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 BY 
 
 Prof. JAMES ALEX. iJLIEBMANNJ 
 
 F.R.S.L., F.R.His.S., F.R.a.S., M.Phil.S., &o., &c. 
 
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 Pbinted at the "Cape Times" Pbinting Works, 66, St. George's Street. 
 
 1893. 
 

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 ON THE ORKSTETA OP JESCHYLUS 8 
 
 RACINE'S PHilDRE AND ITS RELATION TO THE HIPPOLYTUS OF EURIPIDES 9 
 
 GOETHE'S FAUST 23 
 
 MOLIBRE— A STUDY ON THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF FRENCH COMEDY 49 
 
 LESSING'S MINNA VON BARNHBLM— A STUDY ON THE RISE AND PROGRESS OP GERMAN 
 
 COMEDY 6» 
 
 i 471 
 
ON THE ORESTEIA OF iClSCHYLUS. 
 
ON THE ORESTEIA OF Ji]SCHYLUS. 
 
 Amongst Greek writers none has reached such a high point of excellence a» 
 ^schylus. The beauty of his works has, one may say, only been appreciated in 
 modern times, or, I might say, it has been reserved to us, having the whole collec- 
 tion of classical works before us, to pronounce his creations the most remarkable 
 of ancient dramatic art. 
 
 It was customary to combine three tragedies with what one might call a comedy, 
 and to apply to the whole the name of " Tetralogia." The reasons assigned for the 
 retention of the comedy in connection with the tragedies have been various, but a 
 discussion on this topic is beyond the purport of the paper. 
 
 I desire to revievr with you the most marvellous production of the most 
 remarkable school of writers that the classic world has produced : 
 
 THE ORESTEIA. 
 
 This name is given to a tetralogia, because the Orestes mythos is the founda- 
 tion of the whole composition. This mythos is taken from that of the cycle of the 
 Pelopidae. Even in Homer, in the Odyssey, the elements of an Oresteia, as an 
 epic poem, are to be found. 
 
 The mythos formed part of the epic of the return of the victorious Atridge. 
 The following is a rough outline of the mythology of Pelops. Pelops, son of the 
 mythological king Tantalus, came from Asia Minor to Europe, acquired influence 
 and power in the peninsula now bearing his name and obtained by force the king- 
 dom of Oenomaos. This king imposed the following task on all who sought the 
 hand of his daughter : to conquer him in a chariot race, he relying on the swift- 
 ness of his horses, or on the agility of his charioteer, Myrtiles. Many had already 
 attempted and failed till Pelops came and conquered, either, it is said, through the 
 influence of Poseidoii, or through the corruption of Myrtiles. At all events on the 
 return from the race, Myrtiles cast himself into the sea^ and all the troubles of the 
 Pelopidae are said to have come from curses which this charioteer heaped upon his 
 antagonist. 
 
 Pelops had two sons who were persuaded by their mother to murder their 
 step-brother ; whereupon they fled to the king of Mycense who gave them the 
 kingdom of Medea. 
 
 When Eurystheus marched against the Heraclidae he left the kingdom to 
 Atreus, and thus it passed to the Pelopidae. 
 
 Atreus had two sons, Agamemnon and Menelaus. Agamemnon, " the father 
 of men," as Homer calls him, had a wife Klytemna3stra, three daughters, of whom 
 the most celebrated was the unfortunate Ir)higeneia, and Orestes, a son. Before 
 leaving for Troy, he installed ^gisthos, as his representative, but the wretch makes 
 Klytemnaestra unfaithful to her husband and afterwards induces her to assist hiin 
 in murdering the husband on his return from the war. 
 
He commits this atrocious deed, notwithstanding the prickings of his conscience 
 und the warning voice of Zeus who causes him to be aware of the future revenge of 
 Orestes. The latter, who has fled from his home when quite a boy, returns 
 when about twenty years of age to revenge the death of his father and finds the 
 murderer, feasting and celebrating the anniversary of the murder of the author of 
 his days. He kills him and marries his cousin, tbe daughter of Menelaus and Helen. 
 
 The mythological and dramatic enlargements and extensions of the mythos are 
 particularly noticeable in the fate of Thyestes and the children of Agamemnon. 
 
 The part played by ^gisthos is already indicated in the epos, in that Atreus 
 lived at enmity with his brother. He is said to have induced the wife of his brother 
 to steal a golden lamb out of the flocks of Atreus. He drove his brother and 
 children into exile, but in order to punish him more, he deceived him by promises, 
 caused him to return and then gave him the flesh of his own children to eat at table. 
 
 As Thyestes succeeded Atreus it is highly probable that he murdered him. 
 
 Thoughtlessly Thyestes allows Agamemnon and Menelaus to attain manhood. 
 
 Wlien the former had seized the reins of government, he banished Thyestes 
 and his progeny. The fate of Agamemnon's children was then glorified. 
 
 The history of Iphigeneia is so well known that I need only define it in outline. 
 Assembled with the army at Aulis, previous to the departure for Troy, Agamemnon 
 offends Artemis by boasting of being able to surpass her in the chase. Thereupon 
 she sends adverse winds, retarding the departure of the Greeks. Kalchas, the seer, 
 informs Agamemnon that the wrath of the goddess will only be appeased by the 
 sacrifice of his daughter. She is brought into camp, under pretence of being 
 wedded to Achilles, and when lying on the altar and about to be sacrificed, she is 
 carried away to Taurus by the goddess who substitutes a stag in her place. The 
 discovery of her existence and safety is made b}'^ Orestes who is sent to Taurus to 
 consult an oracle. 
 
 During the absence of his father, the son had been staying with Strophion, 
 whose child, Pylades, is Orestes' most faithful friend and who afterwards marries 
 his sister Electra. 
 
 (Jrestes, being guilty of matricide, is incessantly pursued by the Erinyes. He 
 flees from country to country and is, at last, absolved in Troas, in the temple of 
 Artemis. Finally he returns to Athens, submits to be tried by the Areopagus, 
 where, according to popular belief, he was judged by the twelve supreme gods and 
 acquitted at the intercession of Pallas. 
 
 From the above cycle of mythos the Oresteia was produced, a work in which 
 ^schylus gives his opinion, in broad characters, of the working of divine justice — 
 whilst showing how a chain of evil can pass from hand to hand and seemingly 
 become an inheritance ; because men who should be the tools of divine vengeance 
 forego their duty in the exercise of blind passions and by doing so draw down upon 
 themselves fresh punishment, till at last, all demands of justice are satisfied. 
 
 It becomes, therefore, evident that the author did not acknowledge the 
 existence of an inexorable fate, one worked out in opposition to all moral truth. On 
 the contrary, the freedom of mind and moral action remains untouched. 
 
 Each character draws upon himself, or herself, his or her own fate, in over- 
 stepping the boundaries of right that have been prescribed to him or her. 
 
 As mentioned in the introduction, this cycle of the Oresteia consists of four 
 works. 
 
 The first tragedy deals with the murder of Agamemnon by his wife Klytemnjestra. 
 Agamemnon appears as an awe-inspiring monarch, who, however, sorrows over the 
 
wounds of his house, having drawn down upon himself a hard fate by his own 
 warlike ambition, in that the war before Troy required not only the sacrifice of so 
 many lives, but also that of his own daughter. 
 
 Klytemnsesfra appears in all the glory of her position, her character approach- 
 ing the masculine. Forgetful, however, of her love as a wife and mother she had 
 destroyed love at its very fountain and concluded a criminal union with ^gisthos 
 in the absence of her husband. The latter was planning revenge on account of the 
 misdeeds of Atreus towards his father, Thyestes. With thorough consciousness 
 Klytemnaestra murders her husband on his return from Troy and also the captured 
 princess Kassandra and recounts her deeds to the Elder of the Areopagus 
 (represented by the choir), with revolting coldness. 
 
 As a compensation, or justification of her murder, she brings forward the death 
 of Iphigeneia, the intrigues of Agamemnon before Troy and the revengeful spirit of 
 the house of the " father of men." The calmness with which this work inspires the 
 reader or spectator lies in the thought that Agamemnon has not fallen without an 
 avenging Nemesis. 
 
 The second tragedy represents the revenge of Orestes. This topic has also 
 been treated by Sophocles and Euripides in their " Electra^ 
 
 If it were possible to draw a comparison between these three works, each a 
 masterpiece, it would be difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion whose is the 
 best. 
 
 Justice, in heroic times, demanded that the nearest relation should avenge the 
 death of the murdered one. Duty forces Orestes to carry out, in its entirety, the 
 oracle of the Delphian god. Klytemnaestra's deed should have carried flight and 
 subsequent cleansing in its train. She fails in both. She defies divine ordinances 
 and remains in the place where her crimes are committed, trusting in the aid 
 of ^gisthos. 
 
 Orestes returns to his native land accompanied by Pylades at the moment 
 when Electra is adorning the grave of her father with flowers. Orestes first kills 
 ^gisthos and then his mother. 
 
 His act is a just one. No judge can condemn him, but the justice of the deed 
 does not remove the stain of sinfulness which is fixed upon him. The hatred of 
 his mother pursues him, personified by the awful Erinyes, the goddesses of Revenge. 
 
 Apollo was he to whom revenge was sacred, in his capacity as a god of punish- 
 ment. As the god of light, on the other hand, he was at the same time the one 
 who cleansed the murderer of his crimes. Pursued by the Erinyes, Orestes flees to 
 the temple of Apollo for protection and cleansing. 
 
 In the conflict between the deities, the reconciliation is brought about in the 
 third tragedy, called the " Eumenidae," by means of a new institution. 
 
 Orestes is in the temple of Apollo. Here, in this holy place, he finds peace. 
 His pursuers fall asleep. But the cleansing afforded by Apollo has no influence 
 with the Titanic powers. The Delphian god refers his protegee to Athense, whose 
 wisdom is to decide his case. 
 
 She constitute a court under her own presidency in which a verdict is arrived 
 at concerning Orestes. Apollo appears as advocate for the murderer. Orestes is 
 pardoned by a legal act of mercy, whilst the harsh natural law of right is held in 
 bounds by political, social and reasonably-distinguishing justice, similar to that 
 which the tribunal on the Hill of Ares has to exercise. 
 
 There, then, the two powers stand out in sharp contrast. On the one hand 
 Absolute Necessity, on the other Free Moral Will. There, the Erinyes, the 
 
posthumous birth of the Titans, here the Olympians : Zeus. Here, Athen?e whom 
 the softened Hellenic spirit had placed in closer, nearer and more friendly contact 
 with men. Athenas, personified wisdom, mollifies her opponents and obtains from 
 them a concession more in accordance with the ideas of the younger generation of 
 the gods. 
 
 The Erinyes thus become the Eumenidae, that is, protectins: goddesses of good, 
 as also the goddesses of revenge for evil deeds. 
 
 Thus ^schylus, who loves to cover every grand side of the glory of his father- 
 land under a mythical cloak, causes two wholesome institutions to appear out of 
 the inventions of two ancient myths, viz. : the Areopagus, the legal judge of the 
 crime of murder and with it the closely connected worship of the Eumenidae ; 
 causing them to appear for the lasting benefit of Athens. 
 
 When ^schylus composed his Oresteia, Pericles was just busy destroying the 
 remaining vestiges of power of the assembly on the Hill of Ares. 
 
 jEschyius, the representative of the Marathoiiic period, was one of those 
 Athenians who detested the insatiable desire for power by the rule of the plebs and 
 who desired to maintain the old customs and institutions of the Athenians. He 
 hoped to convert his brother-citizens to better things, by impressing upon them the 
 idea, that nothing was more wanting to mankind than the acknowledgment of a 
 higher power, elevated beyond the sphere of controversy, in which the institution 
 of the worship of the Erinyes (Vhich stood in close connection with the customs of 
 the Areopagus) aided him admirably. 
 
 The crown which his choir carried away as the prize of his composition had, 
 however, not the desired result, so far as his political expectations were concerned. 
 
 Side by side with this motive, there appear, in the last part, political insinua- 
 tions on the just closed past, or present, each more or less pointed, in which the 
 glory of Athens is desired to be brought out. 
 
 Shortly before the representation of the Oresteia, the Athenians had concluded 
 H treaty with the allies of Argos. This event, ^schylus cleverly embodied in his 
 mvthos, in causing the fidelity of the allies with Athens to be sealed by Orestes and 
 makes it more solemn by bringing it into connection with political antiquity. The 
 promises which he places in the mouth of Orestes were, in one sense, fiilfiUed in 
 the concluded treaty, in so far that Argos had never taken up a hostile position 
 towards Athens. 
 
 Moreover, the Athenians w^ere in conflict with the Lesbians concerning the 
 possession of the coast of Troas, particularly of Sigeion. No doubt at the time 
 when ^schylus composed the Oresteia the question was being renewed. He takes 
 this opportunity of confirming the Athenians in their demands, by making a state- 
 ment that Athenfe came to those coasts shortly after the Trojan War to take 
 possession of the country. 
 
 Finally, one must take cognizance of the reflexion on the glorious Persian 
 wars in which ^schylus himself took part. 
 
 This tetralogia was first represented in the year 451 B.C. The author closed 
 his career with this composition. At least, it is known that three years after its 
 representation he died, close upon 70 years of age in Sicily, whither he had gone 
 for a second time in his life. 
 
 Many conflicting reasons are assigned for this step, amongst others an accusa- 
 tion of treason and the very production of the tragedy itself. 
 
RACINE'S PHEDRE 
 
 AND 
 
 \h §tMm io t|4 iipplgtits 0f iuriphs. 
 
RACINE'S PHfiDRE 
 
 AND 
 
 Its ]^elati0n to the Mippel^feus ei Euifipides, 
 
 The Hippolytus of Euripides is the original which Racine has followed in 
 Phedre and from which he has taken, not passages only, but whole scenes. It must, 
 undoubtedly, be of interest to those less intimately acquainted with the literature 
 of antiquity, to see what use the French poet has made of the antique drama, and to 
 study the relation existing between it and his Phedre. 
 
 Theseus was the son of QEthra and Neptune, and king of the Athenians ; and 
 having married Hippolyta, one of the Amazons, he begat Hippolytus, who excelled 
 in beauty and chiastity. When his wife died, he married for his second wife, 
 Phsedra, a Cretan, daughter of Minos, king of Crete and Pasiphae. Theseus, in 
 consequence of having slain Pallas, one of his kinsmen, goes into banishment with 
 his wife at Troezene, where it happened that Hippolytus was being brought up by 
 Pittheus ; but Phaedra having seen the youth, was desperately enamoured, not that 
 she was incontinent, but in order to fulfil the anger of Venus, who, having deter- 
 mined to destroy Hippolytus on account of his chastity, brought her plans to a 
 conclusion. She, concealing her disease, at length was compelled to declare it to 
 her nurse, who had promised to relieve her, and who, though against her inclination, 
 had carried her words to the youth. Phaedra, having learnt that he was exasperated, 
 chided the nurse and hung herself. At which time Theseus, having arrived, and 
 wishing to take down her that was strangled, found a letter attached to her, through- 
 out wliich she accused Hippolytus with a design upon her virtue. And he, believ- 
 ing what was written, ordered Hippolytus to go into banishment, and put up a 
 prayer to Neptune, in compliance with which the god destroyed Hippolytus. But 
 Diana declared to Theseus everything that had happened, and blamed not Phsedre 
 but comforted him, bereaved of his child and wife, and promised to institute honours 
 in the place to Hippolytus. 
 
 Such is the argument of the Greek tragedy. 
 
 Racine, in his preface, writes as follows : " Here is another tragedy, the subject 
 -of which is taken from Euripides. I have not failed to enrich my work with all 
 that appeared to me most striking in this author. I have, however, followed a 
 somewhat different method for the course of my action. Were I only indebted to 
 him for the idea of the character of Phedre, I can say that I owe him perhaps my 
 best dramatic creation. I am not siu'prised that this rdle had such a success in 
 the time of Euripides and that it has been so well received in our era, since it 
 embraces all the qualities of a heroine in tragedy — as Aristotle demands them — 
 those capable of stimulating compassion and arousing fear. In truth, Phedre 
 is neither quite guilty nor quite innocent. She has become involved, by fate and by 
 
10 
 
 tbe anger of the gods, in an illegitimate passion of which she is the first to be 
 horrified. All her efforts strive to surmount it. She had rather die than declare it 
 to anyone, and when she is, at length, forced to reveal her terrible secret, she speaks 
 of it in such a manner as to let it be clearly seen that her crime is more a punish- 
 ment of the gods, than an exercise of her own will. 
 
 " I have even taken care to make her less odious than she is in the tragedies 
 of the ancients where she herself resolves to accuse HippoWte. I was of opinion 
 that there was something too low and too vile in calumny to make it an instrument 
 in the mouth of a princess, who has, elsewhere, such noble and virtuous sentiments. 
 This villany seemed to me more appropriate in a nurse whose inclinations might be 
 more servile, yet who, nevertheless, only formulates this false accusation in order to 
 save her mistress. 
 
 " Phedre consents, only, because her mental agitation is such as to make her 
 quite beside herself, and she appears, a moment afterwards, intending to justify the 
 innocent and to proclaim the truth. 
 
 " Hippolyte is accused in Euripides and in Seneca of having, in effect, violated 
 his stepmother " vim corpus fuHf" but here he is only accused of having had the design. 
 I wished to spare Theseus a scene which might have made him less agreeable to an 
 audience. 
 
 " As for the character of Hippolyte, I found, amongst the classics, that Euripides 
 is reproached with having represented him as a philosopher exempt from all imper- 
 fections. Thus the death of this prince caused more indignation than pity. I con- 
 sidered it necessar}^ to give him some weakness, which should make him, in a slight 
 degree, guilty towards his father, without, however, depriving him of anything of 
 that greatness which induces him to spare the honour of Phedre, whilst allowing 
 himself to be oppressed without accusing her. I call weakness the passion he feels 
 for Aricie, the daughter and sister of the mortal enemies of his father. 
 
 "This Aricie is not an invention of my own. Virgil says, that Hippolyte 
 married and had a son by her after .-^sculapius had resuscitated him, and I have 
 also read in some authors that Hippolyte married and brought with him to Italy a 
 young Athenian of high birth who was called Aricie, and who gave her name to a 
 small town in Italy. 
 
 " I mention these authorities because I have made a point of scrupulously 
 following mythology. I have even followed the history of Theseus as found in 
 Plutarch. It is in this historian, that I have found the passage which led to the 
 belief that Theseus's descent into Hades, to carry off Proserpine, was a journey which 
 he undertook in Epirus, near the source of the Acheron, to a king whose wife 
 PirithoUs wished to carry off and who kept Theseus a prisoner, after killing 
 Pirithoiis. Thus I have tried to preserve the verisimilitude of history, without 
 losing anything of the oranaments of the legend, which add extremely to poesy. 
 And the rumour of the death of Theseus, founded on this fabulous journey, gives 
 Phedre an opportunity to declare her love, and becomes one of the principal causes 
 of her misfortune ; a declaration she would never have dared to make as long as she 
 believed her husband alive. 
 
 " I can hardly aflBrm this work to be my best tragedy. To time and to the 
 public I leave it to decide on its real merit. What I can state, however, is that I 
 have never written one, in which virtue is more resplendent. The smallest faults 
 are severely punished. The ver}' thought of crime is here regarded with as much 
 horror as the crime itself. The passions are only delineated to show all the disorders 
 of which they are the cause. Vice is depicted everywhere with colours, which let 
 
11 
 
 us know and abhor its deformity. This is the goal that everyone who works for 
 the public should aim at. J t is this, above all, that our first tragic poets have in 
 view. Their theatres were schools, where virtue was not less inculcated than in the 
 philosophical ones. Thus, Arisiotle has laid down rules for dramatic works, and 
 Socrates, the wisest of philosophers, did not disdain to collaborate with Euripides." 
 Let us see how far Racine has carried out his programme and with what success. 
 Amongst the noteworthy poetical cjeations of modern times, used for dramatical 
 representation, we cannot find a second iragical work which, considered as a 
 remodelling of a classic drama, might be used as a comparison with Racine's work, 
 for the purpose of establishing a point of view as to the rules to be observed by a 
 poet in his modernizing effort, and as to what extent his freedom of action should 
 go, without leading him on to foreign ground. As a criterion we shall, therefore, 
 only be able to accept the treatment of those works which have antique materials 
 as their subjects. Wherever we find these, in the hands of a Shakespeare or a 
 Goethe, the dignity of their origin is at once made manifest to us. With them 
 Greece and Rome are really the stage on which the forms, recalled to life, move 
 once more. The classic spirit greets us in the majesty of each speech. That which 
 is modern extends, solely, to the form of the ideas and of the action. It leaves the 
 ideas themselves untouched, or, at least, substitutes modern ideas of equal majest}-, 
 which may worthily be placed, side by side, with the antique. 
 
 Demanding these qualities, as absolutely essential, in the Phedre of Racine, we 
 shall soon be forced to confess that he has not onlv mistaken the classical work but 
 also the antique materials. The majesty of the characters, the nobility of thoughts^ 
 the breadth of morality, the strongly defined motives of each action, of each speech 
 of the persons represented which raise the Greek drama to the zenith of a work of 
 Art, have, with Racine, almost everywhere, given place to the very opposite. Yea, 
 he is so much a Frenchman, that many of his characters are incapable of raising 
 themselves above the level of frivolous French life, and it seems almost a freak, 
 when he gives them classical names and makes Greece the scene of their acts. 
 
 The proof of this assertion will not be difficult, if we aie patient enough to 
 draw a comparison between the two works, as to the manner in which the myth has 
 been treated by each author, as to the principal characters and the motives of their 
 actions. 
 
 In Racine we find the source of the culpable love of Phedre for her stepson in 
 the brideless passion of a degenerated woman. 
 
 De Famour j'ai toutes les fureurs. 
 
 The conclusion is indisputable, seeing that t*hedre greedily avails herself of 
 every opportunity, even of the torments of pain during her repentance, to reveal in 
 the sensual pictures of this incestuous love. Moral majesty is, therefore, ab initio^ 
 cut off from this character and where, in pompous declamation, an attempt is made 
 to rise to such a height we soon recognise the sham, the untrue, and the hypocritical 
 in the contradictions which immediately follow. A character so constituted vas, to 
 the Greeks, an absolute impossibility for artistic treatment, since art and morals- 
 stood, with them, in closest union. Euripides' Phsedra remains, therefore, even in 
 the midst of her wicked deeds, a moral character. The love of which she is 
 possessed is not the result of inward degeneration, but of a force of nature conquer- 
 ing her in spite of herself, a power which the purest is unable to withstand, and 
 which, therefore, appeared to the Greeks as the deed, as the anger of a deity. The 
 
12 
 
 original nobility of the queen is not touched by this, for nowhere do we see her 
 revelling in this love, the softest whisper of which she thrusts away with deep aver- 
 sion. She trembles, but not in ])assionate excitement, and her determination to die, 
 when once con\'inced of her incompetency to overcome her weakness, is immutable. 
 
 Her moral indignation, when she shews it, bears everywhere the imprint of 
 truth and of harmony with her inmost self. Depicted in such a manner the 
 character could easily become the subject of tragical treatment. It represents 
 already, in itself alone, the tragic idea of the strife of human frailty with moral 
 force. 
 
 Phaedra is desirous of keeping her love secret. In the classic tragedy this 
 ilecision is an immediate result of the character, but, in Racine it is more arbitrary, 
 capricious, since it is but little in accordance with the later actions and the volup- 
 tuous representations which Phedre, when she had disclosed herself, makes to the 
 nurse as well as to Hippolyte, concerning the warmth of her passion. The nurse 
 worms the secret out of her mistress, and overcome by the teiTor of it, pra\'s — in 
 Euripides — for her own death. It is only when fully cognizant of the cold deter- 
 mination of Pha3dra to kill herself that the nurse regains her self-possession. Only 
 AS a consequence of this decision, and only in order to save the life of her beloved 
 ward, does the nurse plan an expedient. She pretends to possess a magic medicine 
 which is able to cure the illness of the queen. She hardly dares to formulate the 
 advice that Phaedra should disclose herself to Hippolytus, and, if she (the nurse) 
 has determined to adopt this device, her moral sense revolts at the thought that 
 Phsedra should have even a suspicion of this intention. In Racine, Phedre here 
 receives the news of her husband's death. 
 
 Madame 
 
 La niort vous a ravi votre invincible epoux 
 Et ce malheur n'est plus ignore que de vous. 
 
 And the former confidante changes into an oily-mouthed procuress. 
 
 Le roi est raort 
 
 Vivez ; vous n'avez plus de reprocbe a vous faire. 
 Votre flamme devient une flamme ordinaire. 
 Thesee en expirant vient de rompre les noeuds, 
 Qui faisaient tout le crime et I'horreur de vos feux 
 Hippoljte pour vous devient moins redoutable 
 Et vous pouvez le voir sans vous rendre coupable. 
 
 Phedre "may now love her husband's son with impunity she maintains. The 
 queen takes in her words greedily ; 
 
 Eh bien ! a tes conseils je me laisse entrainer 
 Vivons. 
 
 The}^ thoroughly accord with her own wishes and her passion uncurbed, yea, 
 without blush, reviling her but just dead husband, she, in sight of the audience, 
 tempts with lascivious flattery the youth who stands silent and shuddering before 
 her. A most tragic, a most repulsive scene ! 
 
13 
 
 Phedre. 
 
