# Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 47/Issue 292/Poetical Translations of Faust

The list under review (see footnote 1) stood at the bottom of page 223 originally. Readers of that era likely recognized and highly regarded certain of the authors listed.
POETICAL TRANSLATIONS OF FAUST.
The first translation on our list exhibits Goethe in the light of rather an elegant poetaster: the last does not leave him, so to speak, the likeness of a dog. The intermediate metamorphoses which the illustrious German made to undergo, differ considerably in degree: in some of them he approaches nearer, and in others he recedes farther, from the common standard of humanity—but in none of them is he elevated into the rank of a human being, much less into that of a great poet. It is only of those portions of Faust that are executed in rhyme that we are now speaking, or that we intend to speak; for, when the translation employ blank verse, their work is frequently praiseworthy, and that of Dr Anster, in particular, appears deserving of considerable commendation. But the original "Faust" is written in rhyme, and in our opinion, cannot be translated into any other form of language without its true spirit entirely evaporating. In blank verse the difficulties are altogether evaded—the pith and dramatic point both of the dialogues and soliloquies are lost—the clear, hard, and well-defined outlines of the original are thawed down into a comparatively watery dilution, and melt away like icebergs that have drifted into the latitude of summer seas.
We apprise our readers, therefore, that it is our intention to sit in judgment on these translations, only in so far as they are executed in rhyme: and, looking at them in this respect, the contrast between them and the original is very remarkable. In the original "Faust," the first and greatest excellence that strikes us, is the exquisite freedom, elasticity, and finish of the language. Here we find the most complete realization of what our great poetical reformer Wordsworth has been contending for all his life, both by his theory and his practice—an exact transcript in the highest poetry of the language "really used by men." When, on the other hand, we turn to the rhymed translations, that which strikes us most is, we will not say the total absence of every thing like good English, (for that would but feebly express the case,) but the entire abandonment of every thing approaching to human speech. In defence of their barbarous dialect, and strange grammatical contortions, we are aware that these translators will plead the hard necessity of rhyming, and the grievous difficulties it throws in their way, particularly in a dramatic composition. And we at once accept this plea as a very satisfactory explanation of their failures: but it appears to us to afford no sufficient reason why we should not insist upon obtaining, at the hands of every English writer, whether translator or not, whether poet or proseman, a current of real language identical with that actually spoken by his countrymen. We suspect, however, that some of these translators may be inclined to show fight on this point, and to argue that "Faust," being a rhyming play, is already through that circumstance, and in its very conception, so unnatural a species of composition, (inasmuch as actual men never converse in rhyme,) that it can make but little difference in respect to our feelings of the reality of its language, though the ​dialogue be still farther removed from the discourse of ordinary life, by having its structure changed and its idiom perverted. It is thus, we imagine, that they justify to themselves the licenses they assume in transposing words, and in disregarding and violating, in every possible manner, the commonest proprieties of English speech. "Here are we, they have no doubt thought, obliged to make our characters converse and soliloquize in rhyme—a most unreal and unnatural practice—do what we will. What can it matter, then, though we go a step further than this; and, for the sake of hitching in a rhyme, place a verb for instance at the end of a line, when in the natural order of oral language it ought to stand at the beginning of it—or before a noun, when in ordinary conversation it would be placed after it? Now we can assure our translators that it matters a very great deal: and if they imagine that because their work is in rhyme, therefore the reader will consent to a still further deviation from common speech than rhyme in itself is; and for the sake of the symphonious endings of their lines, will reconcile himself to an inverted construction of sentences, or the introduction of language not used in actual life between man and man—we conceive they will find themselves mistaken. On the contrary, we think they will find that the very fact of their composition being in rhyme, naturally, and as we shall show quite properly, disposes the reader to make less allowance for grammatical inversions, and other violations of real conversational language, than he might have done had they been writing in prose.
An author composing in prose, or even in blank verse, stands within the pale of customary human speech. He is dealing with language very much as his neighbours deal with it in the ordinary intercourse of life; he is affecting no peculiarities, at least no obtrusive peculiarities of speech,—no phraseology which may not be heard any day falling from the lips of those around him; and therefore he need not be very solicitous to bear testimony to the truth and reality of his language, by adhering to an extreme integrity of idiom, or a scrupulously natural succession of words. If he should occasionally deviate into a contorted period, or other verbal impropriety, the offence is comparatively venial; because we feel that he has no object to gain by this departure from the common forms of oral syntax; that he has not been forced into it by the poverty of his resources; and last and most important of all, that there is no unnatural element in his style requiring to be compensated by a more studied naturalness of composition in other respects. In prose, therefore, we are of opinion that the usual forms of prose may occasionally, and to a certain extent, be departed from, without giving any great offence to the reader.
