another. Vain! that dull poring here expounds the holy signs to thee! Ye are hovering, ye Spirits, near me; answer me, if you hear. (He opens the book and perceives the sign of the Ma Ah! what rapture thrills at once through all my senses at this sight! I feel a fresh, hallowed life-joy, newglowing, shoot through nerve and vein. Was it a god that traced these signs? - which still the storm within me, fill my poor heart with gladness, and, by a mystical inspiration, unveil the powers of nature all around me. Am I a god? All grows so bright! I see, in these pure lines, nature herself working in my soul's presence. Now for the first time do I conceive what the sage saith, "The spirit-world is not closed. Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead! Up, acolyte !23 bathe, untired, thy earthly breast in the morning-red." - 2-1887, (He contemplates the sign.) How all weaves itself into the whole; one works and lives in the other. How heavenly influences ascend and descend, and reach each other the golden buckets, - on bliss-exhaling pinions, press from heaven through earth, all ringing harmoniously through the All.24 What a show! but, ah! a show only! Where shall I seize thee, infinite nature? Ye breasts, where? ye sources of all life, on which hang heaven and earth, towards which the blighted breast presses-ye gush, ye suckle, and am I thus languishing in vain? (He turns over the book indignantly, and sees the sign of the Spirit of the Earth.) How differently this sign affects me! Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer to me! Already do I feel my energies exalted, already glow as with new wine; I feel 25 courage to venture into the world; to endure earthly weal, earthly woe; to wrestle with storms, and stand unshaken mid the shipwreck's crash. — Clouds thicken over me; the moon pales her light; the lamp dies away; exhalations arise; red beams flash round my head; a cold shuddering flickers down from the vaulted roof and fastens on me! I feel it-thou art flitting round me, prayer-compelled Spirit. Unveil thyself! Ah! what a tearing in my heart- all my senses are up-stirring to new sensations! I feel my whole heart surrendered to thee. Thou must- thou must!-should it cost me my life. (He seizes the book and pronounces mystically the sign of the Spirit. A red flame flashes up; the SPIRIT appears in the flame.) SPIRIT. Who calls for me? FAUST, (averting his face.) Horrible vision! SPIRIT. Thou hast compelled me hither, by dint of long sucking at my sphere. And now FAUST. Torture! I endure thee not. SPIRIT. Thou prayest, panting, to see me, to hear my voice, to gaze upon my face. Thy powerful invocation works upon me. I am here! What a pitiful terror seizes thee, the demi-god! Where is the soul's calling? Where the breast, that created a world in itself, and upbore and cherished it? which, with tremors of delight, swelled to lift itself to a level with us, the Spirits. Where art thou, Faust?-whose voice rang to me, who pressed towards me with all his energies! Art thou he? thou, who, at the bare perception of my breath, art shivering through all the depths of life, a trembling, writhing worm? FAUST. Shall I yield to thee, child of fire? I am he, am Faust, thy equal. In the tides of life, SPIRIT. In the storm of action, An eternal sea, A changeful weaving, A glowing life Thus I work at the whizzing loom of time, And weave the living clothing of the Deity. FAUST. Busy Spirit, thou who sweepest round the wide world, how near I feel to thee! SPIRIT. Thou art mate for the spirit whom thou conceivest, not for me. (The Spirit vanishes.) FAUST-collapsing. Not for thee! For whom then? I, the image of the Deity, and not mate for even thee! (A knocking at the door.) Oh, death! I know it: that is my amanuensis. My fairest fortune is turned to nought. That the unidea'd groveller must disturb this fulness of visions! (WAGNER" enters in his dressing-gown and night-cap, with a lamp in his hand. FAUST turns round in displeasure.) WAGNER. Excuse me I hear you declaiming; you were surely reading a Greek tragedy. I should like to improve myself in this art, for now-a-days it influences a good deal. I have often heard say, a player might instruct a priest. FAUST. Yes, when the priest is a player, as may likely enough come to pass occasionally. WAGNER. Ah! when a man is so confined to his study, and hardly sees the world of a holyday— hardly through a telescope, only from afar—how is he to lead it by persuasion? FAUST. If you do not feel it, you will not get it by hunting for it, if it does not gush from the soul, and subdue the hearts of all hearers with original delight. Sit at it forever glue together cook up a hash from the feast of others, and blow the paltry flames out of your own little heap of ashes! You may gain the admiration of children and apes, if you have a stomach for it; but you will never touch the hearts of others, if it does not flow fresh from your own. WAGNER. But it is elocution that makes the orator's success.28 1 feel well that I am still far behindhand. FAUST. Try what can be got by honest means. - Be no tinkling fool! — Reason and good sense express themselves with little art. And when you are seriously intent on saying something, is it necessary to hunt for words? Your speeches, I say, which are so highly polished, in which ye crisp the shreds of humanity," are unrefreshing as the mist-wind which whistles through the withered leaves in autumn. WAGNER. Oh, God! art is long, and our life is short. Often, indeed, during my critical studies, do I suffer both in head and heart. How hard it is to compass the means by which one mounts to the fountain-head; and before he has got half way, a poor devil must probably die! FAUST. Is parchment the holy well, a drink from which allays the thirst forever? Thou hast not gained the cordial, if it gushes not from thy own soul. WAGNER. Excuse me! it is a great pleasure to transport one's self into the spirit of the times; to see how a wise man has thought before us, and to what a glorious height we have at last carried it. FAUST. Oh, yes, far up to the very stars. My friend, the past ages are to us a book with seven seals.30 What you term the spirit of the times, is at bottom only your own spirit, in which the times are reflected. A miserable exhibition, too, it frequently is! One runs away from it at the first glance! A dirt-tub and a lumber-room! - and, at best, |