 Sir, a mau does not visit the shores of the dead a second time. Since Theseus has seen 
 thess sombre shores, it is in vain to hope that a god may send him back. The greedy Acheron 
 does not let go its prey. What say I ? He is not dead for he lives in you ! I think T now see 
 my husband before me I see him ; I speak to him, my heart. . . . Ah (aside), I know not 
 what I say, my mad passion betrays me. 
 
 HiPPOLYTE. 
 
 I see how stroug ycur love is. Though Theseus is indeed dead he is still present to your 
 eyes. 
 
 * Phbdhk. 
 
 Yes, prince, I long, I pine for Theseus. I love him, not as he appeared in Hell, light lover 
 of a thousand different objects of passion, ready to rob of his spouse the king of the dead, but 
 faithful, nay wildly simple, young, splendid, drawing all hearts after him, but proud as our gods 
 are painted and as you now appear. When he crossed the seas to Crete he had your gait, your 
 look, your manner, the same noble modesty shone upon his face. Where were you then, 
 Hippolyte ? Why were you absent wheu all the Greek heroes assembled. Why were you too 
 young to sail with them ? It had been yours to slay the Cretan monster. To you my sister had 
 given the fatal clue. But no : for that I would have foiestalled her. — Love would have shewn me 
 the way. 1 know I would have guided you through the labyrinth. What many cares that 
 noble head had cost me then ! No thread should have satisfied your lover. Companion of the 
 danger you were bound to dare, I shoidd have pressed on before you, and Phddre descending to 
 the labyi-inth Avith you would there have been found or lost. 
 
 Euripides' Phtedra would have been unable to conceive the thought of such an 
 abomination. The Greek author goes in his moral delicacy so far, that he does 
 not let her exchange a single word wath Hippolytus and, until the secret of her love 
 is made known to him, does not permit his name to be mentioned in her hearing. 
 She fears that thereby — a thing innocent enough in itself — her criminal thoughts 
 will become criminal deeds. Then she commands the nurse never to speak of him. 
 
 By the Gods I I entreat thee henceforth to be silent with respect to this man. 
 
 It is the nurse, therefore, who, unbeknown to Phaedra, receives from the poet 
 the command to declare her passion to Hippolytus. This, however, in nowise 
 happens on the stage, only the result of this declaration, the deep indignation of the 
 youth, is brought to the ear of the audience whilst Phaedra, listening, makes known 
 what is happening within the palace walls. 
 
 " Do you, standing at these gates, hear what the noise is that strikes on the house ? The 
 son of the warlike Amazon, Hippolytus, cries out, abusing in dreadful forms my attendant." 
 
 It shews true feeling on the part of the poet that he does not let Phaedra 
 announce what the nurse has done on her behalf, but only give utterance to the 
 wrath of the youth, concerning the nurse's deed. The admirers of Racine find, 
 however, a beautiful, tragical, poetical trait in the very fact that Phedre herself 
 undertakes this duty and that it is carried out in full sight of the audience. Thej 
 call this " truly human." 
 
 That which is certainly immoral, if it must be mentioned in tragedy, ought, 
 however, to be but delicately indicated, never represented on the open stage and a 
 tragic, z.e., a deeply noble situation can never be the result of the accomplishment 
 
14 
 
 of irremediable repulsiveness. Certainly nothing can be more disgusting than to 
 see and hear a wife and a motlier, trying with hideous flattery to tempt the son of 
 her but just deceased husband, to commit a mortal sin. The object, a heightened 
 coup de theatre and the desire to give an actress here a magnificent scene, is a very 
 ignoble one and bound to detract from the merit of the tragedy as a whole. 
 
 The manner in which Hippolytus receives the declaration is treated by both 
 poets with equal diversity. 
 
 Eacine introduces us to the timid, frightened youth, who, according to his 
 drawing — he is love-sick himself — has not a word of anger wherewith to confront 
 and confound the distracted woman. In Euripides, the glowing fire of anger is 
 kindled and bursts into terrific flame. A scene immeasurably more beautiful since 
 it is infinitel}- more natural. The very mention of such a crime having reached 
 his ears, induces him, in his innocence, to believe in the necessity of a propitiatory 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Which impious things I will wash out with flowing stream, pouring it into my ears. 
 
 Doubting, he asks himself if he is really so wicked that people dare to let him 
 hear such words. 
 
 How then could I be the vile one who do not even deem myself pure, because I hnve 
 heard such things. 
 
 He then determines to flee the pestilential atmosphere of his father's house. 
 From this point there is a complete divergence in the conception of the myth. 
 Whilst Phedre still consoles herself with the, to her, sweet thought that Hippolyte 
 may love her. 
 
 In spite of myself hope has stolen into my heaii;. 
 
 Racine makes Theseus return and Phedre is tortured by the fear of the discovery 
 of her crimes. Then the confidante advises her to accuse the innocent youth. 
 
 Never was fear more just than yours. Why accuse yourself ? It will be said that Phedre, . 
 conscious of her own guilt, will not face her husband. Hippolyte is happy to find a witness for 
 all his accusations in yourself. Yield not so easily the victory to him. Accuse him first of the 
 charge he may bring against you. Who will contradict you ? 
 
 Phedre obeys her and initiates, without delay, an impeachment which (Enone 
 is to complete. Theseus believes the women's story. It is true he knows his son 
 to be a noble youth and he loves him tenderly. They bring him no other proof of 
 the boy's guilt, beyond establishing the fact that Phedre is in possession of 
 Hippolyte's sword. Yet the women's w^ord suffices him. Without even according 
 his son a hearing he invokes the vengeance of Neptune who has promised him the- 
 fulfilment of three wishes. 
 
 Kt toi, Keptune, et toi, si jadis mon courage 
 D'infames assassins nettoya ton rivage 
 Souviens toi, que, pour prix de mes efforts heureux 
 Tu promis d'exaucer le premier de mes voeux. 
 Dans les longues I'igueurs d'une prison cruelle 
 Je n' ai point implore ta puissance immortelle 
 
15 
 
 Avare du secours que j' attends de tes soins 
 
 iMes Yoeux t' ont resei-ve pour de plus grands besoins. 
 
 Je t' implore aujourd' hui. Veng*; uu maUieui eux pere. 
 
 J'abandonuo ce traiLre a tcute ta colerc. 
 
 Etouffe dans son sang S(!s desirs eftVontes. 
 
 Thesee k tes fureurs comaitra tes boates. 
 
 Phedre now begins to repent^ but the sudden news that Hip poly te loves another, 
 Aricie, kills her every good intention and she completes her villainous design. By 
 the side of her living spouse, tortured b\' love and jealousy for liis son who dares 
 to love another, she, his sitepmother, merely to gratify her revenge, calls down 
 upon his head the fates in order that, at least, he may belong to n jne other than 
 her. 
 
 Hippolyte is destroyed by the power of Poseidon. Phedre now conceives the 
 enormity of her crime. Theseus had already suspected her guilt. She confesses 
 it to him and dies poisoned by her own hand. 
 
 In Euripides the deed of the nurse produces in the queen a state of frantic 
 terror. She fully intended to die rather than let her shame see the light of day. 
 Now she is betrayed ; h'^r shame, hitherto, only known to herself, is public, and the 
 honour of her children stained by her now execrated name. All her striving has 
 been in vain to retain the noblest possessions of life, honour and virtue, possessions 
 of which, neither by word or deed, she made herself unworthy. Nowhere does she 
 see deliverance for herself and her sons, nowhere a healing of the shame she has 
 brought on her husband and on her entire race. Then her whole mo .al system 
 breaks down. Her principles vanish. Her mind, deranged by the excess of her 
 grief, quickly determines to bring Hippolytas to ruin so that her dishonour should 
 die with her and he not triumph over her. 
 
 But when I am dead I shall bear evil to another, at least, so that he may know not to exult 
 over my misfortunes. 
 
 It is madness that clouds her mind, and which, after she has retired to her 
 chamber, induces her in a letter to accuse Hippolytus and then to kill herself. It 
 is an act of insanity, the deed of a moment. Her whole moral system being 
 shaken to its very foundations, excludes all deliberations of her own actions. It 
 may be urged that Phaedra thus destroys her whole character at one stroke, and 
 that the impression created by her must, hence, be more repulsive to an audience 
 than that of the character delineated by Racine. 
 
 An unpremeditated and quickly executed deed of sudden madness, the motives 
 for which are sharply defined by previous events ; the thought of the complete 
 annihilation of the honour and happiness of a whole race together with the despair 
 that her endeavours to avert this misery have been frustrated by another's fault ; 
 the reproaches of her own conscience passing rapidly through her mind cannot, in 
 her present mental derangement, nullify the previously moral aspect of her 
 character. Or, taking all her motives into consideration and carefully studying her 
 previous thoughts and deeds, can there be any other name but madness for this 
 sudden aberration ? If, however, it be further objected that it is incompatible with 
 the morality of her character in death to destroy the beloved one, and, since 
 Phaedra does this, she is wanting in every moral sense, one must certainly not see 
 that just through this her act still more bears the impress of insanity since it is in 
 
16 
 
 direct contradiction with her inmost feelings. It may not be reconcilable with our 
 ideas of a noble nature, but it is none the less thoroughly Greek. 
 
 Euripides, no doubt, found it in the legend, and to him and to his age the 
 taking of vengeance on an enemy by treacherous means was not only natural but 
 lawful. Furthermore, seeing that Phasdra designates this love as her most execrable 
 crime, it cannot be described as a tender feeling, a pure love for Hippolytus, but 
 must render him rather an object of loathing. In any case the acts of this Phaedra 
 are far nobler than those of Kacine's who, it is true, accuses herself of having dis- 
 closed her love to Hippolyte, but stifles the voice of her would-be indignation with 
 the flattering belief that the youth, though his heart is aglow with love for her, 
 accorded her no hearing through bashfulness and whose accusation of the innocent 
 Hippolyte before the very eyes of his father, into whose presence she is in no way 
 afraid to come, is an infamy : the acts of this woman are not those of madness, but 
 deeds well-considered, matured and executed with malice prepense, for which, from 
 a moral point of view, no excuse can be found for her. 
 
 As for the impression made on the spectator, Racine's Phedre appears to him 
 less stern, because he is able to indulge in the hope that she will revoke her accusa- 
 tion before the destruction of Hippolyte. The death of Phsedra, in Euripides, 
 makes her deed irrevocable. But though this fills us momentarily with gi cater 
 horror, can it be called a fault? Tragedy where, before our eyes, acts are 
 developed irom motives, it is im))ossible to view the former per se. The motives 
 are given us, in order that we may in them have a criterion for judgment. We are 
 not to criticise se}'arately what happens during each particular moment, but we are 
 to take the parts with the whole and to review how, of necessity, deeds are 
 influenced by motives. 
 
 " Three sorts of spectators compose what we are accustomed to call the play- 
 going public," says .Victor Hugo. *' Firstly, women ; secondly, thinkers ; and 
 thirdly, the general crowd. That which the last named chiefly requires in a 
 dramatic work is action ; what most attracts women is passion ; but what the 
 thoughful seek above all else is the portrayal of human nature. If one studies 
 attentively these three classes of spectators this may be remarked : the crowd is so 
 delighted with incident that often it cares little for characters and style. Women, 
 whom action likewise interests, are so absorbed in the development of emotion that 
 they little heed the representation of characters. As for the thoughtful, they so 
 much desire to see characters, that is to say, living men, on the scene that, though 
 they willingly accept passion as a natural element in a dramatic work, they are 
 almost troubled by the incidents. Thus what the mass desires, on the stage, is 
 sensational action, what the women seek is emotion, and what the thoughtful crave 
 is food for meditation. All demand pleasure — the first the pleasure of the eyes : 
 
 the second the gratification of the feelings, the last mental enjoyment ^ 
 
 Let us say in passing that we do not lay down an infallible law, and we entreat the 
 reader to make for himself the restrictions which our opinion may contain. Rules 
 always admit of exceptions ; we know well that the crowd is a great body in which 
 all qualities are to be found ; the instinct for the beautiful and the taste for 
 mediocrity, love of the ideal and liking for the matter of fact. We also know that 
 every great intellect ought to be feminine on the tender side of the heart ; and we 
 are aware that thanks to that mysterious law which attracts the sexes to each other 
 
 as well mentally as bodily very often a woman is a thinker To 
 
 every man who considers seriously the three classes of spectators we have just 
 indicated, it will be evident that all are to be justified. The women are right in 
 
17 
 
 wishing to have their hearts touched ; the thinkers are ri^ht in desiring to be 
 taught ; and the crowd is not wrong in wishing to be amused." 
 
 But the author cannot take account of those of his s])ectators who are wanting 
 in mental power to reflect on what is passing before them and who dej-lroy the 
 pleasure of his work as a whole by the enjoyment of a mere momentary impression. 
 He works for those who know how to appreciate his creation, and to such the act of 
 madness of the Greek Phaedra — though so horrifying in its exposition — will appear 
 more noble than the doings of Racine's who tries to palliate her moral degradation 
 by hypocrisy and destroys every moment, more and more, all hopes of her moral 
 reformation. 
 
 Chateaubriand, however, has made use of this Fhedre of Racine with the 
 object of showing how even in adapting classical subjects, Christianity has 
 exercised its influence on the author. He takes Phedre, and in opposing her to the 
 Dido of Virgil, says: "That more passionately inflamed than the queen of 
 Carthage she is in truth only a Christian wife. The fear of the avenging flames 
 and of the terrible eternity of our Hell is visible throughout the role of this criminal 
 woman and especially in Act IV, Scene VI, which as everyone knows is the inven- 
 tion of the modern poet. Incest was not a crime so rare or so monstrous among 
 the ancients as to excite like horrors in the breast of the guilty one. Sophocles 
 makes Jocasta die at the moment when she is conscious of her crime, but Euripides 
 lets her live long after. If we believe Tertullian the misfortunes of OEdipus only 
 excited pleasantry amongst the Macedonians. Virgil does not place Phaidra in 
 Hell, but only in those lugentes campi, the myrtle bowers where lovers wander who 
 " curae non ipsa in morte relinqimntr The JPhsedra of Euripides, as also of Seneca 
 fear Theseus more than Tartarus. Neither of them speak like Racine's Phedre." 
 
 I jealous ! and it is Theseus whom I ask to aveug-e me ! My husband lives and [ yet 
 love — but whom ? What heart is that which 1 desire ? At each word my very hsir stands erect 
 with horror. It breathes at once imposture and incest, and my murderous hands long to plunge 
 themselves in innocent blood. Wretch that I am, yet I live and aflVont the sight of that holy 
 Sun from whom I am descended. Aly ancestor is father and lord of all the gods. Heaven 
 and all the universe is filled with my kindred. Where can I hide myself I If 1 go down inta 
 eternal darkness, my father Minos, there holds the fatal urn and has the fate of men in his 
 austere hands. Ah ! how that shadow will shudder when he sees his daughter brought before 
 him and obliged to acknowledge sins unheard of, perhaps, even in hell ! W^hat will you say, my 
 father, to that horrible vision ? I think, I see the awful urn fall from your hands. I think, I 
 see you, in despair, seek out some new punishment, yourself the executioner of your child. It 
 is the vengeance of a cruel god that has ruined your race, lu your daughter's madness behold 
 his wrath ! Alas, I have now gathered the fruits of the awtul crime which disgraces me. 
 Pursued by misfortune to my last sigh, I yield up in torment a life uusolaced by enjoyment. 
 
 " This incomparable passage," he proceeds to say, "presents a gradation of 
 passion, a science of sadness, of the agonies and transports of the soul, that the 
 ancients never knew. With them one finds, so to say, a sketching out of senti- 
 ments, but rarely a complete picture of them. Here the heart is everything : 
 
 C'est Venus tout entiere a sa proie attachee. 
 
 and the most awful expression that passion perhaps ever gave vent to is 
 
 Helas ! du crime affreux dont la honte me suit 
 J amais mon triste coeur n' a receuilli le fruit. 
 
18 
 
 " Here is a combination of passion and soul, of despair and passionate love that 
 defies all expression. This woman who would console herself with an eternity of 
 suffering, if she had tasted a moment of happiness, this woman is not in the antique. 
 It is a Christian woman reproved for her sins, the sinner fallen into the hands of 
 the living God. His word the sentence of the damned." 
 
 I do not wish to examine this state*nent closelv, but I can hardly accept as a 
 typical epouse chretienne the woman who speaking to (Enone of Hippolyte and 
 Aricie says : 
 
 Us s'airaeront toujours. 
 
 Au moinent que je parle, ah ! ruortelle pensce 
 
 lis biavent la fureur <i'une amante incensee 
 
 ^[algre ce menae ex'-l qui va les ecarter. 
 
 NoM, je ne puis souilrir ua bonheur qui m'outrage. 
 
 CEnone, prends pitir de ma jalouse rage. 
 
 11 faut perdre Alice. II faut de raon epoux 
 
 Centre uu sang odieux reveiller le courroux. 
 
 Qu' ii ne se borne pas a <lcs peines legeres. 
 
 Le crime de la soeur passe desfreres. 
 
 Dans mes jaloux transports je le veux implover. 
 
 Racine ha*^, however, dealt worst of all with Theseus, after he heard of his 
 son's accusation. He is depicted as a credulous, weak-minded man whose wife's 
 unproved accusation is enough to condemn, unheard, a beloved son of whose virtue 
 he U, by his own observation, fully convinced ; is enough, to call upon his head the 
 most deadly curse. It is otherwise in Euripides. Hippolytus, a pupil of Pittheiis, 
 educated in the house, only returns to his father shortly before the commencement 
 of the tragedy. Theseus thus knows the moral strength of the youth's character 
 but little. Yes, the very fact that Pittheiis had initiated him into the Eleusinian 
 mysteries and that he was leading an ascetic life had made the sturdy warrior 
 suspicious of his son, whom he —to use a modern expression —was ready to regard 
 as a pietist in the worst acceptation of the term He then, and this is the climax, 
 found the accusation of his son in the hand of his dsad wife. His living wife, his 
 own suspicions notwithstanding, he would not have believed without the strongest 
 proofs and would never have condemned his son, unheard. But death was " the 
 surest witness " of the deceased before the force of which, taking the circumstantial 
 evidence into consideratian, all proof to the contrary vanished. All these consider- 
 ations Racine had laid aside and Theseus' act appears to be nothing but wanton. 
 
 It may not be superfluous to point out how this death of Phsedra in its relation 
 to the action of Theseus is necessitated in a still higher degree, since without it a 
 noble and well-conceived sketch of the husband would have been an impossibility. 
 He could, however, never have been represented as a weak-minded man, who 
 believes anything and everything without the slightest deliberation. The only 
 possible foundation on which the further structure of the tragedy could be built, 
 without introducing motiveless situations, was the accusation in the hand of the 
 dead Phaedra. Both poets let Hippolytus suffer his father's anger without any 
 explanation on the part of the former. With the Greek this silence is a necessary 
 consequence of that which has preceded. Hippolytus, previous to the nurse's 
 declaration, had vowed secrecy with a most solemn oath, and his deep religiousness 
 makes it impossible for him to break his vow. With whatever force he is able to 
 urge his defence, one thing, Phaedra's deed, he leaves untouched, prepared rather to 
 suffer the worse than to perjure himself. In Racine, we seek in vain for a motive 
 inducing the youth to a similar course of action. No oath binds him. It is evident, 
 
19 
 
 that the fear of wounding his father's honour was unworthy of consideration, since that 
 honour left to the care of a degenerated woman was in immeasurably greater danger. 
 
 Hippolyte, in Eacine, killed by the power of Neptune, disappears from the 
 scene. The only crime for which he has to suffer his awful lot is his virtuous 
 resistance to the criminal love of his stepmother. The Aricie episode, which 
 Racine says he has introduced to make the youth less perfect, does certainly not 
 supply sufficient justification for his death. It appears, therefore, as a poetical 
 injustice quite incompatible with the tragedy. 
 
 Not so with Euripides. According to the opinion of the ancients he had com- 
 mitted a crime, likely to draw upon him the vengeance of a deity, and it is this that 
 softens to a certain extent the repulsiveness of seeing an otherwise perfectly innocent 
 man suffer. It was a commandment amongst the Greeks to worship all the gods. 
 This commandment Hippolytus had outrageously violated, in that he had not only 
 neglected the worship of Yenus Aphrodite, but also heaped abuses on her. 
 
 Att. How is it that thou addressest not a venerable goddess ? 
 
 Hipp. Whom ? But take heed that thy mouth err not. 
 
 Att. Venus who hath her station at thy gate. 
 
 Hi; J). I, who am chaste, salute her at a distance. 
 
 Att. Venerable is she, however, and of note among mortals. 
 
 Hipp. Different gods and men are objects of regard to different persons. 
 
 Att. May you be blest having as much sense as you require. 
 
 Hipp. No one of the gods that is worshipped by night delight me. 
 
 Ass. My son, we must conform to the honour of the Gods. 
 
 Hipp But to your Venus, I bid a long farewell. 
 
 As a punishment for such a crime, the goddess had inspired Phaedra with her 
 unnatural love which becair;e the cause of the ruin of Hippolytus. 
 
 " Great in the sight of mortals, and not without a name am I, the goddess Venus, and in 
 heaven ; and of as many as dwell within the ocean and the boundaries of Atlas beholding the 
 light of the sun ; those indeed who reverence my authority I advance to honour ; but overthrow 
 as many as hold themselves high towards me. For this is, in sooth, a property inherent even 
 in the race of the gods, that they rejoice when honoured by men. But quickly will I shew the 
 truth of these words : For the son of Theseus, born of the Amazon, Hippolytus pupil of the 
 chaste Pittheus, alone of all the inhabitants of this land of Troezene says, that I am of deities 
 
 the vilest and rejects the bridal bed and will have nothing to do with marriage 
 
 But wherein he has erred towards me I will avenge me on Hippolytus this very day 
 
 For Phaedra, his father's noble wife, having seen him, was smitten in her heart with fierce love 
 by my design." 
 
 It is not at all necessary to suppose that Venus imputed unchastity to Hippolytus. 
 The ancients had also their Venus Urania, but even she would, at length, have 
 revolted at the continual revilings of the youth. 
 
 The poet intentionally makes us, at the very outset, acquainted with the youth's 
 xjrime in this respect, but disdaining words of warning, ruin breaks in upon him. 
 Racine could not make use of the motive imputed by Euripides since he paints 
 Hippolytus as worshipping — in his love for Aricie, at the shrine of this very Venus 
 Aphrodite. The discovery of the crime, the despair of Theseus and the suicide of 
 Phedre, are but inadequate amends for the suffering of Hippolyte. The higher 
 poetical atonement necessary for tragedy is here completely wanting, and with con- 
 flicting emotions the spectator turns from a tissue of horrors and corruption. 
 
 Euripides, in this also, understood the feelings of the human heart much better. 
 
20 
 
 Theseus, to whom the death of his wife was the surest proof of his son's guilt, could 
 only be enlightened by a higher power. Artemis, the guardian goddess of 
 Hippolytus, appears and instructs the unhappy father of the true cause of his misery. 
 
 " Thee, the noble son of CEgeus, I command to listen, but it is, 1, Diana, daughter of Latona, 
 
 who am addressing thee For Venus willed that these things should be in 
 
 order to satiate her rage." 
 
 She also reveals herself to the youth. He feels the " divine breathing of 
 perfume " ; his strength returns for a moment and his " body is lightened of its 
 pain." He hears that he remains beloved of the gods and, as a reward for his 
 sufferings, Artemis promises him divine honours and immortality of name. 
 Reconciled with his father, he expires in his arms. He had erred, but his virtue, which 
 withstood the terrible temptation, had reconciled even the gods themselves and in 
 blissful peace he closed his e\'es. 
 
 The material differences of both tragedies and the superior value of the work of 
 Euripides it will, now, not be difficult to understand. Racine made use of the 
 myth supplied by the old tragedian, some of whose ideas he ha^ followed in his 
 own scenes. The motives, however, which makes the works of Euripides so 
 sublime, he has completely obliterated. His character lacks moral force, most of 
 the situations are only des coups de theatre^ and the effect of the whole, though 
 exciting enough, is far fi'om satisfactory. The very reverse of all this, in its 
 highest consummation, is to be found in Euripides. 
 
 The French opinion of the status of French writers with regard to the Greek 
 tragedians is best seen in Voltaire. Lessing, quoting him says : " After Voltaire 
 had finished his Zaire and Alzire, had produced his Brutus and Caesar, he was 
 confirmed in his opinion that the tragedians of his nation were, in many respects, 
 immeasurably superior to the Greeks. "They might have learnt from us French- 
 men," says Voltaire, " a more clever exposition and the great art so to combine the 
 entrances with one another, that the stage is never vacant and that no person has 
 his entry or exit without reason. They might have learnt from us how rivals 
 converse in witty antitheses ; how the poet with a flow of sublime and brilliant 
 thoughts ought to dazzle and surprise." Indeed ! says Lessing, " what could not be 
 learnt from the French ! A foreigner here and there, however, who had read his 
 
 classics might humbly beg to be allowed to differ But what is the 
 
 use of objecting to anything of M. de Voltaire. He speaks and the people believe." 
 " Voltaire," writes Professor Maha%, " at one time, carried away by the admiration 
 of the new against the old, said many insolent and unjust things about the Greek 
 masters as compared w4tn the French. Perhaps La Harpe is the most insolent of 
 all when, in his book on literature, he boldly states that the chief merit of Sophocles 
 is to have inspired Racine, and that Euripides may be excused, because he 
 suggested a Medea to Corneille." 
 