Not so, however, in rhyming poetry—and, above all, not so in that species of it we are now writing about, the rhymed drama. None of the prose proprieties of language can be dispensed with here. Going a step beyond Mr Wordsworth, who has told us that the language of poetry is or ought to be the same as that of prose, we venture to maintain that in this kind of composition, not only ought there to be no difference between the language of prose and the language of poetry, but that its character is such as to require that it should adopt the order and idiom of prose, even more strictly than prose itself is bound to do; and that it can with much less safety deviate from this standard. We ground our opinion upon the three following reasons:—In the first place, a dramatic writer in rhyme, already and from the very character of his composition, stands in a false and unnatural position. He has to describe the thoughts and passions of real men, and to do this successfully he must employ the language of actual life; but at the same time there is an element in the kind of composition he has chosen, which, in the first instance, necessarily and conspicuously takes his dialect out of the pale of nature, or from under the category of ordinary discourse—we mean the element of rhyme. Here, then, at the very outset, is a bar placed between him and his readers or hearers. which, at first sight, must naturally and powerfully revolt them, inasmuch as it apparently deprives the dialogue of its character of reality and of the colour of living speech. He is therefore called upon, the first thing he does, to exert himself to remove this bar, and to reconcile us to the peculiarity of his style. And how is this to be effected; how ​are we to be brought to believe and feel that the unreal language before us is the discourse "really used by men?" We answer; only by the most rigid adherence, on the part of the author, to the common forms and dramatic usages of his living spoken tongue in every other respect. He must not sacrifice one jot or one tittle of the common structure and natural conversational flow of language: otherwise the bar we have spoken of falls at once down between him and his readers, and it is vain for him and them to attempt to shake hands across it. The illusion is at an end; we feel that we are no longer reading or listening to the language which men really speak. Now, when composing in prose, an author need not, as we have said, be so particular; because there is no such preliminary obstacle cleaving to the character of his style, and rising up between him and those whom he addresses. In the second place, the writer in rhyme has an object of his own to gain by perverting language from its natural spoken course; to wit, he obtains his rhymes more easily by doing so. But the reader's object is quite different from this. It is no object of his that the author should obtain his rhymes easily. On the contrary, his object is to derive enjoyment from feeling consciously or unconsciously that the rhymes are obtained by a fair encounter with all the difficulties of the case, and by a triumph over them; the difficulty of preserving the common construction and all the usual proprieties of oral speech being here the chief or rather the only obstacle to be surmounted. When, therefore, he finds the author evading this difficulty by sacrificing these proprieties; that is, by transposing words out of their natural order, or interpolating unnecessary ones for the sake of his rhymes, he immediately concludes, that he is merely anxious about working out his own ends and not about promoting his, (the reader's,) and he is accordingly very properly revolted and repelled by his work. Now, in prose even, though an author should wander considerably from ordinary syntax, we feel that he has no personal and private end to gain by this—that he is not led to do so by a preference of his own object to that of his readers—and therefore his deviations are much less offensive, and much more easily forgiven. And in the third place, what we desire to be made to feel to a great extent in every work of art, is the power of the artist. We behold nothing worth looking at, unless we behold him exercising a triumphant mastery over untractable and refractory materials. Like Van Amburgh with his tigers he must make language lie down at his feet, kiss his hands, and follow him whither soever he will. But when we find him permitting his verse to interfere with the natural idiom and arrangement of his speech, we behold this exhibition reversed; the language has then gotten the upper hand of the artist, and we are made sensible of nothing but his weakness—an unpleasing object of contemplation at all times. In prose, again, this helplessness never becomes so palpably conspicuous even though the writer should be unable to direct his language perfectly straight in the paths of correct conversational idiom.
This conclusion will, no doubt, be unpalatable to many of our English versifiers; and cannot but be peculiarly nauseous to the translators whose merits we are canvassing. These, and many other people besides them, we believe, have got a silly crotchet into their heads that rhyme is in itself a beauty or merit in composition—and that for the sake of this extra charm the critic will, and ought in some degree, to forego the usual strictness with which he sits in judgment upon the style of authors whose works are without the "accomplishment of verse." We have already stated how diametrically we dissent from this doctrine; and now we beg to add further, for the benefit of all versifiers, past, present, and to come, that rhyme in itself; that is, taken independently of other considerations, is one of the greatest blemishes with which language can be afflicted. When we repeat what we have already said, that it is an unnatural appendage to speech—that the tongues of men in real life are not hung with the bells of rhyme, we have said quite enough to vindicate and establish the truth of this assertion. Therefore any appeal made to our critical clemency in behalf of inverted constructions, or other imperfections of language, not usually met with in prose or conversation—made, we say, on the score that they are to a certain extent compensated by the extra pleasure, forsooth, communicated ​to us by the rhymes—will be made in vain; rhyme being in our opinion only an aggravation of the offence—no compensating source of pleasure, but on the contrary the surest method by which bad can be made worse.
But if such be the quality of rhyme, it may here be very naturally asked, why does any author ever make use of it at all? If at the outset it places him in a false and disadvantageous position, removing him from the sympathy of those whom he addresses, why does he ever consent in any case to attach it to his language? As an immediate answer to this question we reply, that though rhyme can compensate nothing, can atone for nothing, and can reconcile us to nothing in the shape of vicious or unidiomatic diction, yet there are ways and means by which it may be compensated and atoned for; and these are, as we have said, a more than usually inflexible observance of the common flow and proprieties of our vernacular tongue in all other respects. But this only brings the poet up to a level with the good prose writer. It merely reconciles us to his rhymes. It therefore does not answer fully the question just stated, the purport of which is this—how does rhyme, besides being merely tolerated, ever come to captivate us as beautiful, and to be looked upon as a source of positive pleasure? As the answer to this question involves the consideration of what it is that renders man an artist in the highest sense of the word, we must take some pains with our reply.
The man who expresses his own feelings and passions strongly is not a poet; but only the man who can portray vividly and forcibly the passions of other men. Now there is this great difference between being able to depict one's own passions, and being able to depict the passions of others, that in the former case nature does the whole business for us, but not so in the latter. The expression of our own passions is involuntary and spontaneous; whereas, in delineating the feelings or passions of others, we must pass them through our own minds by a strong effort of the will. Pure natural passion, then, is not poetry, but only passion combined with volition; and the latter element it is—and not the former as usually supposed—which constitutes the differential quality of poetry, being the feature which distinguishes it from the spontaneous and effortless overflowings of the heart.
This element, therefore, must find a representative in language. Besides representing feelings and passions to us, the poetical artist must make us sensible of his own volition; namely, of that act of mastery by which he was enabled to pass these through the alembic of his own heart. When they issue forth, they must come out transfigured and tinged with the life-blood of that strong act. We must see, we say, not only the passion, but combined with it we must also see the volition of the artist.
Now this volition is an element not supplied by nature. Nature supplies the passion and the feeling, but not the will which would grasp, contemplate, and comprehend them, and realize them where they are not spontaneously given. The human will, upon the wings of which man soars out of his own mechanism, and looks down upon his natural self, receives no countenance or encouragement from her. In a word, the will and the passion are ever at variance with each other—nature doing all she can to bring forward the latter, and to keep the former aloof. But will is, as we have said, an essential element of the poet's genius; and therefore it must be manifested in spite and defiance of nature. Thus, at his very first step, we find the poet necessarily thwarting and deserting nature.
His next step is to embody his genius in language. But here he finds that, as nature did not provide him with his volition, so now the language of nature will not supply it with a representative. Nature gives a voice merely to the spontaneous feelings, passions, and other instincts of her creatures. But the poet's passions, &c., though real, are not spontaneous, but are got up through the mediation of the will. If, therefore, he were to employ merely natural language, he would leave unexpressed an authentic ingredient of his genius. Therefore he must find, in some way or other, but a voice for this mediation or his will. Since, however, it cannot be represented by natural language, he must invent an exponent of it for himself. Accordingly, he breaks up the language of nature, and when he comes before us in his complete panoply, and in every respect true to his ​calling, we find that he brings with him a new element which he has worked out for himself proprio Marte, and introduced into language as the proper representative of his peculiar power—an element which in all ages has been that in which poets have lived, and breathed, and had their being; we mean the element of metre, an element which, in a language like ours, assumes as its truest and most expressive shape, the form of rhyme.
