No More Learning

" If the last part of this statement had read
"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry,"
the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well
admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a
metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it
in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one
every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one
who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung
itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering
must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum. _

The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a
translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning. " At least he
flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between
meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into
that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is
so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy
sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted,
"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the
rhythm and rhyme of the translator. " One might just as well say "no
_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it
can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the
translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each
other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may
come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of
the Babel dispersion will allow.

As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the
translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the
poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of
which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of
the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by
him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with
him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with
him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for
knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early
years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural
realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a
considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent
a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a
game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking,
scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be
traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown
into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust
especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy
fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches
himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the
dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most
secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the
image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of
Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of
fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him,
and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly
surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with
the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his
love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the
nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but
not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness
and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow. "




DEDICATION.
[1]

Once more ye waver dreamily before me,
Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes!
To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me?
Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies?
Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me,
As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise;
The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing,
Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing.

Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian,
And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze;
First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision
Like an old tale of legendary days;
Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition,
Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways;
And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated
Of blissful hours! ) who have before me fleeted.

These later songs of mine, alas! will never
Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung!
Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever!
Mute the first echo that so grateful rung!
To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor
Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung;
And all that kindled at those earlier numbers
Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers.

And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning
For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day;
Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,)
Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay;
Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning,
The rigid heart to milder mood gives way!
What I possess I see afar off lying,
And what I lost is real and undying.




PRELUDE

IN THE THEATRE.


_Manager.