 It may be that the ordinar}^ theatre-goer, who prefers the whiling away of a few- 
 idle hours, in an amusing fashion, to the satisfaction experienced in witnessing the 
 production of a work of art, may look upon the Greek tragedy in its arrangement 
 and its succinctness as too bold and not piquant enough. A man of truly refined 
 taste will find pleasure in the sublime simplicity and moral nobility of the composi- 
 tion, and its beauties will impress him the more, the more sincerely he regrets to see 
 that which is noble and sublime vanishing from the stage, giving place, in deference 
 to a vitiated taste, to that which is grotesque, distorted, and detrimental to true art. 
 
CSoetfie's *'Wmist 
 
 ft 
 
GOETHE'S "FAUST;' 
 
 Fifty years ago Thomas Carlyle wrote as follows : — " Germany is no longer to 
 any person the vacant land of grey vapour and dim chimeras which it was to most 
 Englishmen not many years ago. One may liope, that as readers of German in- 
 creased a hundredfold, some partial intelligence of Germany, some interest in things 
 German may have increased in a proportionately higher ratio." If these words 
 were true in '38, with how much greater force do they not apply to-day ? Yet, 
 notwithstanding the teaching of the language in schools and colleges, notwithstand- 
 ing our intercourse with many sons of the Fatherland, we are, as a nation, grievously 
 deficient in a knowledge of the beauties of the literature of the German language. 
 The subJL^ct, the title of which heads this essay, is the greatest, the loftiest, the 
 most sublime poem of the most renowned of the sons of Germany. 
 
 We are on the threshold of the most mystic poetical work ever created. The 
 commentaries written on it form a library in themselves, and yet they do not explain 
 it. Making use of translations which I have found at hand, with a few additions of 
 my own, I shall let the author speak the words he places in the mouth of his 
 -characters. One word about the renderings into Eiglish. I quote from a critic : 
 " No poetical translation can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original ; it can 
 only substitute the rhythm and rhyme of the translator, and for the sake of this 
 substitute we mu-t renounce some portion of the original sense and nearly all the 
 expressions. The sacred and mysterious union of thought with verse, twin-born 
 and immortally wedded from the moment of their common birth, can never be 
 understood by those who desire verse translation of good poetry." 
 
 I am, however, fully aware, that there have been cases in which " verse transla- 
 tions of good poetry " have been givea to the world. I refer to Swinburne's render- 
 ing of Victor Hugo, and Longfellow's translation of La Divina Commedia, but these 
 I take to be the exemplification of the exception proving the rule. 
 
 Goethe's work is not merely an artistic creation ; it is the product of the inner- 
 most sentiments of his soul, and he has caused it to appear as a cycle of ballads 
 intermixed with lyrical soliloquies, which, taken together, have sequence of action, 
 leaving out, however, the joining portions. 
 
 Faust was first published in 1806, aft^r a slow development through many 
 years. The ballad of the King of Thule, the first monologue and the first scene 
 with Wagner, were written in 1774-75. From that time onward Goethe made 
 fragmentary additions from time to time. In 1797 he remodelled the whole work, 
 then added the two prologues and the Walpurgisnacht. In 1801, the work was 
 finished. " The marionette fable of Faust," he said, " murmured with many voices 
 in my soul. I, too, had wandered into every department of knowledge and had 
 returned early enough satisfied with the vanity of science. And life, too, I had 
 tried under various aspects and always came back sorrowing and unsatisfied." 
 Morley remarks : " Most of all, Faust is the direct utterance of his own inner life, 
 with the intensity and the repose of thought that through the man himself and his 
 own life problems touched all humanity in a time of revolution, when minds exulted 
 
24 
 
 in the new sen&e of recovered power. Goethe solved no riddle of life, but he 
 expressed himself and through himself a world of newly awakened thought among 
 men, with the full sincerity that is of the essence of all high artistic power." 
 
 I think it ma}' be stated without fear of contradiction that it was from the 
 marionette fable that Goethe drew his first inspiration, and I would almost maintain 
 that the original Fvppensjnel was derived either directly or indirectly from Marlowe. 
 Certain it is that the puppet play forms the connecting link between Goethe and 
 Marlowe. It may further be averred that in England the puppet-show had already 
 reached its nadi? previous to anything beicg heard of it in Germany. 
 
 The material out of which the traged}- is built up is a legend, and even one of 
 the most modern. Poetry and history often go hand in hand. Thus in the Middle 
 Ages out of the turmoil and trouble of the migration of nations, we have, pcetically, 
 its representation in the " Niebelun gen lied.*' The legend is therefore the soul of 
 history of a particular period which becomes, as it were, crystallized in the national 
 poetry of a people. The genius of poetry must soar to such an elevation, that it 
 may cast its glances back into the past and prophetically into the ftiture. Such 
 })oetical conception is shadowed forth amongst the Greeks in the history of 
 Prometheus. Regarded in this light the fable assumes a new aspect. Having 
 robbed fire from Olympus, made man and warmed him with the same fire, the goi's 
 chained the thief to a rock. There he prophesied the destruction of the deities ot" 
 the old world. For with Prometheus the Hellenes received a new enlightenment, a 
 new task, viz., to identify the working forces in nature in their most complete ideal 
 appearance with humanity ; obtained the knowledge that the old world had fulfilled 
 its laws, was doomed to death. 
 
 The question naturally arises, in how far does Goethe's Faust come up to thi& 
 standard ? The answer is not far to seek. Prometheus is the Faust of the old 
 world. The apotheosis of the natural religion of the Greeks was encircled by the 
 entity of this world, enclosing even the gods. What was beyond was consigned to 
 the formless Moirae. In overstepping the sacred limits the Erinnyes punished the 
 evil doer. As Hesiod has it — 
 
 " Then the Destinies 
 Arose and Fates in vengeance pitiless, 
 Clotho and L ache sis and Atropos 
 Who at the birth of men dispense the lot 
 Of good and evil. They of men and gods 
 The crimes pursue, nor even pause from wrath 
 Tremendous till destructive on the head 
 Uf him that sins, the retribution fall." 
 
 It is this idea that must be constantly kept in mind for the better — nay, for the 
 proper — imderstanding of antique Greek tragedy, otherwise the door will be left 
 open to numberless misconceptions. 
 
 The visible world was therefore interested with man on this side of the grave 
 only. He was a reality only as long as he lived, after death came the region of 
 shadows. This purely sensual existence was bound to culminate like everything 
 sensual in the cultus, the worship of bodily beauty. This cultus received its highest 
 polish among the Greeks ; but the moment the principle had pronounced itself, it 
 was itself doomed. The antithesis, namely the immortality ot the soul, appeared 
 as the reality. This antithesis was Christianity, which wrecked the old world of 
 gods and goddesses, i^ensual man became sinful man ; for the world of sensuality 
 
25 
 
 became the world of the devil. Even Venus was transformed into a she-devil, as 
 afterwards the whole old world, and even nature itself, was regarded as the work of 
 Satanic powers from which only the mortification of the flesh and the death of 
 Christ could save us. 
 
 The whole period of the Middle Ages was busy with this work of redemption, 
 and the fight was the more terrible as ev( ry being, participating in the nature of an 
 angel and a devil, was battling against the spirit of austerity and the demon of 
 sensuality. The religious fanaticism of the Middle Ai.'.es, having by means of the 
 crusades extended to Asia, was confronted at its zenith by the demon Doubt. 
 Fanaticism decreased and humanity commenced questioning the legality of its 
 oppression. This turning point of history has been most forcibly portrayed by 
 Lessing in his Nathan the Wise. In the fifth scene of the third act, Nathan, a 
 liberal Israelite, famous for his wisdom, is summoned to appear before the Sultan 
 Saladin in his palace. The Israelite expects that some loan of money will be 
 demanded, and is therefore surprised when he finds that the Sultan wishes to talk 
 of the three creeds professed in Palestine. Of these three only one can be true, 
 says Saladin, who now commands ^Nathan to state, in confidence, his own sincere 
 belief. The Israelite requests that before he gives a direct answer he may be 
 allowed to recite a parable, and when permission has been given, he thus proceeds — 
 
 Nathan. — In the oldest timos in an eastern land 
 
 There lived a man who had a precious ring. 
 
 The gem, an opal of a hundred tints, 
 
 Had such a virtue as would make the wearer 
 
 Who trusted it, beloved by God and man. 
 
 What wonder if the man who had this ring 
 
 Preserved it well, and by his will declared 
 
 It should for ever in his house remain ? 
 
 At last, when death came ncai", he called the son 
 
 Whom he loved best and gave to him the ring 
 
 With one strict charge. "IVIy son when you must die 
 
 Let this be given to your own darling child. 
 
 The son whom you love best, without regard 
 
 To any right of birth." — 'Twas thus the ring 
 
 Wns always passed on to the best beloved. 
 
 Sultan, you understand me ? 
 Sultan. — Yes— go on. 
 Nathan. — A father, who at last possessed this ring, 
 
 Had three dear sons, all dutiful and true. 
 
 All three alike beloved. But at one time 
 
 This son, and then another seemed most dear, 
 
 Most worthy of the ring ; and it was given 
 
 By promise, first to this son, then to that^ 
 
 Until it might be claimed by all the three. 
 
 At last when death drew nigh the father felt 
 
 His heart disturbed by the doubt to Avhom 
 
 The ring was due. lie could not favour one 
 
 And leave two sons in grief. How did he act ? 
 
 He called a goldsmith in, gave him the gem. 
 
 And bade him make exactly of that form 
 
 Two other rings and spare nut cost noi- pains 
 
 To make all three alike. And this was done 
 
 So well, the owner of the first true ring 
 
 Could find no shade of difference in the three. 
 
26 
 
 And now he callfid his sons, one at a time 
 And gave to each a blessing aud a ring, 
 One of the three — and died. 
 
 Sultan. — Well ! well, go on. 
 
 Nathan.— My tale is ended. You may guess the sequal. 
 The father dies. Immediately each one 
 Comes forward with his ring and asks to be 
 Proclaimed as hr-ad and ruler of the house. 
 All three assert one claim and show their rings 
 All made alike. To find the first, the true, 
 It was as great a puzzle, as for us 
 To find the one true faith — 
 
 Sultan. — Is that then all the answer I must have ? 
 
 Nathan — 'Tis my apology, if I decline 
 
 To act as judge, or to select the ring, 
 The one true gem of all three made alike. 
 All given by one. 
 
 Sultan . — There, talk no more of rings. 
 
 The three religions that at first were named 
 Are all distinct, aye down to dress, food, drink — 
 
 Nathan. — Just so, and yet their claims are all alike. 
 As founded upon history, on facts. 
 Believed and handed down from sire to son, 
 Uniting them in faith. Can we, the Jews, 
 Distrust the testimony of our race, 
 Distrust the men who gave us birth, whose love 
 Did ne'er deceive us, but when we were babes 
 Taught us, by means of fables, for our good. 
 Must you distrust your own true ancestors 
 To favour mine ? Or must a Christian doubt 
 His father's word and so agree with ours ? — 
 Let me name the rings once more. 
 The sons at last in bitter strife 
 Appeared before a judge, and each declared 
 He had the one true ring, given by his father. 
 All said the same, and all three spoke the truth. 
 Each rather then suspect his father's words 
 Accused his brethren of a fraud. 
 
 Sultan . — What then I 
 
 What sentence could the judge pronounce ? Go on. 
 
 Nathan. — Thus said the judge. Go bring your father here. 
 Let him come forth or I dismiss the case. 
 Must I sit guessing riddles, must I wait 
 Till the true ring shall speak out for itself? 
 But stay. 'Twas said that the authentic gem 
 Had value that would make the wearer loved 
 By God and man. That shall decide the case. 
 Tell me, who of the three is best beloved 
 By his two brethren ? Silent ? Then the ring 
 Hath lost its charm. Each claimant loves himself 
 But wins no love. The rings are forgeries. 
 'Tis plain, the first authentic gem was lost. 
 To keep his word with you and hide his loss 
 Your father had these three rings made, 
 These thi'ee instead of one. 
 But stay, the judge continued, hear one word, 
 The best advice I have to give, then go. 
 
27 
 
 Let each still trust the ring, given by his father. 
 It might be he would shew no partial love. 
 He loved all three and therefore would not give 
 The ring to one ar.d grieve the other two. 
 Go emulate your father's equal love. 
 Let each first test his ring and shew its power, 
 But aid it while you test. Be merciful, 
 Forbearing, kind to all men and submit 
 Your will to God. Such virtues shall increase 
 Whatever powers the rings themselves may have. 
 When these among your late posterity 
 Have shewn their virtue — in some future time 
 ^ A thousand, thousand years away from now 
 Then hither come again 1 A wiser man 
 Than one now sitting here will hear you then 
 And will pronounce the sentence. 
 Now, Saladin, art thou the wiser man ? 
 
 Art thou the judge who will at last pronounce the sentence ? 
 Sultan . — I the judge, I'm dust, I'm nothing, 
 
 'Tis Allah, JSathan ! Now I understand. 
 The thousand, thousand years have not yet passed. 
 The judge is not yet come. I must not place 
 Myself upon his throne. I understand. 
 Farewell, dear Nathan. Go, be still my friend. 
 
 The battle between the spirit of Christianity and the devil of sensuality is 
 represented in the tragedy of Faust. We must, therefore, not forget that the two 
 principal figures of the work, Faust and Mephistopheles, really represent one man 
 divided into halves. Mephisto who, it is true, first appears as a dog, represents the 
 animal nature in man, in the being of Faust. He is, therefore, made to appear 
 almost identical with Faust as far as his . costume is concerned, though somewhat 
 toned down. They appear as two brothers, one of whom has ennobled himself by 
 the most subtle speculations of the mind ; the other thrown himself completely into 
 the arms of sensuality. And now to the tragedy. 
 
 Faust, a doctor of metaphysics, has fallen out with his own little world, the 
 Christian one of the Middle Ages, with its Philosophy, Law, Medicine, and, 
 unfortunately, with its Theology also. He wants to know at what point a man is 
 to believe only. His speculations have led him so far, that he is unable to quench 
 his thirst after knowledge — 
 
 " To feel that nothing can be known — 
 This is the thought that burns into my heart." 
 
 He is surrounded by books and old dusty parchments. Law, Physic, Divinity, 
 all these he derides as dry abstractions and dead formulae, conferring on the student 
 no power to control the boundless energies and resources of nature. 
 
 " Alas 1 have explored 
 Philosophy, and Law and Medicine, 
 And over deep Divinity have pored. 
 Studying with ardent and laborious zeal. 
 And here I am, at last, a very fool 
 With useless learning curst. 
 No wiser than at first." 
 
28 
 
 (This scene is the only part in which the Dr. Faustus of Marlowe bears any 
 similarity to that of Goethe.) He opens a book of magic and after contemplating 
 with rapture the sign of the Macrocosm, pronounces mystically the sign of the Spirit 
 of the Earth. He quails before the apparition and the spirit vanishes with an 
 expression of contempt — 
 
 " Man, thou art as the spirit, whom thou conceivest, not as me." 
 
 Faust cannot bear the sight of it. The Spirit of the Earth disappears and the 
 spirit which he can comprehend, Wagner, confronting him as his equal, appears and 
 takes its place. The character of this dry-as-dust pedant, is admirably contrasted 
 with that of Faust. In Wagner we see a man who looks upon the dry bones and 
 mere lumber of erudition, as choice meat and drink for the intellectual constitution 
 — ^in a word a man who has passed the goal when learning and knowledge are a 
 pleasure; who, theoretically, ha i passed the goal, and fancies he can comprehend 
 what lies beyond. 
 
 " Oh with what difficulty are the means 
 
 Acquired that lead us to the springs of knowledge, 
 
 And when the path is found, ere we have trod 
 
 Half the long way, poor wretches, we must die." 
 
 Wagner departs and Faust is once more alone, nay doubly alone. He seeks a 
 new idea in the world of negation with which he has surrounded himself. Nothing 
 remains to him except Despair, and he thus resolves to die rather than continue an 
 existence of misery. Suicide stares him ghastly in the face. With the words — 
 
 " I greet thee, comforter," 
 
 he raises the vial with poison to his lips. He does not desire to cross the barrier of 
 life in order to destroy himself, but, rather, to spy into the secrets of the world 
 beyond, of eternity. 
 
 " Image of God. I thought tha' I had been 
 Sublimed from earth, no more a child of clay ; 
 That, shining gloriously with heaven's own day, 
 I had beheld Truth's countenance serene." 
 
 With all his doubts he fears the Unknown Beyond, and although trying to 
 encourage himself, he is lacking in fortitude to take his own life. 
 
 " I am not hke the Gods. No, no, I tremble, 
 Feeling impressed upon my mind the thought 
 Of the mean worm, whose nature I resemble ; 
 'Tis dust and Hves in dust." 
 
 At this very moment old Christian associations crowd forcibly upon him, and his 
 resolution is shaken by the distant peal of bells and the hymn of Christendom on 
 Easter mom — 
 
 " Christ hath risen " 
 
 Out of death's prison.'' 
 
 Tears came to his eyes and with the words — 
 
 " Ye call me back to life again, sweet bells," 
 
29 
 
 lie resigns his dread intention. Easter is not only a Christian festival, it represents 
 the birth of nature also in all phases of life, animal and vegetable. Physically his 
 suicide was not accomplished, spiritually it was. In that fell Easter night he killed 
 the old Faust. The negation of Christianity has a real existence in him, in tha 
 awakening of the chaotic animal-nature of his being. He feels this himself, 
 
 " In ray breast 
 Alas ! two souls dwell ; all there is unrest ; 
 Each with the other strives for mastery, 
 Each from the other struggles to be free, 
 One to the fleshy joys the coarse earth yields 
 With clumsy tendrils clings, and one Avould rise 
 In massive power, and vindicate the fields. 
 Its own by birthright, its ancestral skies." 
 
 Comparing this rendering with the original, the reader will, I am convinced, 
 fully agree with the critic I quoted at the opening. This translation but feebly 
 renders : 
 
 Zwei Seelen ipohnen, ach ! in meiner Brust 
 Die Eine will sich von der Anderen trennen 
 Die Eine halt in derber Liebeslust. 
 Sich a7i die Welt mit klammernden Organen 
 Die Andere hebt f/ewaltsam sich voin Duft 
 Zu den Gefilden hoher A/men. 
 
 His two souls actually sever themselves and commence the conflict before our 
 very eyes. That which happen on the theatre of his soul, if I may be permitted to 
 use the term, we see represented externally as a dog moving round about him, 
 which animal he entices towards him and takes home. It will be understood- as 
 natural that the poet has invested this creature with all the customary addenda of 
 Satan, who, however, must always remain the devil of sensuality. On Eister 
 evening we find Faust again in his study. Reason has come back, Hope blossoms 
 afresh in his bosom. He longs for something, the Unknown, but only for a short 
 period. This desire he strives to quench in the perusal of the New Testament. He 
 reads the exegesis of John the Evangelist. 
 
 'Tis written : In the beginning was the Word. 
 Once more : In the beginning was the Thought. 
 It should rather stand : In the beginning was the Power. 
 No — boldly / write : In the beginning was the Act. 
 
 The dog commences to growl. The doctor soon perceives that the cur partakes 
 of the nature of the demon. The anti-Christian element, the creaturelike, sensual 
 negation of spirituality, Faust's alter ego^ Mephisto, then appears. Such a demoniacal 
 being is part of the nature of every man. The more it is ill-treated the more it 
 strives to show itself; for man is not all spirit, but partakes of the nature of a brute. 
 If the latter is to serve the former, it must sensibly be held in subjection. Rider 
 and horseman are one so long as the equestrian has his steed under control. If it 
 be ill-treated they soon become two beings. Animal nature, becoming free, knows 
 no bounds, it uses its animal instinct only to laugh at all restraint. Its principle is 
 therefore one of negation, a spirit of destruction, a spirit which always denies. 
 Since, however, the whole natural and spiritual being of man is a conflict of con- 
 
30 
 
 tradictions, creating new life, Mephisto is bound to confess himself to be a portion 
 of that power w^hich always desires evil vet always works out good. 
 
 Ein Theil vonjener Kraft. 
 Die stets des Bifse will and stets das Giite schafft. 
 
 Faust does not understand his subtle meaning and then Mephistopheles 
 explains : — 
 
 I am the spirit that everrrore denies, 
 And rightly so, for all that doth arise 
 Deserves to perish. This distinctly seeing, 
 Ko ! say 1, No I to everything that tries 
 To bubble into being. 
 My proper element is what you name 
 Sin, Dissolution, in a word, the Bad. 
 
 Since everything lawless eventually becomes chaotic, he declares himself part 
 of it. Faust opposes him with Reason, but the son of chaos lacks reason, he 
 possessed only sufficient instinct to destroy. Mephistopheles now tries to escape 
 from the room. In order to j-how how narrow-minded the spirit which always 
 denies must be, Mephisto is caused to stop on the threshold where a geometrical 
 figure is suspended representing the outspoken reasoning of mathematics. Btlbre 
 he can quit the room it is necessary that Faust should be hushed to sleep, and a 
 rat, conjured up by the devil, destroys the figure. The demon then disappears. 
 Faust awakes and fancies he has been dreaming. This is the case. He has been 
 conversing with the chaotic element of the dual existence which is represented to 
 us, the audience, in Mephisto, for he portrays the dark side of human nature, and, 
 in this particular instance, of Faust. However, the Satanic element in Mephisto is 
 more* in his words than anything else. 
 
 In the demon's humoristic actions in Auerbach's cellar, Faust sees his alter 
 ego in a new light, a personification of what he himself desires to be ; a polished 
 man of the world. He longs for a realistic life, the quick death on the field of 
 battle, or the intoxicating dance with a maiden on his arm. Only a remnant of 
 childish feeling kept him from committing suicide by poison. It was only an 
 illusion, he curses every other ; glory, possessions, faith, hope, love, and above all 
 things, patience. He thus destroys his ideal world and offers himself with open 
 arms to the realistic, sensual one of Mephisto. The speech of the tempter is very 
 subtle. He advises the renunciation of philosophy, and the full enjoyment of all 
 sensual pleasures the w^orld affords. Faust is unable to agree with his tempter, 
 but concludes a bargain with him to the following effect : — 
 
 Done ! say I, clench we at once the bargain. 
 If ever time should flow so calmly on, 
 Soothing my spirits in such oblivion 
 That in the pleasant trance I would arrest 
 And hail the happy moment in its course, 
 Bidding it linger with me — Oh ! how fair - 
 Art thou, delicious moment ! Happy days 
 Why will ye flee ! Fair vision ! Yet a little 
 Abide with me and bless me, fly not yet — 
 Or words like these, then throw me into fetters. 
 Then willingly do I consent to perish ; 
 
33 
 
 Faust's whole temperament is changed, and he says : 
 
 By heaven, she is a lovely child, 
 A fairer never met my eye, 
 Modest she seems and ^ood and mild, 
 Tho' something pert was her reply. 
 The red lips bright, the cheeks soft light 
 (My youth hath not departed quite.) 
 She passed her timid eyes declining. 
 Deep in my heart they still are shining, 
 And her light spirit's lively play 
 Hath stolen me from myself away. 
 
 Faust has become purely sensual. He utters the words quoted, and turning 
 round and beholding Mephisto he commands him to bring the maiden within his 
 reach. 
 
 Next we find Gretchen in her own room. Faust's appearance and his impudent 
 address have not been without effect, and inquisitiveness, the old snake of Paradise^ 
 moves her — 
 
 I'd give anything did I but know 
 
 Who the gentleman was that spoke to me. 
 
 Her speeches are short, her thoughts as yet trouble her but little. She leaves, 
 and Faust and Mephisto enter. Surrounded by the spiritual presence of Gretchen, 
 he commences to feel the germ of true love towards her. Here then, the great 
 secret is hinted at, spiritual man can only be saved by eternal love. No heavenly 
 bliss can come through our own strength alone, it can only be obtained with the 
 assistance of divine grace. Mephisto, the spirit of sensuality, is obliged to aid in 
 this salvation, against his will, of course, because he cannot conceive that he must 
 remain at the service of a higher power whatever he may do. Naturally this feel- 
 ing is repulsive to him and he desires to be gone. Previous to his departure he 
 has placed a sm.ill casket of jewels on the table as a present for Gretchen. She, on 
 re-entering, finds the chamber close and expresses her fears, wishing her mother 
 were at home. The sweet poison of love seems to be taking effect more and more, 
 as if an arrow-head had entered her wounded heart. Whilst busying herself about 
 the room, she sings the beautiful and simple ballad of the King of Thule — 
 
 There was a king in Thule 
 And he loved a humble maid, 
 And she also loved him truly 
 When he came to her deathbed. 
 
 A golden cup she gave him 
 Which none could better prize, 
 And ever as he drank of it 
 Tears dimmed his flaming eyes. 
 
 And when he came to die 
 
 To his heirs his wealth he told, 
 
 Left all without a sigh 
 
 But his mistress' cup of gold. 
 
 As at the royal banquet 
 Among his knights sat he 
 In the high hall of his fathers. 
 In their fortress o'er the sea. 
 
34 
 
 Up stood the ^ay old monarch, 
 
 For the last time up he stood, 
 
 For the last time drained the blessed cup 
 
 And threw it in the flood. 
 
 He saw it falling, falling. 
 
 And sinking in the sea, 
 
 His eyes lost sight of it, and sank 
 
 And never more drank he. 
 