Metre, therefore, and more particularly and properly rhyme, is introduced into language for the purpose of representing that which ought to pervade and be made visible in all good poetry—the will of the artist. It is used, not because the natural passions and feelings of the human heart are felt and most truly depicted in this form of style, (for this is by no means the case,) but because it brings palpably before us the active power which the artist exercises over these materials. It affords the most striking and definite form in which that active power can be exhibited. But here we must pause, to consider the situation of the reader or hearer. No doubt, at first sight the great and only end of poetry appears to be, to delineate man's passions, feelings, &c., exactly as they exist in nature. At first sight, therefore, the reader, expecting these to be represented identically as they are, and in the very language in which nature would utter them, is naturally revolted by rhyme, regarding it as an element which represents no authentic or even existing constituent in man—an uncalled-for impertinence—an unnecessary irrelevancy—a gratuitous appendage grafted by the artist upon the proper materials of poetry, and having no business there. But this is the case with the reader only at first sight, and when he judges without any degree of reflection. By-and-by he comes to see, that grounded in our very constitution as human beings, there is and ought necessarily to be a great difference between our expression of our own passions, &c., as nature provides us with them, and our expression of the passions, &e., of other men, inasmuch as in the latter case volition must be present, though not in the former; and then he discovers that it is not the end of poetry to represent man's passions and feelings exactly as they are. Because if poetry merely did this, it would omit one of its own proper elements—it would give voice. merely to our own passions as nature supplies them, (an utterance never held to be poetry,) but it would leave unexpressed the volition which always is and must be present when the passions of others are to be depicted. The reader, therefore, is brought to admit that the poet has a real authentic element which he is called upon to represent, besides the more obvious materials of his art—the passions and feelings of human nature—he has, namely, his own will. The reader is further brought, by a very moderate share of reflection, to admit that the language of nature merely enables us to express our instincts, passions, &c., exactly as they are, and that for any thing over and above this, she is dumb: and thereupon he is carried a step still further, namely, to the admission that the artist is not only entitled, but is under a positive obligation, to do violence to the language of nature, in order that he may be enabled to introduce into it a certain kind voice or utterance by which that real and peculiar element of his power—viz. his will may be expressed; and thus the reader is brought to admit that, upon second thoughts, rhyme may be at least tolerated.
But the bargain between the reader and the poet is not yet fairly ratified and brought to a conclusion. The reader has been brought to bear with what originally and naturally repelled him—the rhymes of the artist. But whether he will continue to practise this toleration, and moreover to derive positive gratification from their presence, yet remains to be seen, and depends upon circumstances—which circumstances are, that the rhymes shall be found to represent fairly, faithfully, and completely, that which they were brought forward to represent—namely, the will of the poet. Now, will, unless it exhibit itself in triumph, is not will at all. Will defeated is will nonexistent, and this certainly is not entitled to any representative in language. But we can only determine whether the artist's will has been triumphant or defeated, by looking to its visible exponent—rhyme—and seeing whether this is victorious over the difficulties of its position, or the reverse. If, then, we find any of the other proprieties of language sacrificed on its account, or any unnatural ​arrangement of words laid before us, we immediately hold that the rhyme is miserably beaten; consequently that the artist's will is a baffled nonentity—that the rhyme, instead of standing forth as the representative of his will, victorious in the midst of all obstacles, does, in fact, represent nothing whatsoever; but hangs as a clog upon his composition, lending to it additional disfigurement. In this case the reader is at once off from the bargain. The artist's work is hateful to him, and his rhymes make it only still more detestable.
Woe, therefore, to the poet who, in the exercise of his vocation, invades the sequence in which words naturally arrange themselves in his vernacular tongue, or violates in any other way the correct conversational usages of speech. When we consented to tolerate his rhymes, we understood him to come under a contract to exhibit to us the element for the sake of which we agreed to put up with them. and moreover to exhibit it to us faithfully. But will can only be exhibited to us faithfully, or as a real existence, when we see it exercising a consummate mastery over all its materials, the feelings, the passions, and above all the language of humanity—voluntarily, and for the sake of declaring its own reality, multiplying the difficulties of the latter, and at the same time preserving all its proper usages entire. But now, in perverting the idiom of speech, the artist has broken through this contract. Woe, therefore, to him; for from henceforth he is a literary outcast. Poetry casts him off, and plain prose turns her back upon the rhyming drudge.
On the other hand, whenever we find any real ingredient of humanity fairly and fully represented in language, our gratification is extreme. When, therefore, the artist proves the reality and supremacy of his will, and represents this in true and bright colours, by introducing rhyme into language without violating any correct customary norma loquendi, any rule of pure idiomatic discourse—running along the whole compass of speech—in no respect altering its natural tenor, but tipping its points with emphasis and fire; then, but only then, do we hail his performances with delight. He has now put forward his volition as a real permanent and victorious existence—he has faithfully represented that which, as we have already said, is the differential or peculiar ingredient of poetical genius. Having deserted nature for the purpose of finding an articulate voice for an element not supplied by nature, and for which her language afforded no utterance—to wit, his own will—he has again returned into the bosom nature with his found treasure, (rhyme, namely,) and he will violate her prerogatives no more. On the contrary, glorying and proud in the freedom of his self-imposed fetters, he will prove his mastery over her language by walking in all its usual ordinances more strictly and blamelessly than before. He, and he alone, who conceives his vocation in this spirit, is the true poetical artist. And now we have answered, as far as our present limits permit, the question we have been engaged upon, and have shown how and why rhyme ever comes to give us pleasure.
