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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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CAPE TOWN:

Pbinted at the "Cape Times" Pbinting Works, 66, St. George's Street.

1893.

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GOT

OOISTTEInTTS.

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

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

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

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 !

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

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

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

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

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.

" 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,

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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."

(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,"

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-

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 ;

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.

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.

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-^

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,.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

<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

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

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.

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-

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

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.

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."

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

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

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.

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,

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

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."]

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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 ?

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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,

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,

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

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.

€

2 8586

U'r.-

'*.#