 Gretchen now finds the casket and fancies it is something which has been 
 pawned with her mother. She adorns herself wdth the jewels, and this opportunity 
 causes the vanity of woman and the env y of the poor against the rich to appear. 
 In such a short period the army of passions develop themselves — uj) to the most 
 intense one — Love, in the flames of which Gretchen is to burn like Phoenix. But 
 the jewels which were to gain Gretchen for Faust have had a different lot. In the 
 next scene we learn that the mother has given them to a priest for the benefit of 
 the Church. Mephisto is besides himself, he is in the greatest state of uneasiness, 
 especially as he has become subservient to the Christianit}^ of the priests. The 
 play therefore changes here, the scoffer becomes the scoffed one, and that by Faust 
 who commands him to obtain some more jewelry. As Faust has a contrast in 
 Mephisto, so Gretchen has one in Martha. She is Gretchen's neighbour. We look 
 into her room and hear her complaining that her husband has gone to the wars and 
 is perhaps dead. Her selfishness shows itself in the words — 
 
 — Oh, horrors I 
 If I only had the certificate of his death ! 
 
 To such an egotistical being Gretchen comes, having found the new jewels, but 
 kept the knowledge of them a secret from her mother. Martha advises continued 
 secrecy, and gives her permission to come to her whenever she wants to wear the 
 jewels. Here Gretchen gives Mephisto an opportunity of approaching her. He 
 comes to see Martha under pretence of bringing her news of her deceased husband. 
 
 Your husband's dead and sends his love. 
 
 the spirit of contradiction again manifesting itself. During their conversation we gain 
 an insight into the utter depravity of Martha's nature — the zenith of animal egotism. 
 Mephisto at length wants to be gone. Martha, however, desires the certificate 
 of death, and the Evil One soon finds a way out of the difficult}'. He will, he says, 
 prove the truth of his assertion by means of two witnesses and thus he finds a means 
 of introducing Faust — 
 
 By good luck at present 
 There's one in town, who to the fact can speak 
 A man of character and high condition 
 He'll make the necessary deposition 
 Fll bring him in the evening. 
 Martha — Don't be later. 
 
 And thus the appointment is made, the invitation having been given in piroper 
 
 form. 
 
 In the garden then, behind my house 
 
 We shall expect both gentlemen 
 
 This evening there. Farewell till then. 
 
31 
 
 Then may the death-bell peal its heavy sounds ; 
 Then is thy service at an end, and then 
 The clock may cease to strike,'the hands to move ; 
 For me be time then passed away for ever. 
 
 Then with his blood he signs the compact ; for the blood, according to earh'^ 
 Christian ideas, was Satan's p.articular property ; whereupon all the beauties of his- 
 future life are laid before him. Meanwhile a young student comes to see the pro- 
 fessor. Faust declines the interview antJ- Mephisto decides to take his place. A 
 conversation ensues on the respective merits of the various branches of learning. 
 The student confesses his aversion to the particular branch of knowledge he is to 
 study. Mephisto encourages him to persevere by aiiorning the subject with sensual 
 pictures. The student replies, and ever and again we see the devil, pure and 
 simple, try to peep out from under the professor's gown. Having had many a. 
 hard hit at Metaph3^sics, Jurisprudence and Theology, the conversation at last turns 
 upon Medicine. Here we see the devil's devilry set free — 
 
 Student — Pardon, I feel my questions tease you, 
 
 Just for a moment more ; one word on 
 
 Medicine, so please you — 
 Mephis. — I'm sick of this pedantic tone, 
 
 Too Ion"' assumed. Now for my own ! 
 
 The trade of Medicine's easiest of all. 
 
 'Tis but to study all things, everywhere, ^ 
 
 Nature and man, the great world and the small, 
 
 Then leave them all haphazard still to fare. 
 
 It is, you see, plainly impossible 
 
 That one man should be skilled in every science. 
 
 Who learns the little that he can, does well ; 
 
 The secret of the art is self-reliance. ^ 
 
 A man can learn but what be can ; 
 
 Who hits the moment hits the man. 
 
 You are well made — have common sense. 
 
 And do not want for impudence. 
 
 Be fearless — others will confide no less 
 
 When you are confident of your success. 
 
 The only obstacle is indecision. 
 
 But above all, win to yourself the women, 
 
 'J'liey have their thousand weaknesses and aches, 
 
 And the one cure for Ihem is the physician. 
 
 A due consideration for the sex 
 
 Will teach the value of decorous seeming. 
 
 Let but appearances be unsuspicious, 
 
 They are every thing their doctor wishes. 
 
 The title doctor is essential, 
 
 Our university credential, 
 
 That as in ooe approved and tried 
 
 They may undoubtingly confide. 
 
 Then in the very earliest stage 
 
 Of new acquaintanceship you lead 'em, 
 
 Enjoying every privilege 
 
 Of tete-a-tete's familiar freedom ; 
 ^ Altho' the young physician's eyes 
 
 Exhibit, half-and-half disguise 
 
 Something like tenderness, the while 
 
 ■l-^ 
 
32 
 
 Mingling with the habitual guile 
 Of the sly acquiescent smile. 
 Then may you feel the taper wrist, 
 Nor will there one of them resist 
 The hand professionally prest, 
 — Professionally, mind you ! — on her breast, 
 Or round her waist the free arm thrown 
 To feel how much too tight her zone. 
 Student — This seems more feasible. One sees 
 Something like reason in all this — 
 Winning the household through the wife. 
 
 The student listens further to the arch-enemy, and presenting him an album, 
 requests him to favour him with some pithy motto. Mephisto writes : 
 
 Erilis sicut Deus scientes bonum et malum, 
 
 and the student departs with satisfaction, as if lie had found a treasure. 
 
 Faust and Mephisto now make their first excursion into the realistic world. 
 We meet them in Auerbach's beer cellar. In order to understand the joviality of 
 this scene, one ought to be well acquainted with this particular phase of German 
 student life, which has absolutely nothing in England or France to which it can be 
 compared. The hilarity of the assembly is great, and the satanic humour of Mephisto 
 appears more and more. As an example Mephisto changes the table in Auerbach's 
 cellar into a wine barrel ; and quite naturally, for, says he, if wood, that is the vine 
 can produce soft luscious fruits — grapes ; 3'ea, even a goat out of flesh and blood, 
 hard horns, why not inversely the solid table the liqui(J wine ? 
 
 But this kind of life does not suit Faust, he must be tempted with something 
 more refined. He is then taken to the witches' kitchen to be restored to youth and 
 beauty. A vigorous, handsome, enterprising youth takes the place of the professor 
 of metaphysics. Faust, under guidance of Mephisto, now becomes a materialist of 
 the most advanced school ; he renounces the ideal ; everything that cannot be 
 made really enjoyable. 
 
 Hearken ! 
 
 Henceforth do I devote myself and yield 
 
 Heart, soul and life to rapturous enjoyment, 
 
 Such dizzy sweet, intoxicating joy. 
 
 As when we stand upon a precipice 
 
 Makes reel the giddy sense and the brain whirl. 
 
 From this day forward am 1 dedicate 
 
 To the indulgence of tempestuous passions, 
 
 Love agonizing, idolizing hatred, 
 
 Cheering vexation and all that animates 
 
 And is our nature. 
 
 It is contrived whilst in this mood he shall meet the heroine of the drama, 
 Margarethe, the representative of Nature herself, in all the innocence imagined by 
 poets and mystics. Gretchen is seen coming out of church, from confession, where 
 she has had nothing to confess. She represents the pure womanly being 
 previous to the fall. The service has ended, the congregation is dispersing when 
 Margarethe arrives. Faust follows her. He is at her side. He politely offers her 
 -his arm, and is emphatically refused — 
 
 Bin weder Frdulein^ weder schon 
 Kann ungeleitet nach House gehWi,. 
 
35 
 
 Through the influence of the animal elements of the male, as depicted irr 
 Mephisto, the female in Martha, the two poles, Faust and Margarethe, are drawn 
 towards one another. But Faust must first commit perjury with reference to the 
 death of Martha's husband, Mr. Schwertlein. Mephisto's persuasive eloquence 
 finds utterance in the following terms : — 
 
 Is this the first time in your life that you 
 
 Have borne false witness ? Have you lectured " On 
 
 God," and " On the world "? And " All that moves therein '? 
 
 And " Man "? and on " How thought originates "? 
 
 And that enigma, " Man's mysterious nature "? 
 
 '' The intellectual and the moral powers ?" 
 
 Have you not dealt in formal definitions 
 
 With forehead unabashed and heart undaunted ? 
 
 Yet, if you did but own the truth, your conscience 
 
 Must tell you — does it not ?— you know no more 
 
 Of all theste matters, than of Schwertlein's death. 
 
 When, how^ever, Mephisto tries to include in the above category the protesta- 
 tions of his love for Gretchen, Faust bids him avaunt ! and the intensity of eternal 
 love carries all before it. Mephisto is confused. He cannot comprehend this, he 
 can but reply, 
 
 Yet, 1 am in the right. •♦ 
 
 Here Faust carries off a short victory, which, however, becomes a defeat, by 
 his subsequent voluntary surrender. 
 
 I'm tired of talk, you then are in the right 
 You must be, sure ! I have no help for it. 
 
 Now follows the garden scene, the parallels being — 
 
 Mephisto and Martha, Faust with Gretchen. 
 
 We have a cosy garden enclosed by a wall. A lilac tree in full bloom gives a 
 beautiful fragrance to heighten the pleasure of the place. 
 We distinguish six distinct phases in the scene. 
 
 1st Phase. 
 
 Gretchen is -learning Love's A.B.C. She cannot understand, and yet would 
 like to know, what Faust sees in her, for she fancies herself so simple-minded. 
 
 2nd Phase. 
 
 Martha has made up her mind to captivate Mephisto. In an argumentiim ad 
 hominem she advises him to marry. 
 
 In youth's wild days it cannot but be pleasant, 
 This idle roaming round and round the world, 
 With wild-fire spirits and heart disengaged, 
 But soon comes age and sorrow, and to drag 
 
36 
 
 Through the la&t years of life down to the grare 
 A solitary creature — like the wretch 
 Who moves from prison on to execution, 
 This must be bad for body and for soul. 
 
 Mephisto, however, only ridicules her. 
 
 You make me shudder at the dreary prospect. /■ 
 
 3rd Phase. 
 
 Faust and Gretchen re-appear. His likeness is already fixed in her heart ; her 
 fioul has gone out towards him. She shows her fear most plainly lest he should 
 go away and forget her. Faust's question, 
 
 " Your time is passed, then, much alone ?" 
 
 fives the motive for her charmingly naive narrative of her household and family, 
 he has a brother — Valentine — who is a soldier, but the little sister whom she 
 brought up is dead. We can read her heart as a book and see into it as into a 
 pellucid lake. Gretchen's character is in this scene most clearly and fully developed 
 for us. In none of his creations has Goethe's muse ascended to such flights as here. 
 It is only by means of this scene that the subsequent one in the dungeon scene can 
 be explained and understood. 
 
 4th Phase. 
 
 Not yet converted Martha attacks Mephisto more energetically still : — 
 
 Tell me plainly : Have you never met 
 
 One whom you loved ? Thought you of marriage yet ? 
 
 Mephisto does not wish to understand her, and his speeches are so humorous 
 because Martha really puts him into a corner. She would desire nothing more, 
 than to make a second trial of married blessedness with him. 
 
 5th Phase. 
 Faust is now already the confidant of Gretchen. Confessions follow. 
 
 Faust — And so thou didst, my angel, didst thou not. 
 The moment that 1 came into the garden. 
 Remember me again, upon this spot ? 
 
 She responds — 
 
 Did you not see it ? 1 held down my eyes. 
 
 Faust now asks her if she has pardoned his rudeness in addressing her in the 
 manner he did as she came out of church. And here we learn what we have already 
 known : — 
 
 Yet must I own, I did not then detect 
 
 How my heart pleaded for thee, nor suspect 
 
 1 w ith myself was angry, that with thee 
 
 As angry as I ought, I could not be. 
 
37 
 
 Faust is already permitted to name her " Sweet love." And now comes the 
 beautiful " He loves me ; he loves me not ; he loves me." 
 
 The moment has arrived in which budding love is about to burst forth into 
 bloom. 
 
 Faust — Yes, my child, deem this language of the flower 
 The answer of an oracle — He loves thee. 
 Dost thou know all the meaning of: He loves thee ? 
 Maegabethe — I tremble. 
 • 
 
 The new born, not-to-be-explained, fesling of her intense love which has 
 suddenly taken possession of her being, makes her, as it were, wish to flee from 
 herself, more than Faust, who now follows her. 
 
 Last Phase. 
 
 Martha now retires from the uneven conflict with Mephisto, not on account of 
 being defeated, but because she despairs, lest she should be. When the words 
 " The night is coming on " escapes her, Mephisto feels as if he had got rid of the 
 mill-stone round his neck — "Yes! and we must away." Martha seemingly wraps 
 herself in the mantle of virtue, fearing the evil tongues of her neighbours, and she 
 and her escort go to look for Faust and Gretchen, We look into a small summer- 
 house, an arbor hidden like a nest in the foliage ; and within and without the little 
 feathered friends are flitting to and fro. It is Faust who, holding Gretchen in his 
 arms, imprints passionate kisses upon her lips. It is Gretchen who returns the 
 embrace, and sighing says : — 
 
 Dearest and best with my whole heart I love thee. 
 
 But before the porch we have the representatives of the sensual element 
 ot love — Mephisto and Martha. We thus understand Faust's exclamation " A 
 Brute !" when he catches a glimpse of Mephisto. Margarethe remains behind 
 in ectasy over the beauty of her lover. 
 
 How many things a man like this must know ! 
 and overcome by the consciousness of her own shortcomings, exclaims : — 
 
 And I had hut a " yes " 
 For everything he said, confused 
 By every word ; yet he excused 
 Each fault of mine. What can it be 
 That thus attaches him to me. 
 
 On Faust, too, we must play the eavesdropper and listen to his soliloquy. He 
 has fled the city and betaken himself to the solitude of the woods. He hesitates 
 and trembles to destroy Margarethe in his passion. He has everything nature can 
 give him, but he feels also, with bitter pain, that nothing absolutely perfect can 
 fall to the lot of mau. He is intoxicated with the desire to satisfy his passion, 
 and still uneasy, even in enjoyment, languishes for desire. At this point it is shown 
 that the compact between Faust and Mephisto can never be fulfilled by the latter — 
 
 Would I arrest 
 And hail the happy moment in its course 
 Bidding it linger with me, then throw me 
 Into fetters. Then willingly do I consent to perish. 
 
3S 
 
 Faust could only then sink completely to the level of the brute and lose his 
 salvation, if he could really find satisfaction in sensuality. Bodily he can ; he will 
 therefore perish in the body but not in the spirit. Mephistopheles, the demon of 
 sensuality, is forced though desiring Evil to work out Good. He has not yet, how- 
 ever, renounced the hope of victory. He paints Gretchen's sorrow at his (Faust's) 
 departure and tempts him once more to go into her presence to — 
 
 Comfort the young monkey, 
 And requite the poor thing for her love. 
 
 Faust reads his design and calls him — 
 
 Serpent, vile serpent. 
 
 To which Mephisto replies aside : — 
 
 Aye, and one that stings. 
 
 Since Faust desired to drain to the dregs the cup of human passions in purely 
 creature-like animal existence, he must now continue in the bi^ad and easy way 
 that leadeth unto perdition. 
 
 What must be, be it soon. Let the crash fall 
 Down on me of her ruin. Perish all, 
 She — I — and these wild thoughts together. 
 
 Faust, under the influence of Gretchen's suggestions, learn to abhor his com- 
 panion and expresses a longing to be freed from his contact. Meanwhile with a 
 foreboding of sorrow Gretchen sits at her spinning wheel singing — 
 
 My peace is gone, my heart is sore, 
 I've lost him, and lost him for evermore ! 
 The place where he is not to me is the tomb, 
 The world is sadness and sorrow and gloom. 
 
 My poor sick brain is crazed with pain. 
 And my poor sick heart is torn in twain, 
 • My peace is gone, and my heart is sore 
 
 For lost is my love for evermore. 
 
 From the windows for him my heavy eyes roam 
 To seek him, all lonely, 1 wander from home. 
 His noble form, his bearing high, 
 The smiles of his lip, and the power of his eye, 
 
 And the magic tone of that voice of his 
 His hand's soft pressure, and oh I his kiss. 
 My peace is gone, my heart is sore, 
 I have lost him, and lost for evermore. 
 
 Far wanders my heart to feel him near. 
 Oh ! could I clasp him, and hold him here I 
 Hold him and. kiss him, Oh 1 could I die ! 
 To feed on his kisses, how willingly. 
 
39 
 
 Scarcely has she ended, when Mephisto re-appears, but Gretchen, shuddering 
 at the very sight of him, flies into her lover's arms. There is a pause, as slyly, 
 shyly, she commences, " Promise me, Henr^^" and expresses her doubt concerning 
 the religious opinions of her lover. She fears that his Christianity is not very deep, 
 as also, his views on the sacredness of the marriage rite, which according to the 
 Christian Catholic Church is classed among the sacraments. Faust does not know 
 how to get out of the difficulty of answering her, when Gretchen going a step too 
 far, helps him by enquiring if he believes in God. Now follows that splendid 
 confession of a Pantheist : — 
 
 Margarethe. — Do you believe in God ? 
 Faust. — Forbear, my love. 
 
 Who can truly say, I believe in God ? 
 
 Ask it of priest or of philosopher, 
 
 And the reply seems but a mockery of him 
 
 Who asks — 
 Margarethe. — " Then thou dost not believe ?"• 
 . Faust. — Misunderstand me not, thou best beloved. 
 
 Who can name Him and knowing what He says, 
 
 Say : I believe in Him ? And who can feel. 
 
 And with self-violence to conscious wrong, 
 * Hardening- his he^rt, say : I believe Him not, 
 
 The all-embracing-, all-sustaining- One ? 
 
 Say : Doth He not embrace, sustain, include 
 
 Thee ? Me ? Himself ? Bends not the sky 
 
 Above ? And the earth on which we are, is it 
 
 Not firm ? And over us with constant 
 
 Kindly smile, the sleepless stars 
 
 Keep everlasting watch ? Am I not here 
 
 Gazing into thine eyes ? And does not 
 
 All that is, seen and unseen, mysterious all, 
 
 Around thee and within, untiring agency, 
 
 Press on thy heart and mine. 
 
 Fill thy whole heai-t with it and when thou art 
 
 .T(Ost in the consciousness of happiness, then 
 
 Call it what thou wilt, happiness, heart. 
 
 Love, God — 1 have no name for it. Feeling 
 
 is all. Name — sound and smoke dimming 
 
 The glow of heaven. 
 
 Gretchen replies : — 
 
 This is all good and right, the priest says 
 
 Pretty much the same, but in words somewhat different. 
 
 " All hearts," says Faust, " in all places, under the blessed light of day, say it - 
 each in its own language ; why not I in mine." 
 To whom Gretchen — 
 
 Yet there is something strange about thy Christianity. 
 
 She reproaches him with the evil company he keeps, alluding to Mephisto. la 
 his (Mephisto's) presence she almost feels lier own love vanishing, certain it is she 
 
40 
 
 <5annot pray. The guileless innocence which prattles thus, prepares us for the naive 
 readiness with which she is willing to admit her lover into her apartment — 
 
 This very night, 
 How gladly would I leave the door unbolted, 
 But then my mother's sleep is far from sound. 
 
 She consents to give her mother a sleeping draught, which under diabolical 
 influence acts like poison. Thus she parts from the man she loves. 
 
 Seh^ ich dick hcster Mann nur an 
 
 Weiss nicht was mich iiach deinein Willen treibt 
 
 Ich hahe schon so vielfur Dich gethan 
 
 Dass mir zu thun fast nickts melir i'lbrig bleibt 
 
 This scene is followed with terrible significance, b/ that brief one at the well, 
 where Margarethe hears her friends triumph over the fall of her companions. 
 Women, in all other circumstances so compassionate, are merciless to each other 
 precisely in those situations where feminine sympathy would be most grateful, where 
 feminine tenderness should be most sugi^estive. Bessy, the friend, lets all her wrath 
 fall on the victim, but Gretchen, taught compassion by experience, cannot now 
 triumph as formerly she would have done, now that she too is a sinner and cannot 
 chide. The closing words of this soliloquj^ have never been adequately translated. 
 There is something in their simplicity and intensity which defies translation : — 
 
 Dock alles was dazu mich trieb 
 Gott war so gut I ach war so lieb t 
 
 Margarethe is now depicted praying to the Mater Dolorosa to hide her shame 
 :and rescue her from death. 
 
 Mother benign I 
 Look down on me I 
 No grief like thine, 
 Thou who did'st see 
 lu his death agony 
 Thy son divine. 
 
 Oh I in this hour of death and the near grave 
 
 Succour me, thou, and save, 
 
 Look on me, with that countenance benign, 
 
 Never was grief like thine ! 
 
 Look down ! Look down on mine. 
 
 Her shame becomes public. Her brother, Valentine, finds Faust under her 
 window with Mephistopheles serenading her. A fight ensues. Valentine receives 
 a mortal wound and dies, reproaching his guilty sister as the cause of his death. 
 Valentine is the representative of family honour and civic order. The catastrophe 
 is heightened by his death. He is a brave young soldier, his only pride his beautiful 
 young sister, whom he was accustomed to praise before all his comrades. He thus 
 becomes the incarnation of family egotism, loving himself as part of his own family, 
 which egotism is evidently in the wrong and which he seals with his death. He is 
 caused to appear, in the great tragedy of the passions, to be a hero of the smallei 
 tragedy in middle-class life. The poor fellow whilst dying utters vehement 
 
41 
 
 reproaches against Martha. The tragic reconciliation between brother and sister 
 being the consciousness of the dying man that — 
 
 Fearless, I go, as fits the brave, 
 To God, and to a soldier's grave. 
 
 From this scene of bloodshed an 1 horror we are led to the Cathedral. The 
 organ peals forth, and Gretchen enters followed by Martha. Gretchen prays among 
 the crowd, the evil spirit at her side. The ritual, the solemn tones of the organ, 
 the dies irae, dies ilia awake Gretchen's conscience, which \4siblv', as her evil spirit, 
 is sitting beside her. Conscience is the voice of the heart, the surest index of right 
 and wrong. So here the awakening of conscience is the first footstep in the act of 
 repentance. The evil spirit then tells us that the sleeping draught administered 
 to the mother has caused her death, and Gretchen finds herself in the greatest 
 despair. She is overpowered by remorse, for the Evil One interprets the words of 
 the hymn in their most appalling significance. 
 
 I omit the JValpitrgisnacht for although a splendid episode, it has not of a 
 necessity any bearing on the main plotof the poem. 
 
 The scene is in Hartz Mountains, where the witches are holding their sabbath. 
 On reaching the place of meeting Faust and Mephisto find, beside witches and 
 wizards, representative characters moralizing on the degeneracy of the age ; and 
 amongst many strange objects, Faust has a foreboding vision of the fate of his 
 beloved. No description can carry more than a very faint notion of the Intermezzo 
 supposed to be performed by a dilettante company"" on the Blocksberg, the dramatis 
 personcB being a raotly crew, with each a couplet or two assigned to them ; the 
 point of which (when there is a point) can only be made intelligible by notes. 
 
 I would wish to draw attention to the fact how cleverly the poet contrasts his 
 scenes. Immediately after the solemn cathedral rites, we have the diabolical, the 
 wizard-like element of the Blockberg. 
 
 Now we approach the denouement of the tragedy. 
 
 Seduction has led to infanticide, the murder to the condemnation of the 
 mother. This Faust learns from Mephisto. We are then taken to the portal of a 
 dungeon. Faust approaches with a key and a lamp. The song in which Gretchen's 
 ^vil spirit finds utterance is the contents of an old legend, in which a wretched 
 mother destroys her child, cooks it and places it as a meal before her husband. The 
 little sister of the murdered one collects the bones and buries them under a tree. 
 The bones are transformed into a bird which sings from a tree in front of the house, 
 when, the wretched mother approaching, she is killed by a stone which the bird 
 lets drop — 
 
 My mother, my mother, my mother hath slain me, 
 My father inhviman, for supper hath ta'en me. 
 My little sister hath, one by one, 
 Laid together each small white bone 
 Mid almond blossoms to sleep in the cool, 
 And I awake me, a wood-bird beautiful. 
 Fly away ! fly away ! all the long summer day, 
 Little bird of the woods, fly away I fly away ! 
 
 Her delirium has transformed her own murdered babe into a bird. She fancies 
 she hears it sino^ing, and she repeats incessantly the words of the song, " Fly away I 
 Fly away ! " Faust enters. Gretchen imagines it is the gaoler come to lead her 
 
42 
 
 to the scaffold. The two-fold ** Woe ! Woe ! " is the exclamation of a creature 
 overcome by fear of death, which ends in the words, " they come," and in the sad 
 resignation, "Bitter death." Her brain is shaken, but she is not mad. Every word 
 she utters is a horrible truth. Then she appeals to this man, whom she mistakes 
 for the hangman — and this is the, to her unknown, Faust — for pity, for mercy. 
 She is beside herself that 'she is to die at such an early hour, it not being day- 
 light- 
 It is not more than midnight now, have mercy. 
 It is too long a time to wait till morn ? 
 