We must now turn to the translations before us. If tried by the principles we have been contending for, we think that there is hardly a page in any one of them that could for a moment stand—so barbarous and often so ludicrous are the stratagems they play off upon language, and also upon thought, for the sake of hitching in their rhymes. Perhaps we have been uttering hard sayings—perhaps it may be thought that a poetical translation of any work upon the terms we propose, is altogether an impossible achievement. Perhaps it may be; but if it is, then we think it better that there should be no poetical translations, than that they should be obtained at the sacrifice of the conditions we have stated; for, if purchased at this price, they can never be any thing but burdens and encumbrances upon the literature of the country which imports them. To make amends, however, for our strictness on this point, and by way of encouraging future translators of "Faust," or any similar work, we may add, that we are inclined to accord to them much greater latitude in translating than they are generally supposed entitled to exercise. There are occasions upon which they cannot adhere too closely to the text of their author; but in general we should allow them to take what liberties they pleased with his mere words, and to deviate from him as widely as they chose, provided they ​were guilty of no violence towards the idiom of their vernacular tongue, nor towards the spirit of the original work. In most cases, this cannot be brought out in a foreign tongue, without an entire abandonment of the words from which the translation is made. Therefore, we confess that in general we are no sticklers for literal faithfulness of interpretation, and beg to remind those who are, that their translations, like copies of a marble inscription taken in clay, may be extremely and even curiously faithful, while they yet exactly reverse every character of the original.
Closing these observations upon the necessity under which we think a translator lies, of being more than usually strict in his adherence to the idiom, the simplicity, and the ordinary conversational arrangement of his vernacular tongue, particularly when his work has to be executed in rhyme, we now proceed to illustrate our remarks, and to comment practically upon specimens extracted from the translations before us.
Although not in our list, we shall commence with Shelley, both on account of his greater poetical reputation, and because he was the first who led the way by translating certain portions of this drama. We quote his version of the ode chanted by the three archangels in the opening scene—a composition which, in the original, appears to us to be one of the most sublime strains that ever fell from the lips or the pen of a mortal man. The reader is probably aware that, in imitation of the opening scene in Job, the prologue of Faust is transacted in heaven. All the heavenly host are present—the three archangels come forward:—
RAPHAEL.
The sun makes music as of old Amid the rival spheres of heaven, On its predestined circle roll'd. With thunder speed—the angels even Draw strength from gazing on its glance, Though none its meaning fathom may. The world's unwither'd countenance Is bright as at creation's day.
GABRIEL.
And swift, and swift with rapid lightness
The adorned earth spins silently, Alternating Elysian brightness
With deep and dreadful night;—the sea Foams in broad billows from the deep
Up to the rocks, and rocks and ocean Onward, with spheres which never sleep, Are hurried in eternal motion.
MICHAEL.
And tempests in contention roar
From land to sea, from sea to land,
And raging weave a chain of power
Which girds the earth as with a band. A flaming desolation there
Flames before the thunder's way: But thy servants, Lord! revere
The gentle changes of thy day.
In this translation various dramatic proprieties belonging to the situation of the speakers are found to be violated. Let us observe what this situation is. The archangels must be supposed to be standing on some sort of aërial platform in the skies, and are contemplating from afar the rolling magnificence of worlds. They then commence to describe not simply what they know to be the case, but what is actually passing before their eyes. All their remarks are uttered δεικτικως, that is, in a dramatically demonstrative manner. With regard, then, to Raphael's first observation, that "the sun makes music,"—or, as it would be better and more literally rendered, "sounds"—we remark that this is a very feeble and essentially undramatic manner of conveying what he really says. He does not merely mean to state the abstract fact, that the sun as "makes music" or "sounds," but he breaks forth with an emphatic declaration of what he hears and sees actually taking place at that very time; namely, that the sun is sounding, or (if it must be so expressed) "is making music." In the German language this form of expression is never used; but we, who have it, ought always to employ it when we are describing an event actually transacting before our eyes; for the dramatic effect of our description wholly depends upon its use. Other instances of this fault may be observed running through the whole version; but we need not particularise them further. In the fourth line, we think that "thunder speed" is wrong. Speed is not intended to be alluded to at all in this stanza; it is reserved as the predominant characteristic of the next. In Raphael's strain, the feeling ​meant to be conveyed is that of abiding beauty, and calm, unintermitting power. "Thunder strength" would be better. In the same line (to say nothing of the marring of the versification, which ought to have been fully closed at the end of it, and not broken in the middle) the interpolation of the word even (for which there is no countenance in the original) would of itself, be sufficient to sink the whole version down into Tartarus, even though the rest of it were really steeped in the richest melody that ever flowed from angelic lips. "Though none its meaning fathom may," is an inversion of ordinary syntax which we cannot bring ourselves to consider allowable. However, "the world's unwithered countenance is bright as at (on?) creation's day," fully makes amends for it, and strikes us as extremely beautiful, though very different from the words of the original. By "the world," however, we must understand not the earth merely, but, as the original has it, all "the inconceivably high works" of God.
In the second stanza, Gabriel takes up the note which Raphael had struck, and proceeds to describe his impressions of the gigantic ongoings of the universe. As Raphael had called attention principally to the sun, and made the feeling of serene power the predominant feature of his song; so now Gabriel singles out the earth as the great object of his description, and makes the feeling of unimaginable swiftness the ruling affection of our souls. In the original description before us, we wish to point out one image in particular—in our opinion a very important and picturesque one—which has never yet been brought out, or apparently even seen by any translator. It is contained in the third and fourth lines—lines which, though faithful enough in Shelley's version to the original, as far as the mere words are concerned, by no means body forth or give any sort of colour to the picture spoken of.
"Alternating Elysian brightness With deep and dreadful night."
Surely this cannot merely mean that our earth is visited alternately by day and by night. The statement of such a truism would be unworthy of any great poet. What more, then, than this is contained or depicted in the original words? Reader! you shall see. Just suppose yourself standing on the point of view from which Gabriel is looking, that the sun is shining in all his glory, and that the earth, at a great distance, is whirling along before your eye with inconceivable velocity—what image would you behold?—what would first and chiefly catch your vision in its contemplation of the revolving earth? Would it not be her dark or unsunned side flashing round every moment into the light, and every moment whirling again as fast round into the shade? This, to us who dwell in mansions of clay, constitutes day and night—a tardy revolution of four-and-twenty hours; but to angel eyes how different! To them, looking forth upon the racing spheres, the day of the dwindled earth is but a momentary flash, and its night is but a momentary shade. Depend upon it, that is the picture which Goethe intended to represent, and which in fact he does most vividly portray, if his translators had but had eyes to see it; and is it not sublime?
