;—it struggles still—save--save it!
FAUSTUS.
Collect thyself. One step, and thou art free.
MARGARET.
Would we were past that hill! my mother there
Is sitting on a stone. How cold it is!
There on a stone my mother sits, and shakes
Her grey head towards me—now she beckons not,
Nor nods—her head seems heavy—long she slept—
She wakes no more. She slept while we were happy.
Oh! those were blissful times.
FAUSTUS.
If no entreaties and no words will move thee,
I needs must force thee hence.
MARGARET.
Release me! no,
I will not suffer force; then seize me not
With cruel murderous hands: for love of thee
I did all this.
FAUSTUS.
Day dawns! my love, my love!
MARGARET.
Day? yes, 'tis day: the last day passes on—
My bridal-day it should have been. Tell none
That thou wert here with Margaret. Ah! my garland,
It is quite withered:—we will meet again;
Not at the dance:—the crowd assembles close—
Nothing is heard—the square, the streets, will scarce
Contain them;—'tis the bell that sounds—the staff
Is broke asunder—how they seize and bind me—
They bear me to the scaffold—every neck
Feels the sharp sword, as now it falls on mine:
'Tis silent now, as silent as the grave.
FAUSTUS.
O that I never had been born!.
MEPHISTOPHELES, (appearing at the door.)
Come on, or you are lost.
How useless is this trembling and delay,
And idle prate: my horses shiver yonder.
Already does the morning's dawn appear.
MARGARET.
What rises from the earth?—that being! he!
Send him away. What is his purpose here,.
On consecrated ground? He comes for me.
FAUSTUS.
Thou.shalt live.
MARGARET.
I yield to thee, O God! and to thy judgment.
MEPHISTOPHELES, (to Faustus)
Come—come—or I abandon thee to her
And ruin.
MARGARET.
Thine am I, heavenly Father! save me, save me!
Ye angels, and ye hosts of saints, surround—
Protect me! Henry, now you make me tremble.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
She is judged.
A VOICE (from above).
She is saved.
MEPHISTOPHELES, (to Faustus)
Come here with me. [Vanishes with Faustus.
A VOICE (heard from within).
Henry! Henry!

As this little publication is designed to serve
also as an accompaniment to the Series of Outlines,
illustrative of "Faust,"engraved by Mr. Moses,
from Retsch's originals, it has been thought ad­
visable to subjoin a Table of Reference to the
several subjects of the plates, as contained in the
preceding pages. The ingenious German artist
above alluded to, has embodied in a very pleasing
manner the wild, powerful, but often indistinct
conceptions of his countryman. He has followed
him into magic ground, and attempted to give
identity to the several abortions of humanity
that assemble on the Brocken to join in the
Witches' revel. In his delineations of the three
principal personages of the drama he has con­
trived, even with the simple aid of outline, to
define, not merely the different characters, but
also the different changes of character in the
same person. This is particularly perceptible in
the appearance of Faustus after he has partaken
of the elixir vita; the lines of his features losing
the rigidity expressive of age and contemplation,
and softening into the semblance of youth and
gallantry. The attitude of Margaret repulsing
the first addresses of her seducer is innocent and
elegant, and each gradation of her career is
marked by its characteristic expression. But in
depicting the great Enemy of Man, the artist
had a more difficult' task to perform, since the
text presents no decided traits to seize on, for a
devil in human shape without that degrading
emblem of the beast, the cloven foot, can only
be described as a man. Mr. Retsch has, how­
ever, given to Mephistopheles a sort of animal
contour of visage, which, with his squinting eye,
and goatisft expression of countenance, approach­
ing to a fiendish leer, is admirably adapted to
personify a demon in disguise. The several
situations are accurately delineated, and the cos­
tume and scenery are correct and appropriate.

THE END.

[The two errata noted at the end of the 1821 edition were incorporated into the above HTML edition: these are "dies irae" instead of "dies ira", and "thru' fiends' dark taunts" instead of "thro' fiends' dark taunts"]