 Her sorrow, that she is still so youthful, is intensely real,, the wail from the 
 depth of her heart, and like every criminal she tries to excuse her crime. 
 
 And 1 am still so young — so very young, 
 And must I die so soon ? And 1 was fair, 
 And I was fair and that was my undoing, 
 " Oh ! if my love were here, but he is gone I " 
 
 Her fear of death increases when Faust takes hold of her. 
 Savage ! who gave this cruel power to thee ? 
 
 It must be remembered that she mistakes him for the hangman, hence her tone 
 of. address. Overcome by i'ear of death, her imagination leads her to fancy that the 
 child which in spirit she nursed during the night, still lives ; for its having become 
 a little forest bird is only a legend among the people, who say it applies to her. In 
 Faust, who is now kneeling beside her, she perceives merely a being with whom 
 she can pray, and thus soothe the pains of hell with which her conscience is^ 
 troubled. 
 
 Let us kneel down, and call upon the saints. 
 
 See ! see ! beneath us, hell boils up 
 
 The Devil is raging there below 
 
 In hideous din." 
 
 Only when Faust calls her by name does she seem to have an idea of his 
 
 Eresence ; she listens, as if he, so near, were at a distance. Now she springs from 
 er bed of straw, her chains fall ; her words explain themselves. Faust's " 'Tis I," 
 is immediately responded to, " Tis thou ? " Eut as if in doubt she begs : " Oh say 
 it once again." Then completely overcome with joy, she loses herself in the once 
 happy past. All fear, all horror of the present pass away ; he only, her lover, fills 
 her soul. But the Faust, counselling flight, is no longer her happy, loving Faust. 
 The night of her misfortune again breaks on her. The remembrance of the horrid 
 deed which has happened again becomes vivid, and in an awful monotone she 
 commences : " My mother I poisoned !'' and, increasing in horror and intensity. 
 *']My child I drowned I " Trembling, fearing, her crime appears doubly great, 
 But her lover carries a heavy burden of guilt. He is the murderer of her brother, 
 and as if awakening, suddenly, to the full comprehension of the awful deed, she 
 shrieks, •' Oh God, what hast ihou done ! " Faust's reply makes it evident that he 
 has been found guilty, but he is to live to look after the grave and her own burial. 
 Commencing with the words, " Nay you must stay " down to the sad, hopeless 
 exclamation — 
 
 No one will otherwise be by my side. 
 
43 
 
 every word breathes forth an intensely sorrowful, sad request. It is the last demand 
 on earth — 
 
 No, you must live. No, you have to remain. 
 I will describe to you the graves which you 
 To-morrow must see made : The best place 
 Give to my poor mother ; 
 Near her lay my brother, 
 And by their side a little space away, 
 But not too far from them, mu>t be my place 
 And lay the little one on my ri2:ht breast, 
 No other will lie with me in that grave, 
 To nestle down in quiet, side by side 
 With thee, '^)h what a happy thing it was ! 
 A happy thing, that never more can be I 
 
 She declines to flee with Faust, preferring to wash out her sin by death. There 
 is, therefore, a heartfelt sorrow contained in the words : " Oh Henry ! could 1 only 
 go with thee ! " but she cannot escape her fate ; for if she were to flee, her evil 
 ■conscience would be the cause of her being re-arrested. 
 
 I dare not go, there is no help for me. 
 
 What good is it to fly. My steps are watched. 
 
 It is a hard thing to be forced to beg. 
 
 And harder, harassed by an evil conscience. 
 
 'Tis hard to wander in a foreign land; 
 
 And then, whate'er I do, at last they'll seize me. 
 
 Faust promises ^o remain with her, but she exclaims, " Can you undo what is 
 already done ? " This question makes her brain whirl, her memory returns to the 
 last moments of a poisoned, dying mother and a drowned infant. Her paroxysm 
 ends in the cry, " Save ! Save ! " Faust now desires to carry her away by force, 
 she will not permit it. Her consciousness has returned once more, and with fearful 
 <iertainty she exclaims : — 
 
 Yes, it is growing day ; the last day is breaking, 
 
 My bridal it shoidd have been. Tell none 
 
 That thou hast been with poor weak Margarethe, 
 
 Alas my garland is already withered. — 
 
 We'll meet again, but not at dance&, love ! 
 
 The crowd is gathering tumultuously. 
 
 The square and street are thronged with crushing thousands. 
 
 The bell hath sounded, the death wand is broken. 
 
 They bind and blindford me, and force me on, 
 
 On to the scaffold they have hurried me. 
 
 And now through every neck of all that multitude 
 
 1 s felt the bitter wound that severs mine 
 
 The world is now as silent as the grave ! — 
 
 As previously the just closed past appeared to her excited imagination as the 
 present, so the immediate future is now pictured to her as the present. Here her 
 work is ended, iler physical death is only, as it were, the fuUstop of the sentence — > 
 only the symbol of the consummatioa of earthly existence. Mepliisto appears at 
 the door. Margarethe recognizes the Evil One. " 'Tis ho ! 'Tis he ; send him from 
 this place I " she exclaims. " What would he here ? Why does he tread on con- 
 
44 
 
 secrated ground ? " With the words, " He comes for me,' she shudders from the 
 demon of sin and sensuality. Falling on her knees she resigns herself to the judg- 
 ment of God. The absolution is complete. 
 
 Mephisto — Come, she is judged. 
 
 A Voice (from above) — Is saved. 
 
 The last words from Mephisto to Faust, " Hither to me," need no elucidation, 
 and with them the tragedy ends, a voice from within dying away uttering the words, 
 " Henry, Henry." 
 
 The earthly Faust is lost, the spiritual one, however, is saved, in the same 
 manner as his earthly love is lost as represented in Margarethe, in order to be 
 crowned by an eternal, heavenly one, which by its powers shall free him from 
 the trammels of sin. 
 
 The amount of controversy these last few lines have occasioned, seems 
 scarcely credible. The most poetical interpretation being, I take it, says Mr. 
 Howard, that Gretchen dies after uttering the last words assigned to her ; 
 that the judgment of heaven is pronounced upon her as her spirit parts (Mephista 
 announces it in his usual sardonic and deceitful style) ; that the voice from 
 above makes known the real purport, and that the voice from within, dying 
 away, is Margarethe's spirit calling to her lover on its way to heaven, whilst ker 
 body lies dead on the stage. 
 
 Schlegel in a letter to Mai-tin says : " Sie ist gerichtet " se rappor/e a la sentence de 
 niort^ prononcee par les juges^ les mots sidvants " Sie ist gerettet ", au salut de son 
 dme. It has been contended that the Sie ist gerichtet refers both to the judgment in 
 heaven and to the judgment upon earth. As to the translation of the passage no 
 doubt can well exist, lor richten is literally to judge and is constantly used in the 
 precise sense the above interpretation attributes to it ; for instance, Zu richten die 
 Lebendigen imd die Todten^ to judge the quick and the dead. 
 
 With what words shall one sum up this wonderfully beautiful poem. Regard- 
 ing the translations of the noble work I expressed my opinion at the outset. 
 Even in the original the effect depends so much on the language, that it must 
 be read and re-read, to be appreciated. Its glory soon dawns upon the student. 
 It is now one of those works which exercise a fascination, to be compared only to 
 the minute and inexhaustible love we feel for those long dear to us, every expression 
 having a peculiar and, by association, quite mystic influence. 
 
 With peculiar reference to his universality, Goethe has been called the Voltaire 
 of Germany. But the comparison is unjust to him. His genius was of a higher 
 order, and he bears to German literature, as a whole, the same relation which 
 Voltaire bears to the French of the 1 8th Century. In the opening lectm-e of a 
 remarkable series at the Univi rsity of Berlin, it was stated boldly and unequivo- 
 cally, " Goethe has created our language and our speech. Before him both were 
 without value in the world-mart of the nations of Europe." 
 
 Madame De Stael said of him that he might represent the entire literature of 
 his country. Not that there are not other writers, superior to him in some respects, 
 but that alone he represents all that distinguishes the German mind and no one is so^ 
 remarkable for a kind of imagination to which neither Italians, French, nor English 
 can lay claim. In Germany the admiration for Goethe is a kind of freemasonry. 
 At the Shakespeare Tercentenary at Stratford a German gentleman, speaking for a 
 deputation, rose and said that " he and his friends had come to do honour to the 
 
45 
 
 second greatest poet that ever lived" — Goethe being the first. He was not like- 
 his own Tasso the silk worm, self-producing from within ; he drew his inspiration 
 from without, from the acting, feeling, thinking, suffering world around him. 
 
 As a drama, the first impression, perhaps inevitable, is unfavourable to Faust — 
 for reasons previously stated. The scenes hang loosely together and unity of action 
 is altogether wanting. As a poem we must distinguish the picture from the 
 problem. We must come to the conclusion that it is the cry of despair over the 
 nothingness of life. Baflfted in the attempt to penetrate the mysteries of life, 
 Faust yields himself to the Tempter, who promises that he shall penetrate into the 
 full enjoyment of life. He is restless, because he seeks the absolute, which never 
 can be found. This is the doom of humanity. Es irrt cler Mensch so lang er strebt. 
 Goethe tried as near as possible to solve the problem practically and theoretically 
 by his doctrine of renunciation and the example of his life. 
 
 Knowledge can be only relative, never absolute. But this relative knowledge 
 is infinite and to us infinitely important. In that wide sphere let each one work 
 according to his ability. The sphere of active duty is wide, suflScing, ennobling 
 to all who strenuously work in it. In the very sweat of labour there is a stimulus 
 which gives energy to life and a consciousness that our labour tends in some 
 way to the lasting benefit of others and makes the rolling years endurable. 
 
 If you wish for deeper knowledge 
 
 Think for yourself ! 
 Let the wide world be your college 
 
 Think fir yourself ! 
 In a college so extensive, 
 Knowledge may be compreheosive, 
 ' Without being made expensive, 
 
 Think for yourself! 
 
MOLIERE. 
 
 |l ^te% OH th^ jj^ts^ and ^r0gress 0)! 4fteni:tt ^onieilg. 
 
MOLIERE. 
 
 ^ $tu5|l 0tt tf|^ Hide mt^ J^roQti^SiS 0I BPr^nch Comcdg. 
 
 In the front rank, amongst the great writers who b\'' their masterpieces 
 inaugurated the reign of Louis XIV. we find Moli^re. There is. perhaps, no 
 author in this fruitful and distinguished age who has obtained a higher reputation 
 than he, or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own art. 
 There is in Moliere's character a deep tone of passion and earnestness of feeling 
 which raises him far above the ordinary English notion of French frivolity. In 
 tlie reign of him who said : L'etdt c'est moi, Moliere enjoyed unusual freedom. 
 The position in which he stood with the King is sufficiently evident by the gift of 
 a canonry which he obtained from him for the son of his doctor. It is of him that 
 Voltaire recounts the following : Dining, one day, with the King, " You have a 
 doctor," said Louis XIV. to Moliere, " what does he do for you ? " " Sire," replied 
 Moliere, " we chat ; he prescribes certain remedies ; I do not take the medicine, and 
 I get well." Born of the bourgeoisie^ he does not spare to attack their follies ; 
 obliged to mix with the aristocracy he is pitiless towards their vices and pretensions. 
 He may be said to have fully realized the motto : Castigat ridendo mores — correct- 
 ing humanity by laughing at its defects. He is neither sublime nor scandaleux. 
 He makes us reflect ; he makes us laugh. Reflection is good, if it leads to amend- 
 ment, and hygienic laws are in favour of a hearty laugh as a healthful exercise. 
 A profound moralist, he is far from being an immoral poet, and Thompson could 
 well say of him 
 
 " Moliere's scene 
 Chastis'd and regular, with well-judged art, 
 Not scattered wild, with native humour grac'd 
 Was life itself."— 
 
 In order the better to understand the enormous advance of Moliere's creations 
 on anything that had preceded him, it will be advisable to glance at the origin of 
 the mediseval theatre in general and comedy in particular. 
 
 Amongst the inheritances from paganism, Christianity received the theatre 
 steeped in all the vices of those licentious and lascivious times. The gravity and 
 nobility of the ancients had long since disappeared. The good, the pure, the noble 
 had given place to all that was vile, base and debauched. No wonder, therefore, 
 that the early church fathers were most eloquent in their invectives against the 
 theatre. Their vehemence was ceaseless in pursuing this criminal institution. They 
 called the stage " the sanctuary of Venus, the cavern of the Devil, the public 
 factory for crimes, a school of infamy." Gregory, Tertullian, the Councils, all 
 repeat the same anathemas. Under these repeated blows the theatre fell. Strange 
 to relate, however, the theatre, ruined by the Church, reappeared under its 
 patronage. It was metamorphosed, but it saw the light again, after having been 
 buried for a long time. 
 
50 
 
 A few Christian imitations of the ancient stage, Latin rhetorical exercises, the* 
 earliest attempts at dramatic representation fostered by the Abbess of Gandersheim 
 indicated the route to be followed. One had, however, to wait for years ere the 
 people took delight in pleasures less grave than those with which it at first whiled 
 away its leisure hours. The first ray of literary joy came to it from the cathedrals 
 and the churches. The gorgeous ritual of the Church, the processions, the banners, 
 the robed choristers and incense bearers, this, in itself was a performance, the 
 splendour of which was undoubted. Early in the history of the Church dramatic 
 performances were introduced. Thus, we are told, on Ascension day, a priest 
 mounted a flight of steps on the outside of Notre-Dame, simulating Christ's ascent 
 into heaven. At Pentecost, one saw the Holy Grhost descending from the roof of 
 the cathedral in the shape of a dove with the accompaniment of tongues of fire. 
 *Tis but a step from this to the mysteries. 
 
 The mysteries represented on the stage the most remarkable events of sacred 
 history. The narratives most frequently dramatized for the benefit of the public 
 were : The life and death of Jesus Christ ; the history of the Virgin ; of the 
 Saints ; of Adam ; of the patriarchs. It is not necessary to examine in details 
 the development of this religious drama, suffice it to say, that it was produced by a 
 natural sequence from the elaborate cult of the Romish Church, in the same manner 
 as the theatre was born amongst the Athenians from the worship of Bacchus. 
 This theatre, which already existed in the eleventh century, remained for tv.o 
 hundred years under the control of the clergy. In the thirteenth century lay poets 
 commenced to compose dramatic works in the same style, and the clergy abandoned 
 the representations to the laymen. 
 
 When a town wished to give a spectacular display of this description, the chief 
 citizens came together with the sanction of the aldermen, of the chapter, and of the 
 civil and ecclesiastical authorities, erected a wooden theatre in the public square, 
 had decorations and costumes made, and engaged actors. The representation was 
 preceded by a inon.stre, or a procession of all the actors in the cast, and by a c?-i/ 
 public (a proclamation) in verse, inviting the people to be present at the per- 
 formance of the mystery. 
 
 Side by side with these religious representations were some that were more 
 profane. On the occasion of certain popular feasts, farces were performed which 
 were reaMy drsunsitized contes or fabliaua; , On certain solemn occasions, such as 
 the coronation of a sovereign, or the marriage of one of the members of the royal 
 family, there were given representations mimiques called entremets^ kinds of inter- 
 mezzos, where the most cQvers subjects were placed before the people. These 
 tableaux continued until th^ reign of Henry II. (1547). 
 
 In the north of France the representations given by musical and literary 
 societies under the name of Puys^ were of a more elevated character. Such is for 
 instance the Pastorale de Robin et Marion^ written by Adam de la Halle towards 
 the end of the thirteenth century. The pieces played by the Puys were sometimes 
 of an allegorical character, as may he frequently seen from their titles. The 
 moralities may have drawn their origin from this source. 
 
 The commencement of the fifteenth Century is an epoch in the history of the 
 stage. In 1402 a society of citizens of Paris received from Charles VI. the 
 privilege : 
 
 " De fairejouer quelque mystere que ce soif, soit de la Passion et Resurrection ou 
 autre quelconque tant de saincts comme de sainctes qu'ils voudront eslire mettre sus 
 (i,e, sur la scene) toutes et quantes fois quHl leur plaira." 
 
61 
 
 With the Confr^rie de la Passion, Paris received its first theatre established in 
 the Hospital de la Trinite, close to the Porte Saint Denis. Soon after, two new 
 companies started, viz., the Clercs de la Basoche and the Enfants Sans Souci. The 
 Clerc.^ de la Basoche or Clercs dii Parlement has received a kind of charter of 
 incorporation since the reign of Philip the Fair (1292). He had given them 
 privileges, statutes, and a special jurisdiction. In the twenties of the fifteenth 
 century they obtained permission to play, be it at the houses of private persons, 
 be it on certain specified days, in their own theatre du ChateJet, particular pieces of" 
 an allegorical character which received the name of moralite/i. These were performed 
 side by side \^^th the farces. 
 
 About the same time, at a date that cannot now be fixed exactly, some j^ouths 
 of good family also obtained the privilege of playing pieces called soties. These 
 youths formed a company under the name of; " Societe des Enfants Sans Souci." 
 They played in the '" Halles." These two societies long maintained a friendly 
 rivalry. On the other hand the Confreres de la Passion made a contract with the 
 Enfants Sans Souci, by virtue of which, the latter were allowed to perform their 
 soties in the theatre in Trinity Hospital and furnished, later on, the actors for the 
 comic " business " that was introduced into the mysteries. 
 
 Such was the organization of the regular theatre, in Paris, during the Middle 
 Ages. The provinces followed the example of the capital. All the large towns^ 
 formed societies for the representation of mysteries. Angers, Bourges, Metz, 
 Orleans, Poitiers, Rouen, Saumur, Tours and Troyes particularly distinguished 
 themselves by the splendour of their performances. The fifteenth century is the 
 great epoch in the French theatre. Mysteries, moralities, farces, take a wider 
 scope : the soties are of a special character. 
 
 Mysteries were of three kinds : (1) Mysteries properly so-called, which re- 
 present "j9ar personnages^' a story either of the Old or New Testament ; (2) 
 Miracles, which represent some marvellous saintly adventure in the provinces the 
 saints were those of local celebrity ; (3) Profane mysteries, which represented, 
 historical or legendary events without any religious admixture. 
 
 The moralities were nt first but simple moral allegories dramatized. After- 
 wards come moralities which were rather dramatized parables, such as ; " The 
 Prodigal Son." Lastly, the moralities which particularly depict a moral quality, a 
 certain virtue : " Moralite ou histoire rommaine dime femme qui avait voulu trahir 
 la cite de Rome et comme sa Jille la nourrit six sepmaines de son lait eti prison ; a 
 cinq personnages^ c est assavoir : Oracius, Valerius, le sergent, la mere et la Jille y 
 
 The sotie^ which seems the most recent form of the drama of the Middle Ages, 
 has a satirical tendency. It is an attempt at political comedy, recalling at times 
 Aristophanes. From the second half of the fifteenth century, moralities, soties, farces, 
 became the objects of the suspicious attention of the Government. Under Charles 
 VII. an attempt was made to put a check on the growing audacity of the Clercs 
 de la Basoche and of the Enfants Sans Souci. Under the harsh rule of Louis XI.. 
 they were compelled to be silent or nearly so, but which Louis XII. liberty raised 
 her head once more. This prince permit les thecitres litres et voulut que sur iceux on 
 joudt librement les abus qui se commetaient taut en sa cour comme en tout son royaume^ 
 p^nsant par la apprendre et savoir beaucoup de choses lesquelles autrement il lui etait 
 impossible d' entendre. He, even, made use of the theatre as a potent arm in his 
 strife with the Papacy. Under Francis I. persecutions recommenced and the- 
 liberty of the theatre was restrained by royal decrees. Hence during the sixteenth 
 century the theatre languished. At the beginning of the seventeenth century the 
 
52 
 
 Clercs de la Basoche aad the Eafants Sans Soiici have ceased to perform. The 
 company of the Clercs du Parlement, however, lasted until the Revolution, which 
 put an end to it, as it did to so many other institutions. 
 
 In 1548 the confreres who had e tablished themselves at the Hotel de Bour^jogne 
 having asked for a confirmation of their privileges, Parliament allowed them to 
 play, sujets profanes honnestes et licites^ but forbade them, expressly, mysteries drawn 
 from Holy Writ. This enactment sounded the death-knell of the old religious 
 theatre. Four years later Jodelle founded the modern theatre. His creation did 
 not, however, carry off the victory ab initio. The profane mysteries perpetuated 
 the tradition of the Middle Ages. The exclusive privilege enjoyed by the Freres 
 de la Passion prevented the training of actors capable of interpreting the new art, 
 and the school of Jodelle was obliged to have its tragedies and comedies played by 
 -collegians or gentlemen at Court. Thus the brotherhood put an obstacle in the 
 way of the pr. gress of the more learned art. In the end the force of circumstances, 
 however, obliged the confrerie to make common cause with the new school, and 
 towards 1588 they leased their rights and their hall to a troop of comedians, who, 
 thinks to the reign of Henry IV. and to the return of peice, could regularly play 
 'Comedy and tragedy. Religious mysteries were, however, only forbidden in Paris. 
 They continued in the provinces, but soon eclipsed by the splendour of the new 
 theatre of the seventeenth century, they withdrew to the country-side where some of 
 them even still linger. 
 
 As for French corned}^, notwithstanding the imitations of and translations 
 from Aristophanes, Plautus and Terence, it is neither Greek nor Latin. It is the 
 •outcome of the farce of the Middle Ages and of Italian comedy. All the attacks 
 of Jodelle, Grrevin de la Taille, and others notwithstanding they borrow from the 
 mediFeval farce many of the subjects whilst giving to the action more development 
 and greater amplitude. Besides, the farce contained the germ of the comedy, and 
 there is nothing surprising that the former gave birth to the latter. Too often, how- 
 ever, up to Corneille's Melite, comedy, by its licence, but too plainly betrays its origin. 
 On the other hand, during the sixteenth century, Italian comedy was the model 
 frequently resorted to. The Suppositi of Ariosto, the Calandria of Bibbiena, 
 and man}'^ others, found, under a French dress, a home under a more northern sky. 
 The first classic comedy Eugene was played before the Court in 1552. Jodelle, 
 in his prologue, propounds the theories of the new school. " No more farces, no 
 more moralities with theiv fratras ; there is to be somethiug new, something which 
 modelled without servility upon the ancients shall yet be modern." Rien (T eirange 
 on ?ie vous fait entendre. 
 
 In 1567 Baif gave his Brave on Taille bras founded on the original Latin of 
 Plautus, but modernized and frenchified. The piece played with care, accompanied 
 hy choruses composed by Ronsard, Desportes, Filleul and Belleau, had a great 
 success. With Baif ends what one may call the first period of the sixteenth century 
 ■comedy, viz., that of the contemporaries of Jodelle and of the Pleiade. After this 
 generous efibrt of the school the progress of comedy was but slow in the second 
 half of the sixteenth century. Italian influence reigned supreme, to give place in turn, 
 to Spanish influence. Catherine, the wife of him who was to become Henry II., 
 Arriving in France 1533 imported Italian manners to Court. But, notwithstanding 
 the invasion of a new taste, of a strange vocabulary and other innovations, a good 
 comic language and an attempt at French prose was formed in this second period 
 spoken of. The pieces of the Pldiade, like the farces from which they are derived, 
 Are in eisrht svllabic verse. Then comedies imitated from the Italian arose. In 
 
58 
 
 Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, comic authors, even the most 
 distinguished poets, thought it necessary to write comedies in prose. Ariosto had 
 written Cassaria and the Suppositi in prose and only later rewrote them in verse. 
 The Cardinal Bibbiena, Piccolomini, Aretin, Dolce, Lorenzino de VTedicis, Grazzini 
 all wrote in prose. 
 
 We now come to a remarkable writer who deserves special mention in the 
 history of comedy in the sixteenth century. Pierre Larivey was of Italian origin of 
 the family of the Giunti, hence his name — l arrive — somewhat hidden under the 
 peculiar orthography adopted. He translated contemporary Italian authors with 
 fidelity and originality, but, in giving them in French he re-arranged them ; dressed 
 them a la frangaise^ changed the scene of action, altered the names, suppressed 
 scenes and roles when unsuited to the French stage, added here and there a few 
 touches the better to mark the characters, retouched everything which gave the 
 work its proi)er tone, personages, manners, local colouring ; and he did this with 
 such faithfulness, such discernment, that his translations are almost always 
 superior to the original. As for his style, it is almost perfect ; his language is 
 full of proverbial and popular phrases and of an elegance quite rare amongst his 
 -contemporaries. 
 
 Larivey wrote twelve plays of which we have still nine. The rigorists of his 
 time censured the theatre as a school of licence and corruption. Larivey replying 
 to them says : — 
 
 La comedie estant le miroir de nostre vie les vieillards apprennent a se garder de ce qui 
 parait ridicule en un homme d'age ; les jeunes a se gouvemer en amour ; les dames a conserver 
 leur honnestete ; les peres et m^res de famille a soigner aux affaires de leur meaage. Bref si 
 les autres spectacles sont propres a la jeunesse celui-ci d'electe, enseigne et est propre aux 
 jeunes, aux vieux et a un chacun. 
 
 Towards the end of the century, the comic drama was dragging along a 
 miserable existence and it required a wait of thirty years before it burst forth again, 
 but this time with a splendour and vigour which put it hors de concours. It was 
 when with Henry IV. the new order was inaugurated, that the new school of Hardy 
 appeared. Hardy had a most fertile pen. lie composed or arranged six hundred, 
 others say, eight hundred plays. As for the famous theory of the unities, so 
 rigorously observed in the seventeenth century, the time and place portions of it 
 were more honoured in the breach than in the observance. 
 