In the third stanza, the feeling intended to be conveyed appears to be that of impetuous violence, lulled at last, and subsiding into perfect peace—a feeling, however, which is marred by a blunder all the translators are guilty of, with the exception of Lord Gower and Mr Hayward, who, if we may judge from a note in his ​admirable prose translation, appears to see the matter in its true light, although we think he ought to have brought out the right meaning more explicitly in his text. This error consists in understanding the words "thy servants," in the last line but one, to apply to the angels of the Lord, instead of referring them to his thunder and lightnings, spoken of in the immediately preceding lines. Shelley, and all the translators, (except the two above mentioned,) so understand the passage. Yet what sense, what connexion of thought, can there be in saying "Yonder," that is, upon earth, "blasting lightnings are flaming before the path of the thunderbolt; yet we thy servants, O Lord! revere the placid going of thy day?" Why yet? Can any body doubt but that this is the sense of the passage: "Yonder, &c.; yet these," (that is, thunder and lightning,} "thy messengers, disarmed of their fury in thy presence, O Lord! revere the placid going of thy day?" Understood thus, the stanza becomes admirable; understood in the other way, it stands meaningless and incoherent. In the Bible, which Goethe was profoundly versed in, thunder and lightning are constantly alluded to as the "messengers of the Lord!"
Dr Anster enjoys, we believe, considerable reputation as a translator of "Faust." His translation is certainly very far indeed from being the worst before us: his blank verse, as we said before, is frequently excellent; and we have great respect for his general power. But we must now subject his version of this ode to the test of our criticism. It runs as follows:—
RAPHAEL.
The sun, as in the ancient days,
'Mong sister spheres in rival song
His destined path observes—obeys,
and still in thunder rolls along. New strength and full beatitude
The angels gather from his sight. Mysterious all; yet all is good,
All fair as at the birth of light. .
GABRIEL.
Swift, unimaginably swift,
Soft spins the earth; and glories bright Of mid-day Eden change and shift To shades of deep and spectral night. The vex'd sea foams—waves leap and moan And chide the rocks with insult hoarse; And wave and rock are hurried on,
And suns and stars, in endless course.
MICHAEL.
And winds with winds mad war maintain From sea to land, from land to sea, And heave round earth a living chain
or interwoven agency,—
Guides of the bursting thunder-peal.
Fast lightnings flash with deadly ray,
While, Lord! with thee thy servants feel
Calm effluence of abiding day.
The grand characteristic of this ode in the original is, that each lineament in it is cut clean at one blow, and requires no second application of the chisel. Its style is most peremptory; and there is not one superfluous word in it: every syllable tells like a hammer; and every single stroke sends its nail home into the soul. In Dr Anster's translation, however, we observe a good deal of indecision, and an inability to hit the nail fair upon the head. For instance, in the repetition "observes—obeys," he makes two hits at the sun, endeavouring to describe what he is about; and in both cases, we are sorry to say, he entirely misses his aim. We are sure he must feel that in a composition like this, if once saying a thing won't settle its business, still less will it be settled by being said twice or a hundred times. The same observation applies to "new strength and full beatitude." The strength of the unfallen angels is ​beatitude, and therefore It is tautological to talk of both. In this fifth line, therefore, we would retrench every word except the word "strength:" all the rest is "leather and prunella." So is "yet all is good" in the next line. And here, we again ask, why that unhappy qualification "yet?" If it has any significance at all, the word must be used for the purpose of disarming suspicion. The most favourable supposition we can make for the translator is, that when he called the works of God "mysterious all," it immediately occurred to him that they would be suspected of being not good. He therefore begs to assure us that, notwithstanding their mysteriousness, they are good; otherwise the word yet can have no meaning whatsoever. "They are mysterious," says he; yet, trust me, they are good." Now, if no such suspicions ever entered our minds, (as they certainly never did, being indeed quite at variance with the feeling inspired by the strain,) this attempt to allay them must be deemed a very superfluous undertaking, and one which greatly disfigures the character of the verses.
The same want of decision is still more apparent in the second stanza.—"Change and shift." Why say the same thing twice over, in a composition, the great beauty of which, in point of style, results from the severe parsimony of its words? But this is nothing to what takes place in the next two lines—"The vex'd sea foams"—that is the thing said once;—"waves leap and moan"—well, that is the same thing said twice, if not three times. Surely it won't be repeated: yes, here it is again—"and chide the rocks"—that is four times: there is an end of it now, we hope—no, it returns upon us again for the fifth time; they (the waves) do this "with insult hoarse." How intolerably this retards the fervour of the verse, which ought almost to make the brain whirl with its rapidity! We beg moreover, to remark, that the use of the words "chide" and "insult," in this passage, affords a striking illustration of what Wordsworth calls "the language of passion wrested from its proper use, and, from the mere circumstance of the composition being in metre," (this is the thing we were condemning a little while back,) applied upon an occasion which does not justify such expressions." Neither are these expressions in any degree justified by the original text; indeed, we should as soon expect to see bramble-berries growing on peach trees, as such vicious poetic diction sprouting from any of the shoots of Goethe's genius.
In the third stanza, the expression "heave round earth" appears to us to be a very sluggish and cumbrous mode of depicting the activity every where propagated, "when the stormy winds do blow." "With deadly ray," is very schoolboyish. In the two last lines, the reader will see the blunder we have already pointed out, committed: the words "thy servants," namely, understood in reference to themselves—the angels, and not in reference to the "thunder-peal" and "fast lightnings," as they ought to be.
We are anxious to exhibit specimens of all the translations of this ode; but as we can only afford space for a stanza a-piece, we shall yoke three mortals together, and make them chant in turn this strain of the immortals. The first archangel in our leash shall be
RAPHAEL SYME.
"The Sun, along the void of space,
Is sounding with its brother spheres,
And rolls on his predestined race
At thunder-speed: his aspect cheers
The angels, though none understand What his mysterious music says.
The works of the Creator's hand
Are fresh as in creation's days.
THE HON. GABRIEL TALBOT.
Swift, swift beyond all thought, still flies
Earth, with its pomp, its orbit round;
Robed in the light of Paradise,
Altern with night's dread shades profound!
With its broad surge the foaming deep
To lash the sea-cliff's base appears;
While rock and billow onward sweep
In forced rotation, with the spheres!