 Hardy was soon surpassed by his contemporaries. He died in 1630 and his 
 reputation with him. He had seen the Melite of Corneille and found it "?me 
 assez jolie farce.'' This improvisateur had, however, to disappear in order that the 
 theatre should be disciplined and accept the yoke of Ariosto, in a like manner as 
 France was about to accept that of Richelieu. 
 
 Of all French comedy writers Moliere stands out as a classic. " Who is the 
 man of greatest genius in France?" asked the king of the great critic Boileau. 
 "Moliere, Sire." Louis XIV. was surprized, though it was his favourite actor, the 
 comedian to whom he was so indulgent and patronizingly kind, who was in question. 
 " I don't think so, " said the king ; " but you know that kind of thing better than I 
 do." The more we know of Moliere's career and the more we scan the peculiar 
 character of the man, the greater our admiration of his genius, and our appreciation 
 of his human qualities. He could truly say : 
 
 Homo sum nihil humani a me alienum puto. 
 
54 
 
 One day Biron — an actor brought up and trained by Moliere — told him that a 
 strolling player, whose poverty prevented him presenting himself, begged some 
 assistance, in order to be able to regain his troupe. Moliere, knowing that the 
 man's name was Mondorge, an old comrade, asked Biron how much he thought he 
 ought to give. " Four pistoles, " the latter replied. " Give him four pistoles from 
 me and there are twenty more that^o?/ must give him." To this present he added 
 that of a magnificent coat. Another trait, also recounted by Voltaire, is worthy 
 of note. He had just given alms to a beggar. A moment afterwards, the mendicant 
 runs after him and says : " Sire, it was perhaps not your intention to give me a 
 louis d'or. I have come to i>ive it back to you." " Here, my friend," said Moliere,. 
 " here is another, one, " and exclaimed : 
 
 Oii la vertu va-t-elle se nicher ? 
 
 These are but trifles, but they portray the man. He is the least merely French 
 of all French waiters. He is undoubtedly of the French a Frenchman, yet so 
 human, so modern whilst yet bo ancient, so true, so lasting. He belongs to all 
 countries and to all time. He failings — audit would be idle to deny that he had 
 none — becomes also striking evidences ot truth and proofs of sincerity. That 
 which proves the power of his genius is his gift of creating whilst imitating, 
 and it may be said of him with perfect truth : 
 
 Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit 
 
 since he stamped everything with the seal of his genius. Moliere himself said, 
 Je reprends mon lien oil je le trouve^ but he might also have said with La 
 Fontaine, Mon imitation nest point un esclavage. There is a work of Desmarets 
 de Saint Sortin {Les Visionnaires) which would have been entirely forgotten 
 had it not been that Moliere drew therefrom his character of Be Use for the 
 Femmes savantes and taken over the following four lines in toto. 
 The imitation is strikins:. Here are the lines of Desmarets : 
 
 'O' 
 
 FiLiDAN. — Beaute, si tu pouvais saroir tous mes travaux. 
 Amidor. — Siecle, si tu pouvais saroir ce que je vaux. 
 FiLiDAN. — J'aurais en son amour une place authentique. 
 Amidor. — J'aurais une statue en la place publique. 
 
 Moliere runs as follows : 
 
 Trissotin.— Si la France pouvait connaitre voire prix. 
 Vadius. — Si le siecle rendait justice aux beaux esprits. 
 Tkissotin, — En carosse dore vous iriez par les rues. 
 Vadius. — On verraitle public vous dresser des statues. 
 
 Moliere is certainly more clever and not less natural in making Tressotin praise 
 Vadius and the latter the former, rather than following the original and letting each 
 man sound liis own trumpet, which is crude and savoiu's of the tyro. Our poet 
 took two splendid scenes from Cyrano de Bergemc, a most strange man, whom his 
 contemporaries wished to pass off as a man of genius. Scarron would be all but 
 forgotten had he not bequeathed us the Roman Comique and the Nouvelles, 
 which will always be read with interest. One of the finest scenes in Tartufe 
 is borrowed from Les Hypocrites and the heroine of the Precaution Inutile 
 has furnished some traits for the naive figure of Agnes, 
 
55 
 
 Corneille and Racine were almost perfect within the limits they prescribed for 
 themselves. The former expressed the sublimity of heroism, and the latter in 
 language of unequalled beauty the natural emotions of the heart. Ther,e two great 
 geniuses are types of purely French literature, while Moliere's dramas, like those 
 of Shakespeare, belong to all nations and all ages. The eternal attraction of 
 Moliere's pieces is that the author never shows himself, we only see his characters 
 and in his characters humanity. As Boiieau says, he instructs without wounding^ 
 us, and if, by accident, we recognize ourselves in one of his characters, we may 
 profit tacitly by the lesson. 
 
 Let us allow Moliere to speak on the difficulties and on the morality of the art 
 in which he excelled. It is, no doubt, his own opinion put into the mouth of 
 Dor ante, 
 
 Je trouve qu'il est bien plus aise de se g'uinder sur de grands sentiments, de braver en vers- 
 la fortune, accuser lea destins et dire des injures aux dieux que d'entrer comme il faut dans les 
 ridicules des hommes et de rendre agreablement sur le theatre les defauts de tout le monde. 
 Lorsque vous peignez des heros vous faites ce que vous voulez ; ce sont des portraits d plaisir,. 
 ou Ton ne cherche point de ressemblance et vous n'avez qu'a suivre les traits d'line imagination 
 qui se dotine I'esor et qui souvent laissc le vrai pour attraper le merveilleux. Mais lorsque vou& 
 peignez des hommes, il faut peindre d'apres nature ; ou veut que ces portraits ressemblent ot 
 vous n'avez rien fait si vous n'j faites reconnaitre les gens de votre siecle. En un mot, dans 
 les pieces serieuses, il suffit, pour n'etre point blame de dire des choses qui soient de bon sens et 
 bien ecrites, mais ce n'est pas assez dans les autres ; il j faut plaisanter et c'est une etrangfr 
 entreprise que celle de faire rire les honnetes gens. (Critique de I'ecole des femmes.") 
 
 Moliere has succeeded admirably in this etrange entreprise. He has made 
 honest folks laugh right heartily, troubling himself but little about the sour looks of 
 the other portion of the community. To those who would proscribe comedy, he 
 says : 
 
 Je sais qu' il y a des esprits dont la delicatps^e ne pent souffrir aucune comedie, qui disent 
 que les plus honnetes sont les plus danger^uses que les passions que Ton y depeint sont d' autant 
 plus touchantes qu'elles sont pleines de vertu et quo les ames sont attondries par cf s sortes de 
 representations. Je ne sais pas quel grand crime c'est d'attendrir a la vue d'une passion 
 hounete et c'est un haut etage de vertu que cette pleine insensibilite oii ils veulent faire 
 montrer notrc ame. Je doute qu'une si grande perfection soit dans les forces de la nature 
 humaine et je ne sais pas s'il n'est pas mieux de travailler a rectifier et a adoucir les passions 
 des hommes que de vouloir hs retrancher entierement. J'avoue qu'il y a des lieux qu' il vaut 
 mieux frequenter que le theatre et si Ton veut blamer toutes les choses qui ne regardent directe- 
 ment Dieu et notre salat il est certain que la comedie en doit etre et je ne trouve pas mauvais 
 qu'elle soit condamnee avec le reste, mais suppose, comme il est vrai que les exercises de lapiete 
 souiFrentdes intervalles et que les hommes aient besoin de divertissement, je soutiens que Ton ne 
 leur en pent trouver un qui soit plus innocent que la comedie. 
 
 Before speaking thus, Moliere has, however, been careful to distinguish between 
 comedy and comedy, and it would be, as he says : " Une injustice epouvanfable que- 
 de vouloir condamner Olympe qui est femme de bien par ce qu il y a une Olympe qui 
 a ete une debauchee. 
 
 Moliere's father was carpet furnisher to Louis XIY. Jean Baptiste Poquelin — 
 Moliere's real name — was born in 1622, and was destined to succeed in his father's 
 business. His young days were passed in his father's shop, where he had the 
 advantage of studying the habits and manners of the working and shopkeeping 
 classes. At a subsequent period, when in t'le service of the King, he had an 
 opportunity of narrowly observing the life of the Court. His paternal grandfather 
 
56 
 
 iv^as very fond of playgoing and afterwards took his grandson to the theatre of the 
 Hotel de Bourgogne, where Corneille's plays were being acted. From this old man 
 the youth, probably, inherited his taste for the drama, and it was owing to him that 
 his genius took its true bent so early. The theatre awakened in him a thirst for 
 knowledge and a love for intellectual culture, and, in 1637, he expressed an earnest 
 desire for a liber d education. Four years afterwards, on leaving college, he entered 
 the service of the King as valet-de-chambre-tapissier. In those times Richelieu 
 had given an impetus to art. He patronised the theatre, wr^te pieces himself and 
 bestowed dignities and wealth on the exponents of the drama. Acting then became 
 the rage, knots of young men and woman formed themselves into companies of 
 .actors and Moliere was led to associate himself with a few friends in getting up 
 plays. He became enamoured of the theatre and when the private company resolved 
 to become a public one and to derive profit from their performances, he continued 
 his connection with it and, according to the fashion of the time, assumed a new 
 name — Moliere. Italian humour gave him a taste for comic situations, but 
 this was no^ his only source of instruction. The bustle and intrigue of the Spanish 
 comedies had been introduced by Corneille, but, unlike that great genius, Moliere 
 avoided mere translations, rejected the disguises, trap doors, &c., of Lope de Vega, and 
 discerning the great effect to be produced by a character happily and truly conceived, 
 contrived to throw it into telling situations. His great power is in seizing and 
 j)ortraying the ridiculous. The then disordered state of Paris, during the Regency, 
 was not encouraging to the drama. Moliere and his company, therefore, left for 
 the provinces and visited, among other places, Bordeaux and Lyons, where he pro- 
 duced his first play, " L'Etourdi," which has been translated into English as " Sir 
 Martin Marr-all " and adapted for the stage. 
 
 And here it will, perhaps, be well to say a few words on Moliere's influence on 
 English drama : 
 
 '* In estimating the influence of French dramatic literature of the seventeenth 
 Century upon our own," says Professor Ward, " it is not sufficient to attempt the task 
 of tracing particular English plays to particular French originals." * 
 
 " But while neither translations nor adapt itions could reproduce in the English 
 language the outward form of the masterpieces of French tragedy and comedy, 
 it was possible to borrow subjects, plots and characters, but not to transplant 
 the spirit of either the serious or the comic drama of contemporary France. 
 Moliere was copied by our English dramatists more unscrupulously than 
 probably any other writer before or since, but neither his spirit nor his 
 manner descended to his copyists. Both indeed vary to a great extent in his 
 several works. He was the inheritor of the traditions of the new G-reek 
 comedy and of those of the French farce ; he was both a satirist and 
 humourist ; he at times displays the sentiments of a loyal courtier, at others the 
 gay spirit of opposition, which is all but irdispeasable to a popular French wit. 
 His comedies range from elaborate and subtle pictures of human character, in its 
 eternal types, to lively sketches of social follies and literary extravagances and 
 t)road appeals to the ordinary sources of vulgar merriment. Within the limits of 
 artistic taste his style suits itself to every one of these species. And his morality, 
 
 "^ [Appended are few data to serve as an illustration, " Sir Martin Marr-all," by John Dryden ; Moliere's 
 " L'Etourdi " ; " The Mistake," by Sir John Vanbrugh ; Moliere's " Le Depit Amoureux " ! " The Plain Dealer," 
 by William Wycherley ; Moliere's " Le Misanthrope" ;" The Mock Doctor," by Henry Fielding ; Moliere's " Le 
 Medecin raalgre lui " ; " The Miser," by Henry Fielding, Moliere's " L'Arare " ; " The Non-Juror," by Colley 
 Cibber ; Moliere's " Tartufe."] 
 
57 
 
 it must be allowed, is as flexible as his genius, where it comes into contact with the 
 chief social weakness of his age. English comedy in this period, which, in spite of 
 the pleasing illusions to the contrary in which genial critics have indulged, is a 
 comedy of actualities, strengthened itself by the influence of Moliere in more than 
 one direction. Without the help of his light and more perspicuous plots, it would 
 have, probably, continued to resort more largely to those Spanish models in which 
 the conduct of a complicated intrigue absorbs attention. Without the suggestive 
 variety and the human truthfulness of some of his most powerful characters it 
 might have continued to ring the changes on a more restricted number of types, 
 or have altogether abandoned the endeavour to draw various characters, in favour 
 of the easier ta>k — to which it was so strongly inclined — of paiating only the follies 
 and the foibles, the manners and the men of its own age. While giving, in accor- 
 dance with the genius of the nation to which they belonged, a more 
 realistic colouring to his characters, the English comic dramatists sub- 
 stituted for the often reckless gaiety of Moliere's dialogue, a much grosser salt — 
 at times a mere pretence of salt — of their own." 
 
 The French models by which our plav writers were first attracted belong to an 
 older day and a ruder school than those of Racine and his followers in the regular drama. 
 
 " The works of later authors after Dryden " — I am quoting Collier — " are morally 
 amono-st the foulest thins^s bv which the literature of anv Ian2:iia2:e can be dis- 
 graced. But if this kind of dramatic writing is to be excused for wanting, al- 
 together, in the poetical or ideal, some of them must be acknowledged to have high 
 skill of eomposition. Thev are excellent specimens of what has been called the 
 Comedy of Manners, a dramatic exhibition of the externals of society. But vice is 
 inextricably interwoven into the texture of all ; alike in the broad humour and 
 lively inci ient of Wycherly and ia the wit of Congreve, the character-painting of 
 Vanbrugh, and the lively, easy invention of Farquhar. They reflect, vividly, in 
 their works the glittering and wicked life which courtiers and fashionables lived 
 durinof the Isalf-century between the Restoration and the accession of the Guelphs." 
 
 Of Moliere's morality our later comedy only borrowed what suited it and the 
 public, but it w^ould be monstrons to hold him responsible for the sins of which our 
 comic drama made itself guilty in this respect. 
 
 To return to our poet's life history, '-'• U EtourdV was followed by the '"'' Le Depit 
 Amoureua; " and met Avith much success Moliere continued travelling, writing, and 
 performing in different provinces, and, at last, succeeded in establishing himself in 
 Paris, under the protection of the King's brother. Parisian society opened a new 
 field for his talents. Subjects of ridicule multiplied around him ; the most 
 ludicrous follies were so nursed and fostered by the highborn, that he almost feared 
 to attack them ; but they were too tempting. In addition to the amusement to be 
 derived from showing in its true colours a most laughable affectation, he hoped to 
 vanquish, by the arms of wit, a system of folly which had infected many of the 
 best intellects. Nowhere was the tendency to take refuge in an imaginary world 
 and through its medium to view the actual, more likely to assert itself, than in 
 those circles where women of taste and accomplishments shone as the patronesses 
 of literature and the leaders of fashion ; and in the capital, at all events, ladies of 
 a less elevated rank were certain to follow in the footsteps of their social superiors. 
 From this point, it is well known, date the glories of those earliest French salons 
 which exercised so notable an infl a ence upon literature, as well as upon the social 
 life of the a.ge. This was a chance not to be missed. In the Precieuses Ridicules, 
 Moliere has made immortal fun of the coterie, but the enthusiasm of the fair sex 
 
58 
 
 lias, at all events, been proof against the weapon most terrible to masculine intellects. 
 The stage had been employed often enough for personal satire, but it had not yet, 
 in France, been made use of for the actual delineation and criticism of contem- 
 porary manners as manners and not as foibles of individuals. The play was directed 
 against the affectation and unreal language of thfe members of those literary circles, 
 of which that of the Hotel de Eambouillet was the chief. It has but a single act, 
 but in its way, it has never been surpassed as a piece of social satire or a piece of 
 brilliant dialogue, illustrating ludicrous action and character. It caused irremediable 
 confusion and gave flight to the daring follies of the clique. In each additional 
 piece he made great manifest improvement. UEcole des Maris is one of his best, 
 gayest and wittiest comedies. 
 
 Moliere, degraded by the priesthood on account of his profession, and aware 
 that virtue was not the peculiar inheritanee of either priest or actor, by virtue of 
 his garb of office, was naturally very inimical to false devotion, hence his favourite 
 play — Tartufe — delineated immorality cloaked b}^ religion. Its success was un- 
 bounded. 
 
 There remain to be noticed L'Avare^ the : prightly Medicin Malgre lui» Le 
 Misanthrope^ Le Malade Imaginaire^ and the Femmes Savantes. The Femmes 
 8av antes ' pace the Vadiuses and Trissotins of society — is one of the best lessons 
 which high comedy could give. Moliere's genius exhibits itself in all his force 
 with an ease, a purity, a mere certain touch perhaps than even in the Misanthrope, 
 and, if one dare say it, than in Tovtufe. Without contradiction, if the matter were 
 of equal importance this admirable comedy might, without disadvantage, dispute 
 the prize with these two masterpieces. Such as it is, one marvels whence the poet 
 has found so many resources in a secondary subject, which he had already treated, 
 with such master-hand, iu the Precieuses Ridicules. One must not imagine that 
 Moliere, like the good man Chry.*- ale, wished to reduce the knowledge of v^'oman : 
 
 A connaitre un pnurpoint (Cavcc un liaut de-chaussc. 
 
 He desired they should not push their knowledge of Greek so far as to prove 
 embarrassing to learned meiT, nor shouiii they be ever striving to capture one of them 
 as a suitable husband for their marriageable daughter. He shows without animosity, 
 but with a vein of comedy more vivid and more sparkling than anywhere else, what 
 may be the perils of this whim, of this infatuation de bel esprit which removes from 
 the J- ex those very qualities by virtue of which they are really women. Neither 
 Madame de la Fayette, nor Madame de Sevigne, nor any one of those whose name 
 adorns the literary roll of fame of France is wounded by the blows struck at the 
 Philamintes, Armandes and Beli^es of society. 
 
 I must not omit to mention that the celebrated sonnet and madrigal with 
 its famous qnoi qiCon die — are copied verbatim from a production of the Abbe 
 Cotin, and were originally addressed to the Duchesse de Nemours. They are both 
 to be found in his CE'i^tre^^tt/aw^eA-, published in 1663. There is no doubt that Cotin 
 and Menage were the people our poet had in his mind's eye when he created the 
 characters of Trissotin and Vadius. The latter was an adherent of the Precieuses 
 school, in fact, one may say one of its poetical guides and shining lights. 
 
 Moliere's last play was the i)/a/a(/<? /??2«^i72azV<?, brought out in 1673, at which 
 period his career was drav\ ing to a close. He was then really ill, but such was his 
 sense of duty towards his fellow-actors that he wuuld not be turned from his inten- 
 tion of plaj; ing the principal j^character. On the fourth night, in the last act, he 
 
59 
 
 was seized with a violent cough and convulsions. He was carried home, and in 
 January, 1673, he died, attended only by two poor nuns, who were in the habit of 
 coming to Paris during Lent to ask for charity and to whom he gave a lodging in 
 his house. The last ceremonies of the Catholic religion were refused him by two 
 of its ministers — he was the author of Tartufe and they were requested to come 
 and attend him ! and when, at last, one was found who had sufficient charity in his 
 heart he only came in time to be too late. 
 
 Moliere has exercised a direct and acknowledged influence on the French 
 language. He successfully purged the tongue of the phraseology of the Precieuses, 
 Yet, whilst his satire lopped the affected turns, his judgment naturalized all those 
 expressions which seemed to him more conformable to logic and to the genius of 
 the French tongue. How great his influence, how deeply he entered into the spirit 
 of the nation, is proved by the fact that many of his sayings have become pro- 
 verbial. This applies not only to his own country, but to the world at large. How 
 many of us have used the M. Josse, vans etes orfevre ; Nous avons change tout cela ; 
 the All ! les heaux yeux de ma casette^ or the Qve diable allait-il /aire dans cette 
 galere f and many others, without knowing that we owe them to Moliere. 
 
 Voltaire in his Vie de Moliere , prefixed to the Edition of our poet's plays, 
 considers the following epitaph, composed by Pere Bouhours, the only one 
 worthy of the gi'eat genius, and with the quotation this essay may fitly close i 
 
 Tu reformas et la ville et la cour ; 
 
 Mais quelle en fut la recompense ? 
 
 Les Fran9ais rougiront un jour 
 
 De leiir peu de reconnaissance. 
 
 II leur fallut un comedien 
 
 Qui mit a les polir sa gloire et son etude : 
 
 Mais Moliere, a ta gloire il ne manquerait rien, 
 
 Si parmi les defauts que tu peignis si bien, 
 
 Tu les avais repris de leur ingratitude. 
 
LESSn&'S IOTA YON BAENHELl. 
 
 ^ ^tedg ^Vi ^^ ^i^ »w^ ^t0gres8 a^ ^erman ^f^oiti^dg^ 
 
LESSIIG'S IffllA VOI BAEIHELI. 
 
 ^ Stui^B <*« ^h^ B!$c and Progt^$$ ot C^erm^n Contedg* 
 
 Amongst the Germans, as amongst the Greeks, the drama was the outcome of 
 religious worship, the circumstances being, however, very diverse and, in m.uiy 
 respects, contradictory. 
 
 During Lent, the history of the sufferings and death of Christ was read aloud 
 from the gospels, and at an earjy period by different persons, amongst whom were 
 apportioned the speeches of the Afostles, Herod, Pilate, the High Priest, the 
 Jewish people, &c., whilst a priest recited the vvords of Christ himself, an arrange- 
 ment which continued in vogue from the twelfth to the seventeenth century, in 
 Catholic as Avell as Protestant churches. 
 
 In the twelfth century, already, the principal leaders were attired in costume 
 and, without doubt, acting was an early f^ccompaniment. The language in which 
 the principal pieces were written was Latin, and the place of representation^ 
 naturally, the church It is self-evident that the text of the gospels was not 
 followed verbatim ; abbreviations, versifications, additions from the church tradi- 
 tions, were added and even embellishments attempted. The clergy were the 
 authors of the texts of these passion plays, as well as the stage and business 
 managers of the representations. In a few instances, German songs or recitations 
 were interpolated at first, as it appears, to convey the grief of Mary at the foot 
 of the cross. 
 
 Thus the beginnings of the German drama were religious, and from the nature 
 of things tragical. But in the fourteenth century, the comical was already added 
 to the tragical. The element of comedy was represented partly by the character 
 of Judas, and partly by the merchant (at w^hose shop the women going to the grave 
 bought their spices, incense and myrrh), who appeared in the costume and adopted 
 the manners of a travelling, bragging huxster, a mountebank or quack. The churchy 
 however, could not, silently, regard such .profanation, and there exist many docu- 
 ments of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries from bishops and provincial synods 
 positively forbidding representations in church, at which such mummings and 
 unseemingly pranks were displayed. The plays held their ground, notwithstand- 
 ing, only, instead of being acted in, they were now performed outside the church, 
 in the open air, and consequently increased in popularity. The Latin tongue fell 
 completely into desuetude, or almost so, and gave place to German. So long 
 as these popular plays were under the superintendence of the clergy and secular 
 authorities, the church sanctioned, yea, even seems to have encouraged them. Thus^ 
 it happened that passion plays were continued far into the last century, and in the 
 present one they have been renewed, with no little success, in Southern Bavaria at 
 Oberammergau. Side by side with the passion {lays above referred to, there were 
 others, having as subjects events connected with the birth of Christ, such as the 
 
64 
 
 hjmu of praise of the angels, the finding of the Babe by the shepherds, the adora- 
 tion, &c., a few parables of our Lord, even, supplying materials for such dramatic 
 performances. Thus in the year 1322, we fiud the parable of the wise and foolish 
 virgins dramatically represented in the Thiergarten in Eisenach. The utter hope- 
 lessness of the five foolish ones made such an impression on one of the spectators, 
 the Markgrave Frederick of Meissen, that he fell into a kind of stupor and was 
 struck with apoplexy a few days afterwards. Later on, but still in the fourteenth 
 centur , the personal histories of a tew saints were added to these biblical plays. 
 
 Such p'ays were called mysteries, a name common enough in France, but never 
 in Germany, where the word spiel— plsLv — has always been customary. As a par- 
 ticular kind of myst -ry, a most extraordinary piece must be mentioned, Eln schon 
 Spiel von Frau Jutten^ concerning the Papess Johanna, written, it is said, by a priest, 
 Theodorich Schermberg. The piece is not, as one might imagine, comical, but it is 
 laid down on most serious lines. In this period already there was a distinet differ- 
 entiation between tragedy and comedy. The carnival plays, jests and farces, full of 
 pointed, but at the same time coarse and often low and filthy witticisms, supplied 
 the first demand in this respect. 
 