MICHAEL BIRCH.
And storms and opposition raging,
From seas o'er land—from land o'er ocean,
In conflict mad engaging,
Build deep-laid barriers by their motion.
Now the destroying lightning's vivid flame
Foreruns the awful thunder's roar;
Yet, Lord! thy messengers proclaim thy name,
And the calm tenure of 'thy day' adore.
In the stanza sung by the first of our trio, the expression "along the void ​of space" is a very unnecessary interpolation of the translator. "Though none understand what his mysterious music says"—a specific construction is here put upon the words of the original, which we do not think they will bear. It is not the sun's music merely that the angels are unable to fathom: it is himself and all his wondrous ways.
In the Honourable Mr Talbot's stanza there is not much to applaud; but where can words be found strong enough to condemn the verse in which this expression appears?
"The foaming deep To lash the sea-cliffs' base appears."
Appears to lash!!—why, it does lash these same foundation-rocks with a force which, unless they had been rooted to the centre, would long ago have knocked them off their legs.
We now make our bow to our third archangel, Mr Birch. Who this gentleman is, we know not; but if he should take umbrage at our having placed him at the head of his stanza as Michael Birch, we beg to refer him to his own pompous preface, from which it appears that be himself has indulged in far more extravagant liberties with the name "his godfathers and godmothers" gave him, than any that we, even in our wildest imaginations, could ever have dreamt of taking. "That my proper name," (says he, p. 10,) "is unknown to the literary world; is true; yet have two of the productions of my pen passed the ordeal of criticism, and received the reviewer's meed of praise; namely, my 'Fifty-one original Fables and Morals,' published five years ago as written by Job Crithannah; and my recently published 'Divine Emblems,' as by Johann Abricht, both being anagrams of my proper name." The capitals are his own. Now, if Mr Birch prefers the name of Job Crithannah to that of the archangel Michael, we will not quarrel with him about it. De gustibus, &c., only to our ears the latter sounds rather more euphonious.
It was not without a profound weighing of the subject, that Job Crithannah undertook and went through with his translation of "Faust." Various friends appear to have tried to dissuade him from publishing his version, it being, they thought, an article of which "there was no want." But Job was not so to be done. His only fear, he tells us, was, "lest I should be charged with presumption or affectation in so closely imitating Goethe;" and accordingly he listened to the remonstrances of his friends "with feelings something akin to pity towards such persons."—(Preface, p. 9.) It Job Crithannah is guilty of no presumption or affectation, except that of "closely imitating Goethe," we beg to assure him that he must be about the most unpresumptuous and unaffected individual now alive. He informs us that in early life he was partially acquainted with "Faust;" but that about three years ago it again fell in his way. "I gave it much attention," says he, "and was rewarded by astounding delight." With regard to his own translation he speaks thus. "I have proposed to myself to give the meaning of my author fully, neither skipping over, nor avowedly leaving out any part; but studiously masking such passages as might be considered objectionable to delicacy—to give it in poetry line for line, and literally, where the genius of the two languages admitted of such closeness; for if too verbally given, Goethe becomes increasingly obscure, and his beauties remain undeveloped. I have, therefore, considered it better on such occasions to give a good liberal English equivalent rather than a cramped verbality, so that the verse might flow, [italics in original,] without which no poetical version could ever become agreeable to the English reader, or approach to a display of Goethe's versification. In fact, a spirited translation, palpable, interesting, and pleasing, from its euphony, to the Englishman; and satisfactory to the German scholar from its correctness."
Here Job Crithannah promises well, but we much doubt whether, even with the assistance of Johann Abricht, he will be found able to make good his word. Let as examine the short sample of his performance which we have quoted. In the second line, literally, "from sea to land, from land to sea,"—the whole beauty of which verse depends upon the second clause being made to play back in totidem verbis, upon the first,—he has ​thought proper to vary the expression, and gives us "from seas o'er land, from land o'er ocean," probably for the purpose of showing his great command of language. But we cannot help thinking that his alteration entirely ruins the effect or the line. "In conflict mad engaging." In reading this we feel as if we were setting our foot on a bit of rotten scaffolding, and accordingly withdraw it as quickly as possible, and leap on to the next. But what "deep-laid barriers built by the motions of the storm" may be, is more than we can tell. The original informs us that the restless agency of storms has the greatest possible effect in quickening and forwarding the operations of nature, namely, vegetation and so forth; and there is some sense in that; but in this translation of the passage, there is none. In the last line, the word "tenure" is evidently a mistake for "tenor;" the former signifying the condition upon which any thing is held, the latter its course or going.
Such is the manner in which Mr Crithannah "closely imitates Goethe," "approaches to a display of his versification," and steers clear of "a cramped verbality." Although mere critics, we think we could do the thing better ourselves, and shall accordingly make the attempt, although in trying to cope with the original, we confess we feel somewhat in the predicament of a pigmy endeavouring to clap the head of a giant.
RAPHAEL.
The sun is, yonder, leading loud The concert of the starry crowd,
And, with a tread of thunder-force,
Fulfilling his appointed course.
The angels gather, while they gaze,
His strength but fathom not his ways,—
There's not one trait of glory dimm'd Since first creations birth was hymned.
GABRIEL.
And earth in rapid, rapid flight
Is whirling round,—you, yonder, mark Her dark side flashing into light,
And, in a moment, round to dark,
The sea is yonder raving hoarse,
The rocks are yonder standing fast,
And sea and rocks, in endless course,
'Mid racing spheres, are tearing past.
MICHAEL.
And, yonder, storms and rising wrath
Are sweeping seas, and sweeping shores,
Dispersing powers along their path,
That quicken her through all her pores.
Thunder is rending yonder sky,
And lightning wasting yonder clime,
But here, they lay their terrors by,
And reverence the holy time.
This strain being finished, the drama commences. The parallel between it in the opening scene in Job (not Crithannah), is still carried on. Mephistopheles comes forward and addresses the Deity, who after some colloquy, asks him "do you know Faust?" Now in giving the devil's answer to this question, and the counter-answer which he receives, we perceive that all the translators (Mr. Hayward not excepted) have entirely missed the point and spirit of the dialogue. When the Deity asks "Do you know Faust?"—The translators make Mephistopheles rejoin,—"do you mean Dr. Faust?"—as if he required information, as not being sure of what some other Faust might be meant, and to this the deity is made to reply, "Yes—my servant. Do you know him?"