 The natural progress of the religious dnmi is the introduction on the stao-e of 
 the national heroic legends, and hence into the actual life of the people. Had there 
 been national unity, and had the consciousness of it been strong enough amongst the 
 Grerman people, had it not been weakened by the powerful introduction of foreign 
 elements, by ihe religious and political contests of the period, one might have, in 
 the sixteenth century, seen the legends of Siegfried, Dietrich and Hildebrand 
 dramaticall>" represented ; they might stand out as masterpieces of dramatic art 
 in a similar manner as the deeds of the heroes of the Trojan war and the legend of 
 CEdipus, when handled by a Sophocles and a Eurip des. That this success was not 
 achieved lies in the fact that the elements of the heroic legend died, vanished from 
 the memory of the people, and were retused and despised, as materials, by the 
 most talented. The period in which it was possible to found a national theatre 
 passed by. Had the two great Latin poets of the sixteenth century, Eobanus 
 Hessus and Eimcius Cordus, had Frischlin, who composed Latin dramas, made use 
 of their g-eat poetical talents in the service of German poetry, particularly in the 
 direction of the drama, had they, or their literary peers, given us a tragedy of 
 Siegfried's death, of Markgrave Kiidiger's or of Etzel's sons, had they shewn us old 
 Hildebrand and his son, or even Onith and Hugdietrich, 3'es, even only Prince 
 Ernst, what a different course would not the German drama have shaped ! Perhaps, 
 under such conditions, the sixteenth century might have done for Germany what it 
 did for England, given her a Shakespeare. 
 
 Thus little of a lasting nature was produced. Time and efforts were wasted 
 in perfectl}^ fruitless endeavours, which were soon forgotten. It is true, however, 
 that some attempts at the creation of a national theatre were really undertaken, but 
 they were like the seeds that fell in stony places. These dramas, which we now 
 regard as the most remarkable evidences of this literary period, remained, in their 
 own day, unknown and unnoticed, and were simply despised. Thus, in the following 
 period, the attempts at the creation of a drama again failed to succeed, a third 
 attempt, in the eighteenth century, met with no better result, until, at last, Lessing 
 arrived at the only possible solution. The most important products of the sixteenth 
 century are, however, comedy and satire. In no century were the contrasts more 
 pronounced ; a period in which immoderate longings after material enjoyments went 
 side by side with a sm'prising earnestness of life and depth of soul, when strict 
 
65 
 
 scholarship and indefatii^able industry walked hand in hand with crass (Stupidity 
 and mental darkness, when brideless immorality gave the arm to chastity, order and 
 asceticism. The events of such a period readily lent themselves to comical and 
 satirical treatment, but we must not expect to find tlie contrasts of the time toned 
 down. 
 
 The comedy of the century is sparkling, passionate, haughty, sturdy, pert and 
 by no means free from impurities, but, to the ardent student who dives into this 
 sea of contrasts and contradictions, a rich and ever-increasing treat is in store. 
 
 With what is known as the first Silesian School, we come to the modern 
 period, and amongst its most famous scions (so far as we are concerned for the 
 piu-pose of this study), we number Andreas Gryphius, who has been called the 
 father of German dramatic poesy. He is particularly to be noticed for the impor- 
 tant advance made in his two comedies, Peter Squenz and Horribilicribrifax. In 
 the last-named piece, the two characters of Captains Horribilicribrifax and 
 Diridaradatumdarides, are captial pictures of the braggadocios of the Thirty Years' 
 War — the speeches of the one are interlarded with broken Italian, of the other with 
 broken French. The ex-schoolmaster, Sempronius, is a splendid caricature, who 
 is always quoting Cicero and Virgil, and never forgets to add his, " In quit Cicero, 
 canit Virgilius." In one respect Gryphius is certainly an exception to his associates. 
 He does in these pieces attempt " to hold the mirror up to nature " and rid himself 
 otherwise of the stiff monotony and formality of the first Silesian School. 
 
 The name of Johann Christoph Gottsched^ — a name indelibly connected with 
 all that is inartistic, pedantic and coarse- -is only mentioned on account of his 
 involuntary services to German literature. We have only to deal with him here as 
 far as be affects the drama, and more particularly comedy. It was he who put an 
 end to the coarse, immoral plays of the time, and banished the buffoon from the 
 stage. It is true that with him there was lost, perhaps for ever, the last remnant of 
 the popular theatre, yet his proceeding was, to a certain extent, justified. The 
 proper course would have been to have remodelled and enobled this popular comical 
 character — for it was only a verj^ vulgar, low, plebeian buffoon that he got rid of — 
 but this was a task that neither Gottsched, nor his contemporaries were capable 
 of executing. During the first third of the eighteenth century Gottsched reigned 
 supreme as a kind of literary dictator ; in 1740 he commenced his quarrel with 
 Bodmer, which terminated with his complete discomfiture, and when, a few years 
 later, he took up arms against Klopstock and, subsequently, against Lessing, he 
 became perfectly inane and despicable. He died in 1766 having long outlived his 
 fame. 
 
 Amongst the most notable writers of the pre-Lessing period, we must men- 
 tion the brothers Schlegel, of whom Johann Elias Schlegel was the dramatist. 
 Weisse, although a contemporary of Lessing, belongs, according to his style, to the 
 elder Silesian-Gottschedian school, although, in many ii\stances, his writings bear 
 traces of the influences of a later period. 
 
 Herewith we come to Lessing and his Minna von Barnheltn. The lines on 
 which the comedy is composed and its animated action alone, raise it far above 
 anything that had preceded it, far above any contemporary dramatic production. 
 Madame de Stael in her work Dt I 'Allemagne says : " Le thedtre allemand 
 n'existait pas avant Lessing ; on ny jouait que des traductions ou des imitations 
 des pieces etrangeres." The reason why this piece stands out in such relief is that it 
 has, as a background, the great and important events of the Seven Years' War, and 
 as contents, not merely a fabricated, invented plot, but a true story ; an action not 
 
66 
 
 contained Avitliin tlie narrow limits of c'omestic life and paltry incidents, but result- 
 ing from the stupendous conflict of nations ; not situations for which sympathies 
 had to be artificially awakened during the course the play, but of which already 
 existed, not merely amongst some classes of the community, but nmougst all, even 
 amongst the whole nation, so that Minna von Barnhelm has truly been called the 
 first national Grerman dramatic composition. 
 
 It will be well to cast a glimpse at the historical surroundings that add such 
 force to this comedy. 
 
 Frederick II., King of Prussia, born in 1712, inherited from his father and 
 grandfather a well-drilled army — the model of its age — and a well-filled treasury. 
 Prussia in those days was much more limited in extent than it is to-day. Hardly 
 had Frederick ascended the throne of his ancestors, ere he laid hands on Silesia, one 
 of the fairest provinces of the x4.ustrian crown. In 1741 he determined on war and 
 lit a firebrand in Europe that was only extinguished at the peace of Hubertsburg, 
 twenty-two years afterwards. Three bloody campaigns did the great King wage to 
 maintain his hold over the province he had filched, the most notable being the last, 
 the third Silesian or ^^even Years' War. In this campaign he reached the zenith of 
 military glory. Leuthen and Rossbach were his Dunbar and Worcester. Of the 
 first great action Napoleon said " that it was a masterpiece of movements, 
 manoeuvres and resolution. Alone it was sufficient to immortalize Frederick and 
 place him in the ranks of the greatest generals. He attacked a stronger army than 
 his own, in position and victorious, with an army composed of troops which had just 
 been defeated, yet he won a victory without paying too dearly for it." The King's 
 success at Rossbach secured, politically, to Prussia what Lessing's writings did to 
 Germany ; it freed the land from the French incubus. After years of toil and 
 trouble, years in which the great reaper gathered in a mighty harvest, after seeing 
 nearly the whole of the European continent in arms against him, the King returned 
 in triumph to his capital on the Spree. But alas for the change ! The destroying 
 angel had passed over the land. Everywhere the results of the stupendous struggle 
 were visible : fields untilled, houses destroyed, cities sacked, his own capital almost 
 reduced to ashes, labourers wanting, or their places supplied by women (one- sixth 
 of the whole male population had been sacrificed to the ambition of the King,) 
 widows and orphans bewailing the loss of loved ones, the coinage debased, and the 
 land threatened with famine and disease. The King, however, strove not in vain to 
 alleviate the distress caused by the wars. To supply field labour, many men were 
 at once discharged and sent to their homes ; new houses were erected to take the 
 place of those demolished by friend and foe alike ; the financial credit of the nation 
 redeemed ; widows and orphans pensioned and valiant officers rewarded ; and to 
 show the world that he was not the impoverished monarch he was taken to be, not- 
 withstanding the withdrawal of the English subsidy in 1761, he built the famous 
 palace of Sans Souci near Potsdam. 
 
 Lessing himself had been an actor in the drama of this last campaign. During 
 five years of carnage he was Secretary at Breslau to General Tauentzien, 
 commanding in Silesia. How thoroughly he entered into its spirit, how perfectly 
 he made his own the hopes and fears of that huge living machine called the army, 
 the work under review admirably delineates. These facts should be borne in mind 
 in order that we may the better Jive with Tellheim, Werner and Just, that we may 
 imderstand the spirit of a service, which twice within the last hundred years has 
 established its claim to the foremost rank, and in our own day has again become 
 the model of the world. 
 
67 
 
 The dramatis persojice of the comedv are : 
 
 Major von Teliheini, late of H.M. Service. 
 
 Minna von Barnhelni. 
 
 Count von Bruchsall, her uncle. 
 
 Eranziska, her maid. 
 
 Just, the Major's batman. 
 
 Paul Werner, ex-sergeant in the Majors regiment. 
 
 The Landlord. 
 
 A Ladj in Mourning. 
 
 An Orderly. 
 
 Kiccaut de la Marliniere. 
 
 The scene is alternately in the saloon and in an adjoining room of an hotel. 
 
 The play opens, introducing us to Just, the Major's servant, who has just 
 awoke from a somewhat disturbed slumber. In his sleep, he has been quarrelling 
 with the landlord of the inn at which he and his master are stopping. A few 
 moments afterwards, mine host enters and tries to commence a conversation with 
 Just, who is in no mood for chatting with him, seeing that the landlord has let the 
 Major's room to some strangers and given him an inferior apartment. Boniface, 
 wishing to smooth matters over, ssuggests some liquid refreshment, " something 
 good." 
 
 Just. — Don't trouble yourself, landlord. May the first drop turn to poisan that — But I won't 
 
 swear on an empty stomach. -^ 
 
 Landlord (To the b( y bring;iug the liqueur ).^Give it to me. Go. Now, Mr. Just, some« 
 
 thing really splendid, strong, deliciout>, wholesome. That^l put you to rights again^ 
 Just. — I hardly ought to. But why should I let my health suifer for his want of manners ? 
 Land. — Your health, Mr. Just. 
 
 Just. — (Handing the glass back). — Not bad, But, for all that landlord, you are a brute. 
 Land. — Come, come, take another one, quickly. One can't stand on one leg. 
 Just. — (After having drunk j. — Good, I really must confess it. Very good. Home-made,. 
 
 landlord ? 
 Land. — HeaA'en forbid ! Real Danziger, genuine, double-distilled Danziger. 
 Just. — You see, landlord, if I could, I would play the hypocrite for stuff like that, but I can't^ 
 
 I must out with it. You really are a brute. 
 Land. — No one ever told me that before. Another glass, Mr. Just. 
 Just. — I don't mind. (Drinks.) Capital stufi really, very good indeed. But truth is also- 
 
 an excellent thing. Landlord, you're a brute, for all that. 
 Land. — If I were, should I take it so phlegmatically ? 
 Just. — Oh yes, for a churl seldom gets angry. 
 
 Land. — Won't you have another, Mr. Just, a fourfold rope holds all the better ? 
 Just. — No. Enough is as good as a feast. And what good would it do you, landlord ? I should 
 
 stick to my word till the last drop in the bottle. Bah ! landlord, for shame, to have 
 
 such good Danziger and such bad manners. 
 
 In the midst of the excitement, the Major enters and informs the landlord of 
 his intention of leaving the hostelry. 
 
 V. Tellheim. — I owe you money. During my absence you clear my things out of my room. 
 You must be paid. I must seek quarters elsewhere. Quite natural. 
 
 The low, cringing nature of the landlord soon makes itself felt. In his writing 
 desk, the Major has a large sum of money of which mine host, now, becomes aware. 
 
68 
 
 and forthwith regrets the premature steps he has taken in turning the Major out. 
 On his exit, Tellheim informs his servant that he is without means — the mone}'' 
 in the desk really belongs to Paul Werner, the ex-sergeant — and orders him to 
 write out his account, as their connection must be severed. 
 
 The sixth scene is one of the most pathetic in the whole pla\'. A lady in 
 mourning, the widow of one of Tellheim's former staff officers, calls upon, him to 
 pay a debt, which her late husband had contracted with the Major. Tellheim, 
 tearing that she has had to sell her carriage to be in a position to fulfil her dead 
 spouse's last request, nobly protests that he cannot find any acknowledgment of 
 his brother officer's indebtedness, that he never owed him any money, or that if he 
 did, he paid it long ago, and, with the utmost delicacy declining to receive the 
 money, requests her to invest it for the benefit of her orphan son. Lest future, 
 perhaps greater want should tempt him to make use of the note of hand, which he 
 has all the time had in his pocket-book, Tellheim, on the departure of the widow 
 withdraws and destroys it. 
 
 Just now returns and presents his account. 
 
 V. Tellhkim. — I cannot keep you any longer. I must learn to help myself and do without 
 servants. 
 
 He opens the account and reads his servants statement, in which the latter 
 lias debited him with his salary and some triflmg current expenses and credited 
 him with various sums expended on his (Just's) behalf, whilst in hospital, together 
 with a certain sum advanced to his father, showing him his master's debtor to a 
 considerable amount. To the Major's reiterated statement that he must go. Just 
 replies : 
 
 Run me down as much as you like, sir. I'll not think worse of myself than of my dog. 
 Last winter, during the twihght, I was walking along the Canal and I beard something 
 whining. I climbed down and stretched out ray hand in the direction of the voice, thinking to 
 save a child, but drew a poodle dog out of the water. No odds, thought I. The dog followed 
 me, but 1 don't like poodles. In vain did 1 chase him away ; in vain beat him. At night, 1 
 wouldn't let him come into my room. He remained in front of the door. When he came near 
 me I kicked him. He yelped, looked at me and wagged his tail. Not a bit of bread has he 
 received from me and yet, I'm the only one he heeds and who may touch him. He jumps about 
 in front of me, and goes through his tricks without being told. He's an ugly poodle, but a very 
 good dog. If he goes on much longer in this way I shall leave off disliking him. 
 
 The Major, touched by his servant's faithful adherence, resolves to retain him. 
 A footman, sent by the visitors, who have occupied the Major's rooms, interrupts 
 the conversation. The difference in character between Just, who is lovingly 
 attached to Tellheim, and this man, who changes service every six weeks, is 
 admirably drawn, though the scene contains but a few lines, not the least forcible 
 being the closing ones, containing the officer's rebuff. The Major inconvenienced 
 by the studied politeness of the new comers, decides to leave the hostelry at once 
 and, in order to liquidate his debts, hands a valuable ring to Just, with instructions 
 to pawn it and settle the bill out of the amount realized. Whilst Just is soliloquiz- 
 ing, Werner enters. The latter, since his discharge, has become a landed 
 proprietor, but, hearing that His Roval Highness Prince Heraclius of Persia is 
 about to undertake a war against Turkey, he decides to sell his estate and 
 enlist under the banner of the great hero of the East. The part proceeds of the 
 ^ale of the property he brings to the Major, for his own use. Being informed of the 
 
69 
 
 landlord's behaviour to his late commander, Just and he discuss a plan of serving 
 him out. 
 
 Werner. — Has he otFended the Major ? I'm ready. 
 
 Just. — Supposing we waited for him one evening, when coming from the club, ani gave him a 
 
 jolly good hiding ? 
 Werner. — In the evening ? Waylay him ? Two to one ? No, that won't do. 
 Just. — Or, suppose we burn his house over his head ? 
 Werner. — Turn incendiary ? By Jove, fellow, one can see you belonged to the Army Service 
 
 Corps. Bah ! I'm disgusted with you. 
 
 Minna and her maid Franziska, the new visitors at the hotel, are, at the opening 
 of the second act, conversing together, and we learn that Minna is in search of 
 Tellheim — wlio is engaged to her — and who has only once written to her since the 
 conclusion of peace. In the midst of their chat, a knock at the door announces tlie 
 landlord, who comes to obtain the necessary information from his visitors required 
 by the police as to their name, rank, occupation, business, etc. 
 
 Land. — Your ladyship is, without doubt, acquainted with the wise regulations of our police. 
 
 Minna. — Not in the least, Mr. Landlord. 
 
 Land. — We, landloi*ds, are not allowed to lodge a visitor in our hotels for twenty-four hours 
 without handing to the proper authorities a written statement of his name, native 
 place, profession, the business that brings him hither, the probable duration of his 
 stay, etc. 
 
 Minna. — Very Avell. 
 
 Land. — Your ladyship will therefore be pleased to — (sits down and gets writing materials 
 ready). 
 
 Minna. — With pleasure. My name is — 
 
 Land. — One moment. (Writes) Date 22nd of August of this year, arrived at the " King of 
 Spain " — Now, my lady, your name ? 
 
 Minna. — Miss von Barnhelm. 
 
 Land. — (Writing) von Barnhelm. Coming, my lady, from ? 
 
 Minna. — From my estates in Saxony. 
 
 Land. — Estates in Saxony — from Saxony. Indeed, indeed, my lady, from Saxony ? 
 
 Franziska. — Well ! Why not ? I suppose it is no crime in this country, to come from Saxony. 
 
 Land. — A crime I God forbid I That would be quite a new crime. Thus, from Saxony, Ah, 
 ah, from Saxony ! Dear Saxony ! But, if I am not mistaken, my lady. Saxony is 
 not small and has several, what shall I say ? — Districts, Provinces. Our police is 
 very particular, my lady. 
 
 Minna. — I understand. Well then, from my estates in Thuringia. 
 
 Land. — From Thuringia, yes, that is better, my lady. (Writes and reads) Miss von Barnhelm, 
 coming from her estates in Thuringia, waiting-woman and two servants. 
 
 Franziska. — Waiting-woman ? That, I suppose, is meant for me ? 
 
 Land. — Yes, my pretty dear. 
 
 Franziska. — Well, Mr. Landlord, then instead of waiting-?ro»«a?i put lady's-maid. I hear the 
 police is very particular. A mistake might result from it and cause me some 
 trouble, when my banns are published. For, really, I am a spinster and my name is 
 Franziska, surname Willig, Franziska Willig. I also come from Thuringia. My 
 father was a miller on one of my lady's estates. They call it Klein Rammsdorf. 
 The mill now belongs to my brother. When young, ' I came to the Manor House 
 and I have been brought up with my lady. We are both the same age, twenty-one 
 next Candlemas. I have learnt everything her ladyship has learnt. I shall be very 
 pleased if the police learn to know me thoroughly. 
 
 Land. — Very well, my dear. I'U remember that for future inquiries. But now, my lady, your 
 business here ? 
 
 Minna. — My business ? 
 
70 
 
 Land. — Does you ladyship desire anything frora His Majesty ? 
 
 MiXNA. — Oh, no. 
 
 Land. — Or have you anything to do in the Supreme Court ? 
 
 Minna. — No. 
 
 Land. — Or ? 
 
 Minna. — No, no, I am here solely on my own business. 
 
 Land. — Quite so, my lady, but what is the nature of your business ? 
 
 Minna. — It is — Franziska, I believe we are under examination. 
 
 Feanziska. — Mr. Landlord, surely the police don't want to know a woman's secrets ? 
 
 Land. — Certainly, my dear, the police want to know everything, particularly secrets ? 
 
 Fkanziska. — Well, my lady, what is to be done ? Listen then, Mr. Landlord, but mind it 
 
 must remain between us and the police. 
 Minna. — What will the little fool say ? 
 
 Fraxziska. — We have come to kidnap one of the king's officers. 
 Land.— How ? What, my child ? 
 
 Feanziska. — Or be captured by him, which amounts about to the same thing. 
 Minna. — Franziska, are you mad ? Landlord, the saucy thing is making a fool of you. 
 Land. — I hope not. She may joke as much as she likes with your humble servant, but not 
 
 with the worshipful police 
 
 Minna. — Mr. Landlord, I don't quite know how to act. I think it would be better if you left 
 
 the whole matter until the arrival of my uncle. 
 
 The landlord now produces the Major's ring that Just has pledged with liim, 
 asking Minna's opinion as to its value. She, immediately, recognises it as the one 
 she exchanged with Tellheim, on becoming engaged ; learns that the person she is 
 in search of is in the town ; that he is stopping at the very hotel, and that it is he 
 who has been turned out of the rooms, she and her maid are occupying. The 
 landlord is immediately despatched in search of the Major, and Minna, overcome 
 with joy, left alone with Franziska, loads her with presents, so that she may rejoice 
 with her. Just appears, but declines to fetch his master, who, he says, dislikes 
 ladies, who are too polite, quite as much as landlords, who are too imcivil. Franziska, 
 wishing to enlist him in their service, tells him that the lady is the Major's sister. 
 Just replies : 
 
 I know better than that. The Major hasn't any sisters. T^vice during the last six months 
 he sent me to his family in Courland. However, there are different kinds of sisters. 
 
 and leaves the room, having mentioned, however, in the coiu-se of conversation 
 that the Major is at the Cafe next door. Thither the landlord is at once sent and 
 the maid ordered to follow him, so that the lady's name shall not be revealed. The 
 maid returns and in a few moments afterwards Tellheim, accompanied by the land- 
 lord, makes his appearance. 
 
 Tellheim.— Pardon me, my lady . To find Miss von Bamhelm here 
 
 Minna. — Cannot be altogether imexpected. Am I to pardon you, that I am still your Minna ? 
 Heaven pardon you that 1 am still Miss von Bamhelm. 
 
 Franziska takes charge of the landlord, under pretence of wishing to go and 
 arrange the bill of fare. 
 
 Tellheim. — Yon here. What are yon in search of, my lady * 
 
 Minna. — I seek nothing more, (going up to him with open arms ) I have found all I sought. 
 
 Tellheim protests that reason and necessity alike prevent him, in his present 
 circumstances, keeping his plighted troth. 
 
71 
 
 Minna. — Reason, necessity command you to forget me ? I am a great lover of reason and have 
 much respect for necessity. Let mp hear how reasonable this reason, how necessary 
 this necessity. 
 
 Tellheim. — At your service. Listen then, my lady. You call me Tellheim. The name is 
 correct ; but you are mistaken, if you think that I am the Tellheim you kuew in 
 your own country, the prosperous man, full of hopes and of desire for glory, master 
 of his own body and soul, before whom the portals of honour and glory stood open, 
 who, if not worthy of your heart and hand, dared to hope to become worthier every 
 day. I am as little the Tellheim of those days, as J am my own father. Both 
 belong to the past. I am Tellheim the dismissed, a man with his honour stained,. 
 a cripple, a beggar. It was to the former you betrothed yourself, do you wish to 
 keep your word to the latter ? 
 
 Minna. — That sounds very tragical. But, sir, till I find the other one-:-l can't help it, I am 
 infatuated with the Tellheims— this one will have to help me out of the difficulty.. 
 Your hand, dear beggar. 
 
 Tellheim, unable to endure a conversation that is rapidly driving him to des- 
 pair, rushes from her presence. 
 
 The third act brings Just back with a letter from the Major to Minna, and a 
 request to Franziska, to come and see him. An amusing conversation ensues 
 between Franziska and the batman as to the Major's former servants, Just being 
 valet, gamekeeper, footman and coachman rolled into one. 
 
 Fbanziska. — Well, really ! To let such a lot of good servants go and keep the very worst 
 
 one I I should like to know what your master sees in you ? 
 Just — Perhaps he finds I'm honest. 
 Franziska. — Oh ! One is mighty little if one's only honest. 
 
 It thereupon appears that all the other servants have been guilty of various 
 misdeeds, which Just recounts in most amusing and ambiguous terms. 
 
 The landlord now reappears and relates to Franziska an episode in the scene 
 between Minna and Tellheim, which is supposed to happen off the boards, and 
 requests her to draw her mistress's attention to the fact that she still retains his 
 ring. 
 
 Land, — I don't want it back. However, I'll put the hundred pistolen I lent on it down on my 
 lady's account. 
 
 Werner comes again on the stage, and having, as we know, heard from Just 
 the treatment the Major has received at his hands, warns the maid against the land- 
 lord. In the scene which follows, Werner tries to make Franziska believe that 
 Tellheim has plenty of money and shows us how proud he is of his military title. 
 He prefers " if she doesn't mind " to be addressed as " Sergeant." He maintains 
 that if the Major has pawned a ring, it is only because he does not value it very 
 much. Franziska, wishing to solve matters, delivers Tellheim's note to her mis- 
 tress. Werner, whilst waiting for her return, hits upon a plan to give the Major 
 some money. He paid Mrs. Marloff (the lady in mourning) a visit a fortnight ago 
 — so he tells us — and found the poor woman ill and at her wit's end to know how 
 to pay the debt owing to the Major by her late husband. He again visited her, but 
 found her gone. Quite sure that she has not been able to pay, Werner determines 
 to hand the money himself to Tellheim, as if coming from her. Whilst the former 
 is deep in thought, the Major himself appears. The ensuing scene is a splendid one^ 
 Tellheim's noble nature, and Werner's devoted attachment appeal to us irresistibly. 
 
72 
 
 Werner finds his little scheme quite upset, when the Major tells him that the 
 widow has paid the debt. He is, however, much hurt that the Major should prefer 
 to sell and pawn his things, rather than borrow from his friends. 
 
 Tkllheim. — It is not seemly that I should become your debtor. 
 