But in our opinion something far more dramatic and effective than this is conveyed in the original. In answer to the Deity's question, Mephistopheles replies, not inquiringly, but sarcastically, "Oh! you mean the Doctor?"—giving him his nickname in a tone of the bitterest scoffing, which irreverence is immediately and sternly put down by the way the weighty rebuke, "Meinen knecht,—that is, He is my servant, mark you, and must, therefore, be spoken of with respect." It is exactly as if one person were to say to another, "Do you know Maginn?" and that other were to rejoin,—"Oh! To be sure who does not know 'the Doctor'?"
And were immediately to meet with this rebuff from the first speaker—"I beg you to understand, sir, that he is my most particular friend, and therefore I cannot submit to hear him call disrespectful nicknames." We hope that, in the next translation of Faust we may see this matter rectified by the light we have here hung out.
The aspiring nature of Faust desires, and the fruitless notice of his endeavors to get them gratified our next described by Mephistopheles, whose language is thus interpreted. We quote from Mr. Blackie's translation.
"His food and drink are of no earthly taste,
His restless spirit drives him to the waste,
His madness he himself half understand;
The loveliest stars from heaven he demands,
And every highest joy that earth commands;
And all that's near and all that's far,
Sooths not his deep-moved spirit's war."
The original of these lines merely informs us that "Faust's food and drink are not earthly;" but the translator adds that they are of no earthly taste." Now, this is either a desertion of correct colloquial language, or else it signifies that they are of no taste whatsoever—and idiom certainly in common use, and which may be exemplified by our saying, that the reward is no earthly occasion for the present amendment, meaning thereby that there is no occasion whatsoever for it. But this latter interpretation is certainly not what the translator intends us to adopt, and therefore we must pronounce him guilty of employing language not really used by men; or rather (which is worse) of expressing himself in language really used by men when they would denote something different from that which is here intended to be said. "His restless spirit drives him to the waste." This line denotes exactly the opposite of what it ought to express. The true meaning is, that his restless spirit drives him away from the waste, (that is, the waste region in which he feels himself to be,) into the distant or the remote, which he contemplates as presenting scenes far more delightful, and as shining with all the verdure of paradise.
"Demands" and "commands," is no rhyme at all; and the word "war," in the last line is, if we may say so, too much of one, for we certainly should not have met with it here unless it the word "far" had stood immediately over its head. As it is, the line would be much better without it. In a general point of view we think the whole passage too cumbrous and over-loaded, and that it should have come off more lightly, somewhat in this fashion—Mephistopheles loquitur:—
"As if no common human cheer Were good enough for him to sup,
He strives to pour the far and near Into one devouring cup,
Would drink the stars, in his career,
And earth, with all her pleasures, up.
And yet—poor fool! Do all he will,
'Tis vain,—he cannot get his fill,
He cannot make his heart be still."
Mephistopheles then asks and obtains permission to tempt, and, if he can, to mislead Faust; in short, to work his will upon him, and we are informed of the plan he intends to pursue, in words to the following effect:—
"Like the famous old snake, my next of kin,
He shall feed on dust,
With devouring lust,
Headlong in hasty,
For all make it tasty With all the relishing smack of sin."
And this brings us to the main body of the work, in which the designs of Mephistopheles are put in execution.
The character of Faust has been greatly canvassed, both in this country and in Germany; about as much, perhaps, as that of our own Hamlet. We do not think, therefore, that we have much to add to what has already been said upon the subject. One opinion, however, (that of the late Mr Coleridge, a great authority on such a subject,) we must take this opportunity of dissenting from. Mr Coleridge thought Faust "a failure," (vide Quarterly Review, vol. lii. p. 21.) His reasons for this conclusion are thus stated. "He" (Mr C.) "considered the intended theme to be, the consequences of a misology, or hatred and depreciation of knowledge, caused by an originally intense thirst for knowledge baffled. But a love of knowledge for itself, and for pure ends, would never produce such a misology; but only a love of it for base and unworthy purposes."
Now, with great deference we hold, in opposition to this doctrine, that purity or impurity of ends has nothing whatever to do with the matter; but that what lies at the basis of the conception of Faust, and affords a sufficient reason" for his misology, is precisely what is here objected to; namely, his love of knowledge for itself—and this baffled. The love of knowledge for some object out of itself—this, and this alone saves most of the world from being plunged into such a misology as his. If mankind were to indulge in a love of knowledge for itself alone, the world would very soon be peopled with Fausts. Such a love of knowledge exercises itself in speculation merely, and not in action; and if the experience is a purely speculative men were gathered, we think that most of them would be found to ​confess, bitterly confess, that indulgence is abstract reflective thinking, (whatever effect it may have ultimately upon their nobler genius, supposing them to have one,) in the mean time absolutely kills, or appears to kill, all the minor faculties of the soul—all the lesser genial powers, upon the exercise of which the greater part of human happiness depends. They would own, not without remorse, that pure speculation—that is knowledge pursued for itself alone—has often been tasted by them to be, as Coleridge elsewhere says, the bitterest and rottenest part of the core of the fruit of the forbidden tree. They would confess that they have at times felt philosophic reflection to be nothing less than an absolute refusal, on their parts, to exercise their talents in the manner in which God Almighty intended them to be exercised. Feeling thus, and at the same time baffled in their pursuit, it is no wonder that they should frequently become misologists, and precisely in this predicament, and feeling habitually thus, stands the Faust before us as the true representative of the class of thinkers we are speaking of. If he had loved knowledge for any end but knowledge—if he had loved it for the sake of wealth, for the sake of station, for the sake of power, he would have escaped all this—but loving it for no end but itself alone, it has brought him into his present troubles—it is but human nature that it should have done so—it has filled him with indignation and remorse; and now, as the devil's prey, he is ready to rush into what he conceives to be the very opposite extreme.
His soliloquy at the opening of the drama affords, we think, the best key to his feelings, character, and position; and therefore we shall quote a large portion of it from the translators before us, commenting on their execution of the passage. Our first extract shall be from Dr Anster.
Time.— Night.
Scene —A high-arched narrow Gothic chamber.
Faust at his desk—restless.
Faust.