 Werneir. — Not seemly? One hot day, a day made hot by the sun and the enemy, when your 
 orderly with the canteen was missing and you came to me and said, " Werner, have 
 you anything to drink? " and I handed you my water-bottle and you took it and 
 drank, was that seemly ? On my soul if a drink of putrid water was not worth 
 more than all this rubbish (takes the money bag and hands it to the Major). Take 
 it, dear Major, fancy it is watei*. God made this also for all. 
 
 Tellheim. — You torture me, don't you hear, I won't become your debtor. 
 
 Werner. — First it wasn't seemly, now you Avon't. Oh ! That's a different thing. You won't 
 become my debtor. How, if you were my debtor, already, Major ? Or do you owe 
 the man nothing, who parried the blow, that was about to cut your head in two and 
 another time, cut the arm off the body of him who was going to send a bullet through 
 your breast ? Or is my neck of less importance than mv money bag ? If those are 
 noble thoughts, by the poor soul, they are very absurd ones. 
 
 Tellheim. — Whom are you talking to like that, Werner ? We are alone, I may speak. If 
 a third person heard us, it would be bragging. I acknowledge with pleasure that 
 you, twice, saved my life. But friend, what was wanting, given the chance, that I 
 should not have done as much for you ? Well ? 
 
 Werner. — Only the chance. Who doubted it. Major ? Have I not seen you risk your life for 
 a private, when we were in a hanJ-to-hand fight. 
 
 Pressed more and more, the Major, eventually, promises that, if in need, he 
 will apply to Werner for assistance. Franziska now re-appears, but seeing the 
 Major and sergeant in conversation retires, A few moments afterwards, she again 
 comes forward with a letter in her hand. Tellheim, expecting an answer from 
 Minna, is surprised to find that it is his own letter returned. The maid declares 
 that her mistress was not at all desirous of reading it, seeing that the writer himself 
 was coming to visit her (she has requested his company for a drive) and that he can 
 explain himself by word of mouth. An amusing pantomime takes place between 
 Werner and Franziska, which gives us an opportunity of judging of Tellheim's 
 gentlemanly feelings. 
 
 " Werner^ Du hast dock nicht cergessen loas ich Dir mehrinals gesagt habe dass man liber 
 ■einen gewissen Punkt unit den Frauenzimmern nie scherzen mussJ'^ 
 
 The Major promises to attend " at three sharp." A short scene between 
 Franziska and Werner, and another, between the maid and her mistress, in which 
 the latter discloses her intention to play a trick on Tellheim, brings the third act 
 to a conclusion. 
 
 The opening scene of the fourch act explains to us Minna's plan of campaign. 
 Whilst discussing matters with Franziska, a knock announces a visitor, who turns 
 out to be a certain Biccaut de la Marliniere, a French adventurer. Of his 
 speeches, a conglomeration of his native tongue and broken German, it is impossible 
 to give an adequate English translation, at all events one that shall convey the 
 humour of the original. Riccaut pretends to have come in search of the Major, to 
 tell him that his case is about to be favourably considered by the Minister of War. 
 Minna wishes to know whom the Major has to thank for such an interest in his 
 affairs, and Riccaut gives an account of himself and family. He is " le chevalier 
 Riccaut de la Marliniere, signeur de pret-au-vol de la branche de prens d'or." 
 
73 
 
 Being without employment, he has taken to the, to him, agreeable occupation of 
 pigeon plucking, and accepts money from Minna, to restore his fallen fortunes. 
 The character of this chevalier d'industrie hurt the national prejudices of Madame 
 de Stael. 
 
 " Dans cette meme piece" — she says — " il y a iiti rule rf' acenturier Frangais tout a fait 
 manque ; ilfaut avoir la main legere pour troxwer ce qui peut preter a la moqmrie dais les 
 Frangais, et la plupart des etrangers ne les ont peints qu avec des traits lourds et dont la resem- 
 blance rCest ni delicate ni frappanteT 
 
 Werner comes with a message from the Major, informing Minna that his sud- 
 den meeting with the paymaster, has prevented him (Tellheim) keeping his appoint- 
 ment, but that the delay will be but short. The scene serves to intrjduce Werner 
 to Minna, and is followed by a still shorter one between mistress and maid, prepar- 
 atory to the appearance of Tellheim. Prior to his arrival, she has taken off her 
 own ring and put on Tellheim's." 
 
 Minna. — Not that I quite know why, but I think I see an occasion, where it will come in 
 handy. 
 
 The Major now explains to his fiancee the reasons that prevent him fulfilliuo* 
 his engagement. 
 
 Tellheim. — You remember, my lady, that I was ordered to enforce, with the utmost severity, 
 a large contribution, in rf;ady money, in the district in which you reside. 
 
 Minna. — Yes, I remember very well. I loved you for that very deed, without having, even, 
 seen you. 
 
 Tellheim. — The communities gave me their bills and the treaty of peace being signed, I 
 intended to have had them entered amongst the legal liabilities. The bills were 
 declared valid, but my title to them disputed. The authorities ridiculed me, when I 
 assm-ed them that I had advanced the amount in ready money. It was regarded as 
 a bribe, a gratuity, because I had so quickly agreed upon the lowest amount that, 
 at the last extremity, I had authority to be satisfied with. Thus the bill passed 
 out of my hands and, if it is met, the amount will, surely, not be paid to me. This 
 action on the part of the authorities wounds my honour, my lady. Permission to 
 resign I should have demanded, if I had not obtained it. 
 
 Hearing the news brought by Riccaut and seeing in his conversation with the 
 paymaster a partial confirmation thereof, Tellheim characteristically exclaims : 
 
 1 don't want mercy ! I want justice I In short, my lady, if I am to be deprived of my 
 own, in such a shameful manner ; if the most perfect reparation is not made to my honour, I 
 cannot become your husband. For, in the eyes of the world, 1 am unworthy. Miss von 
 Bamhelm deserves a blameless husband. A Love, that does not hesitate to expose its object 
 to contempt, is despicable. He who is not ashamed to owe all his happiness to the blind love 
 of a woman, is a villain. 
 
 Minna, hereupon, returns the engagement ring. 
 Be it then. We will never have known one another. 
 
 Franziska, her mistress having left, to hide her tears from " the traitor," in- 
 forms the Majjr that Minna has been disinherited by her uncle, the Count von 
 Bruchsall, because of her continued love for him (Tellheim) and she had run away 
 from home to seek the object of her affection. As Minna had foretold : 
 
 The man, who now refuses me with all my riches, wiU defy the whole world for me, when 
 he hears I am unha])py and forsaken. 
 
74 
 
 Fully convinced of the truth of the lady's maid's statement, the Major meets- 
 Werner at the opening of the last act : 
 
 V. Tellheim. — Ah, Werner ! I have been looking for you everywhere. Where have you 
 
 been ? 
 Werner. — And I have been looking for you, Major. That's just the way when one's looking 
 
 for anybody. 1 have brought you good news. 
 V. Tellheim. — 1 don't want your news, now, I want money. Quick, Werner, give me as 
 
 much as you have, and try to raise as much more as you can. 
 Weuner. — With pleasure. There is some. There are a hundred louis d'or, and here a 
 
 hundred ducats. 
 V. Tellheim. — The hundred louis d'or, Werner, go and bring to Just. He is, at once, to 
 
 redeem the ring he pawned this moraing. But, where wiU you find more ? I want 
 
 much more. 
 WerxePw — Let that be my care. 
 
 The succeeding scene, a short one, is followed by a dialogue between Tellheim 
 and Franziska. She tries to induce him closely to examine the ring he has received 
 from her mistress, but he is too much occupied by the thought of a reconciliation 
 with Minna. Franziska leaves, and the Major, alone, turns over in his mind the 
 best manner of pleading his cause, when mistress and maid arrive, attired for the 
 proposed drive. Minna professes to know the object of the Major's visit, viz., to 
 return her own engagement ring, but, as she has no time to lose, she asks him, with 
 affected coolness, to return it to her maid. Tellheim is, however, not to be denied. 
 He tries to urge his suit, to induce her to consider his previous refusal withdrawn, 
 to forgive and forget and become his ^viie. In the midst of this conversation at 
 cross purposes an orderly arrives, delivering to Tellheim an autograph letter from 
 the King, which should have reached him the day previously. The investigation of 
 the Major's affairs has been satisfactorily concluded ; he has been found absolutely 
 blameless, his honour unstained and, his royal master informs him that, not only 
 will his demands be paid in iiill, but that he, the King, has commanded all claims 
 against the Major to be written off. At the same time Tellheim is invited, his 
 health permitting, to re-enter the service. 
 
 Whilst the perusal of the missive has been proceeding, the landlord again 
 makes his appearance, and Franziska fancies him prompted by inquisitiveness to 
 learn the contents of the letter. 
 
 Land. — Who wants to know about the letter ? 1 have come about the ring. Her ladyship 
 
 must return it immediately. Just has come to redeem it. 
 Minna. — (whispering to him.) — You tell Just that it is redeemed already, and tell him also by 
 
 whom — by me. 
 
 Fortified by the royal letter, Tellheim urges his suit with renewed vigour, but 
 Minna, still carrying out her plan, declines all his offers and plies him with the very 
 answers he made use of, in a previous scene, when bringing forward his reasons for 
 breaking off the engagement. She will not, so she tells him, be without some pro- 
 tection, since she has applied to her country's ambassador. At this moment Just 
 comes back and informs the Major, sotto voce, of the fate of his ring. Tellheim, 
 enraged, orders him to repeat the message aloud — 
 
 Just. — The landlord says that Miss von Bamhelm has taken the ring I pledged with him, 
 
 having recognized it as her own, and that she refuses to give it up. 
 V. Tellheim. — is that true, my lady ? No, it can't be true. 
 
75 
 
 
 Minna (smiling^).— And why not, Tellheim ; uhy can't it be true ? 
 
 V. Tkllheim (impetuously), — Well, granted. What an awful suspicion has dawned upon 
 me. Now 1 know jon false, faithless one. 
 
 / 
 
 The Major is haunted by the terrible thought, that Minna's real object in seek- 
 ing him was to break off her engagement, that chance brought her own ring into 
 her possession and that, by cunning, she had been able to play into his own 
 hands. Tellheim, in his rage, refuses all assistance from Werner, who now returns 
 with the mone}'. 
 
 Wekner. — Hero I am already, Major. 
 
 V. Tellheim. — Who wants you. 
 
 Werner. — Here's some money. 1,000 Pistolen. 
 
 V. Tellheim. — I don't want them. 
 
 Werneij. — To-morrow, Major, twice as much will be at your service. 
 
 V. Tellheim. — Keep your money. 
 
 Werner. — But it's your money, Major. I believe you don't notice to whom you're speaking, 
 
 V. Tellhkim. — Away with it, I say. 
 
 Werner. — What ails you ? I'm Werner. 
 
 Minna now finds that, having sown the wind, she is likely to reap the whirl- 
 wind and begs the Major to believe that the whole matter is the result of some 
 misunderstanding. At this moment two footmen announce the arrival of the Count 
 von Bruchsall. Tellheim naturally fancies it is the " stern parent '"' come to fetch 
 Minna home. 
 
 V. Tellheim. — Who, who is coming ? Your uncle, my lady ? Let him come, let him come. 
 Don't be afraid. Not even by a look, shall he dare to insult you. He will have to 
 deal with me. 
 
 They forgive and forget, and Minna immediately clears away any remaining 
 suspicion of the Major, by convincing him that he is still in possession of his 
 own ring, the one she originally plighted her troth with to him ; assures him that 
 the cruel uncle, her hasty flight, his anger, her being disinherited, is all fiction and, 
 happy lovers, they go to welcome the new arrival. 
 
 The consent to the marriage is given and, after a speedy and hearty reconcilia- 
 tion between Werner and the Major, the comedy closes with the following scene : 
 
 Franziska. — Sergeant I 
 
 Werner, (rubbing his eyes). — Well? " 
 
 Franziska. — Sergeant ! 
 
 Werner. — Well, little woman, what do you want ? 
 
 Franziska. — Just look at me, Sergeant. 
 
 Werner. — I can't yet. [ can't make out what has got into my eyes. 
 
 Franziska. — Well, but do just look at me. 
 
 Werner. — I'm afraid I've looked at you too much already, little woman. Well, there, now 
 
 I'm looking at you. What now ? 
 Franziska.— Mr. Wachtmeister, don't jou want a Mrs. Wachtmeisterinn ? 
 Werner. — Are you in earnest, little woman ? 
 Franziska. — Perfectly. 
 Werner. — Would you even go to Persia ? 
 Franziska. — Wherever you like. 
 Werner. — Certain ? Hallo, Major, no bragging. Now I have, at least, as good a girl and as- 
 
 true a friend as you. Shake hands on it, little woman. Done. Ten years hence 
 
 you'll be a General's wife or a widow. 
 
76 
 
 A great deal has been said of the influence which Diderot exerted on Lessing and 
 his Minna von Barnhelm. Madame de Stael states the ca-^e well, giving it as her 
 opinion that : " Diderot dans ses pieces mettait Vafftctatioii du natural a la place de 
 r ajff^ectation de la co?ivention, tandis que le talent de Lessing' est vraiment siinple et 
 Mncere." 
 
 Lessing's Minna von Barnhelm is the first national Grernian comedy, and 
 if we wish to be honest, says Stahr, it has remained the only one For, where in 
 German literature, from Lessing to the present day, do we find such a drama ? 
 One, not going back for its plot to the dim, distant past, but attaching itself to the 
 immediate present of the poet's life, to the most important events and to the most 
 celebrated hero and monarch of the century. Where do we find one so specifically 
 German as to its contents, ]:;ortraying with such clearness and simplicity, types so 
 true to nature, which, whilst leaving the great King off the stage makes us feel 
 both his greatness and his importance and glorifies his subltmest virtue — justice — in 
 such a marked degree. 
 
 Goethe has for ever fixed the value and importance of the work as " the 
 foremost product of a German mind of specifically contemporarj- contents, the 
 value of which, for this very reason is incalculable." Goethe had himself 
 w^ritten his first youthful dramatic productions on the model of this piece, 
 had schooled his prentice hand on the masterly conception of the exposition, and 
 the old man lingered with pleasure " over the charming simplicir.y and gaiety, over 
 the truly German spirit, the free and fresh knowledge of the world, as depicted in 
 the piece, which, in the dark literary period in which it appeared, shone like a 
 bright meteor, and exercised an incredible influence on the studious youth of the 
 day." If Goethe seems to find fault with the scenes, in the third act, in which the 
 sergeant and Franziska appear too prominently, he immediately excuses them, say- 
 ing that Lessing had learnt to love and had taken a pleasure in these two characters 
 and had developed them somewhat more fuily than was necessary. But, the 
 national character and ])opiilarity of the piece just rest on those scenes ; a popu- 
 larity which a century ago was unequalled, which in our own day has not diminished 
 and which, so long as the national character maintains itself, cannot be extinguished. 
 
 Even to-day, notwithstanding tiie extraordinary events which the German people 
 has vseen enacted, Lessing's characters, in their poetical truthfulness, speak to us as 
 witnesses and co-actors of an important and almost unique period. Whilst the 
 ridiculous Riccant, the noble sergeant, the faithful Just belong to comedy, it is 
 Tellheim, in whom Lessing has given us his very soul, in whom Lessing's muse and 
 Lessing's character speak to us. For Tellheim, not Minna, is the principal role of 
 this piece, the motive of which, the soldier's honour, is immeasurably far removed 
 from the absurd code of Spanish cavaliers as formulated by I^ope de Vega and 
 Calderon. The conflict between honour and love that Tellheim experiences, in 
 consequence of his action against the Government and his poverty, caused by his 
 noble deed, is infinitely more true and bears no comparison to the ideas of honour, 
 which, in the Spanish poets, produces dramatic conflicts. It is the ideal conception 
 of the honour of an officer and nobleman, the result of training in the army of the 
 immortal Prussian King that forms Tellheim's rule of life. He is a model 
 officer, a truly knightly character in the most beautiful acceptation of the term. 
 An excellent master and superior, adored by his servant and subordinates, on 
 account of his humanity, which makes him treat even the wretched landlord 
 respectfully, that example of a creeping, toadying, narrow-minded race, instead 
 of punishing him as he deserves ; a true friend, imbued with the deepest love, 
 
\ 
 
 77 
 
 since it is full of reverence for women, full of a respect that induces him 
 to regard his union with his betrothed as im}30ssible, seeing he has suffered in 
 name and fortune, suffered to an extent that seems irreparably, since his 
 honour is affected. Thus does he stand before us, thus does he develop 
 himself during the course of the action. He cannot keep his word — since 
 in his idea it would make them unhappy, would degrade them — plighted to the rich, 
 happ}^ bride, surrounded by proud and noble relatives, but he throws himself at the 
 feet of the same girl when she is disinherited, cast out by her family on his account, 
 and begs to be allowed to devote his life to her. Proud, when only to be a recipient, 
 he is full of humility and devotion when the opportunity presents itself for him to 
 be a doer. And, at this point, where nature triumphs over conventionality, true 
 humanity over the prejudice of institutions, love over caste honour, he receives, at 
 the hands of his gracious king and commander, his highest merit, his most perfect 
 reward in the acknowledgment of his unstained honour. In this incomparable 
 piece, the most beautiful that a heart full of love and honour ever composed, honour 
 binds the wreath for love. For, in this Minna von Barnhelm there is, as Goethe 
 once said, " not only Lessing's mind, but also his great, warm, noble heart, his 
 heart full of love and honour, the very Lessing." 
 
 Tellheim (according to his character) is Lessing, and in his later years he (Lessing) 
 was to furnish an extraordinary example in proof of this assertion, in which, 
 through a similar exaggerated delicacy of feeling in money matters, he caused 
 himself no end of pain. 
 
 What justice ! What clemency ! exclaims Tellheim after having read the 
 King's missive which restores his honour and fortune. But clemency held only 
 the second rank, justice claims the first place. It is this idea of justice that the 
 Tellheim-Lessing made use of for the glorification of that sovereia:n whose genius 
 had induced the Major of the piece to become a soldier in order to serve him. It 
 was the same desire that caused the poet to exert himself, for years, to arrive at a 
 similar goal. Whilst composing the comedy, he was awaiting the consummation 
 of such a wish. Hence the poet's openheartedness appears so much the greater 
 in this play. It was a piece of unheard-of temerity, and that — ^in his own capital — 
 to dare to bring the King, though indirectly, on the stage, and in Hamburg, in 
 Paris even, the express approval of the Prussian Ambassador was sought, before 
 permission for the performance was given. The scruples of the authorities 
 were characteristically announced in the words : " Man konne zwar iiber Gott 
 raisonniren und dogmatiziren, aber nicht iiber die Reoierung und die Polizei." 
 One might argue and dogmatize about the Deity, but not about the Government 
 and the Police ! 
 
 But still more unprecedented, in the German literature of the period, was a 
 figure like Tellheim. This Prussian Major of 1763, the nobleman and officer, 
 imbued with the highest sense of military honour, but with a sense of honour that 
 does " little for the great ones as a matter of inclination or affection, not much more 
 from a sense of duty, but everything on account of his own honour," and to whom 
 " the great ones are very superfluous " ; this officer who wants and needs " no 
 clemency, only justice," and, when he obtains justicie, declines every favour, — this 
 man is an extraordinary character. He will remain free, for " to be in the service 
 of the great ones is dangerous and not worth the trouble, restraint and de2:radation 
 it necessitates." He is far from presuming on the fact of his being an officer, he 
 only " does not regret having become a soldier." " I became a soldier out of 
 partiality ; I do not know myself for what political reasons and out of caprice, 
 
78 
 
 thinking that it is good for every able-bodied man to follow this profession for some 
 time, in order to become acquainted "vvith danger, and to learn to keep cool and 
 resolute. Only the utmost necessity Avould have forced me to adopt this as a 
 career, and to make a temporary occupation a trade." And to be a soldier only 
 for the sake of fighting, to serve here to-day to-morrow there, seems to him, "to 
 travel like a butcher-boy, nothing more." These principles of Lessing's officer are 
 as revolutionary as those of Schiller's Major in Kabale unci Liehe who, twenty 
 years later, to the words '' The King gave" you this sword," replies, "The State 
 gave it to me, through the King." 
 
 And how lovingly the accessory characters are treated. This faithful, honest, 
 witty servant, Just ; this upright, amiable, noble sergeant, — with what knowledge 
 of the human heart are the not depicted and endowed. Lessing loved the people, 
 whom he knew tlioroughly, hence his portrait is as true. And how animated 
 everything is. The lady's maid forming with her sergeant a kind of parallel 
 to Minna and Tellheim ; the immortal Riccaut, thatmodel of all swindling chevaliers 
 d'induMrie. And even the knave of a landlord, the bugbear of honest Just, 
 who, notwithstandins: the numerous glasses of Danzig liqueur, still remains a 
 churl ; how splendidly is this Philister of the da}^ portrayed, with his abject 
 servility for the rich and noble, his meanness towards the deserving in 
 distress, his enthusiasm for the literal omniscience of the King, the authorities, 
 and the Police, on whose back he loads everything, and makes them responsible 
 for it. 
 
 The more one ponders over the piece and considers its influences, the more one 
 must admire the admirable precision with which Lessing laid his hand on the only 
 subject of contemporary events, which could ensure for his poetical creation the 
 sympathies of the nation. Goethe, who bewailed his own lot and that of the 
 German poets, because the life of the nation furnished them with nothing, in his 
 old age, regretted " that this extraordinary man (Lessing) lived in such wretched 
 times, which gave him no better materials than those which he worked into his 
 pieces ; that he, in his Minna von Barnhelm, w.is obli<^ed to take part in the 
 miserable quarrels of Saxon}- and Prussia, becau-e he found nothing better." But 
 Goethe shows, at the same time, in what a masterly manner Lessing made use of 
 his materials. " The bitter feeling," says he, " existing between Prussia and Saxony 
 during the war,- could not at its conclusion be immediately annulled. The Saxon 
 only now truly began to feel the wounds that the overproud Prussian had inflicted 
 on him. The political treaty of peace could not immediately pacify the temper of 
 the people. Lessing's 3Imna von Barnhelm was to do this. The beauty and 
 amiability of the Saxon ladies gain the victory over the worthy, honourable, stub- 
 born Prussians, and the leading as well as the subordinate characters are, the con- 
 flicting elements notwithstanding, happily united in a dramatically artistic manner." 
 In truth, both people had every reason to be satisfied with the play, and the applause 
 gained in Berlin did not aflPect its reception in Leipzig. Ho vs ever, Lessing said of 
 himself that, in writing the comedy, he had to be neither Prussian nor Saxon. Be- 
 sides, he had need 'o be content with the applause bestowed upon him, both in and 
 outside the theatre, for the financial return which Minna brought the author was 
 — nothing. 
 
 If Frederick could only have recognized it, no German author was really so akin 
 to his inmost character as Lessing, writes Scherer. Both had the same veracity 
 and ambition, the same youthful thirst for glory, which led them, recklessly, to 
 humiliate their enemies ; the same severity towards what was bad ; both felt 
 
79 
 
 strongly the need of friendship, while both were but slightly susceptible to the love 
 of woman ; in both enjoyment of life was combined with a strong sense of duty ; 
 both had the same liberal views and tolerance, the same clear, ready and rational 
 stvle. Lessing demanded of a historian that he shoukl relate contemporarj' events, 
 a demand that Frederick fulfilled. Lessing introduced strict rule in literature as 
 Frederick did in the field and in home government. Lessing, like the great King, de- 
 fended the national causes against the foreigner. There never were two men more 
 created for each other than Lessing and Frederick the Great, and Frederick could not 
 have found, anywhere, a subject who would have served him with greater faith- 
 fulness and a more worthy aim, or a writer who could have so fully compensated 
 him for the loss of what attracted him in his beloved French. But the unproved 
 and unjust accusation made years before, bv a Frenchman whom the King despised 
 much as he admired him, was sufl^cient reason for striking out the name of this 
 German poet and scholar, for ever, from the list of those who might serve him. 
 
 Frederick sits mounted among the tree tops of " Under den Linden^' and about 
 the pedestal are crowded the life-size figures of the men of his age whom Prussia 
 holds most worthy of remembrance. At the four corners ride the Duke of Bruns- 
 wick and cunning Prince Heinrich, old Ziethen the Hussar, and Seydlitz, who threw 
 Soubise into rout at Rossbach. Between are a score or more of soldiers of less 
 note, — the Scotchman Keith, who fell in the early morning twilight at Hochkirch^ 
 and, more interesting than all, Tauentzien, Lessing's friend, — only soldiers, spurred 
 and girt with sabres, except on the very back of the pedestal, and there, just at the 
 tail of the King's horse, in the most undistinguished place, stand Kant, peer of 
 Plato and Bacon, and, at his side, the noble presence of Lessing. Just standing- 
 room for them among the horses and uniforms, at the tail of Frederick's steed! 
 The statue of Lessing rises, says Prof. Hosmer, serene, tall, unbending, with gaze 
 fixed as if upon some far-off pleasant prospect — as if he saw the day when in the long 
 education of the human race his time should come. The sculptor builded perhaps 
 wiser than he knew — the back of the King turned so squarely upon the figure of 
 the great writer, the hoofs of the warhorse within easy striking distance. 80 was 
 he regarded by the great and powerful of the land, of which he was the most 
 illustrious ornament. 
 
 Of him, in the words of another poet, it might truly be said that he : 
 
 Von dem grossten deutschen So/me, 
 Von des grossen FriedeHcli s Throne 
 Schutzlos ging und ungeehrt. 
 
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