Alas! I have explored Philosophy in 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!
Here am I—boast and wonder of the school;
Magister, Doctor, and I lead These ten years past my pupils' creed;
Winding, by dext'rous words, with ease,
Their opinions as I please.
And now to feel that nothing can be known!
This is a thought which burns and to my heart.
I have been more acute than all these triflers,
Doctors and authors. Priests, philosophers;
Have sounded all the depths of every science.
Scruples and the perplexity of doubt,
Torment me not, nor fear of hell or devil;
But I have lost all peace of mind:
Whate'er I knew, or thought I knew,
Seems now unmeaning or untrue.
Unhappy, ignorant, and blind,
I cannot hope to teach mankind;—
Thus robb'd of learning's only pleasure Without dominion, rank, or treasure,
Without one joy that earth can give,
Could dog—were I a dog—so live?
Therefore to magic, with severe And patient toil, have I applied,
Despairing of all other guide,
That from some spirit I might hear
Deep truths to others unreveal'd,
And mysteries from mankind seal'd;
And never more, with shame of heart,
Teach things of which I know no part.
Oh! for a glance into the earth!
To see below its dark foundations,
Life's embryo seeds before their birth
And Nature's silent operations— Thus end at once this vexing fever Of words—mere words—repeated ever.
This translation gets over the ground like a wounded tortoise. After reading it, we think it would have been impossible for words to have represented more faintly and feebly the fretful fire, that, in the original passage, leaks out in living jets from Faust's bosom;—his sense of labour thrown away—his indignation—his irony—and his despair. It contains all the vices of language we were contending against at the beginning of this article, and which may be enumerated in a very few words, when we say that no man in Faust's situation would naturally speak so. If the words printed in italics, in the third and fourth lines, were left out, the sense would be as well, if not better, given. "Here am I—boast and wonder of the school—Magister, Doctor." This is very far from depicting the bitter irony with which Faust is here contemplating his magisterial and doctorial honours. Mr. Anster is a " ​doctor" himself—an LL.D., and therefore, perhaps, he could hardly have been expected to enter completely, or at least con amore, into the spirit of Faust's cruel sarcasm. But the following, we can assure him, is what Faust intends to express—"Here am I," says he, "classed with 'masters,' and such scum," (heisse doctor gar,) "and yea with 'doctors' by my soul!"—as if human degradation could not possibly sink lower. To "lead" a person's creed, is hardly an allowable expression the right word as "to shape." Besides, if used at all, the expression should have been "I have led." Then in the translation a little further down, where Faust says, "I have been more acute than all these triflers," &c., the spirit of the original entirely evaporates. As in the preceding lines we found him ironically classing himself with the doctors of the schools, so here he ought to have been exhibited to us seriously and vehemently asserting his real superiority, and bursting high above them in the native and indignant energy of his soul. "Could dog (were I a dog) so live?" We ask, would any man, even in his most doggish mood, when speaking to himself, have naturally interpolated such a parenthesis as that? Would he not simply have said, as the original says, "not even a dog would endure the life that I am leading?" But we shall make no more remarks upon these lines, as we intend, by and by, to endeavour to illustrate our notion of their spirit by trying our own hand upon the passage, and shall thus give Dr Anster and others an opportunity of retaliating, which we fear they will be at no loss to do, if they choose to take the trouble, as we all know that practice is very different from theory, and that to preach is one thing, and to perform another. In the mean time we continue the passage, quoting from Mr Birch:—
"Oh! that thy beams, fair moon, did take a peep For the last time on my sorrow's deep.
Oft at this desk I have quail'd my brain.
The midnight through—but quail'd in vain— When o'er my books and papers thou
Would'st show thy pensive friendly brow.
Oh! that I might but calmly tread In thy pure light the mountain's head.
Round mountain-caves with spirits glide,
Or float o'er fields in thy waning tide,
From all my knowledge qualms befreed,
Bathe in thy dew—and feel relieved."
We need not waste our own time or the reader's, by pausing to criticise such stuff as this. Let us take a peep into some of the other translations. We carry on Faust's soliloquy from the Hon. Mr Talbot's version:—
"Oh! am I to this dungeon still confined,
This cursed dismal hole, alas,
Where cheerful daylight scarce can find A passage through the painted glass!
Hemm'd in by books on every side,
Which dust begrimes, and worms devour,
Which, wrapp'd in smoke-stained paper, tower,
Up to the roof in dingy pride!
These tools—these phials—boxes without number— This heir-loom trash, and other useless lumber,
In careless heaps together hurl'd— This is thy world—oh, to call this a world!
There is no fair rhyme in the iteration "confined" and "find"—"worms devour" is a thousand degrees too strong, and dose not express the way in which these reptiles perpetrate their depredations upon libraries. We think we see them crunching the boards, bolting the bindings, and growling over their prey. "Which, wrapped in smoke-stained paper, tower up to the roof in dingy pride." The books were not wrapped in smoke-stained paper; the paper was simply that with which the walls of his den were papered. The word "tower" appears to us to be an overcharged expression here, Faust feeling nothing but the crampness of his situation; but a still stronger illustration of vicious poetic diction is presented to our notice in the word "pride." This, it ever there was one, is an instance of language wrested from its proper use; a word denoting a passion of the soul employed to characterise a set of book-shelves! Conceive how the expression would look in German, (in dunkelm Stolze,) or in any other language. "Hurl'd" is generally an unhappy word in poetry, and seldom ​answers any good purpose, as far as we have ever seen, except that of rhyming with "world." Mr. Blackie must now favour as with a sample and continuation of the passage.
"And ask I still why thrills my heart
With timid beatings and oppress'd?
And why some secret unknown smart Chills every life-pulse in my breast?
'Stead of the living of Nature,
Where man was placed by his Creator,
Surrounds the moldering dust alone,
The grinning skull and skeleton."
We beg to assure our Southron readers, that, whatever may be the custom in some parts of Scotland, the practice of pronouncing "nature" in such a way as to make it chime symphoniously with "creator," is by no means universal in that country. Carrying on the same passage, let us give Dr. Anster another trial.
"Away, away, and far away!
This book, where secret spells are scann'd,
Traced by Nostradam's own hand
Will be thy strength and stay:
The courses of the stars to thee
No longer are a mystery;
The thoughts of nature thou canst seek,
As spirits with their brothers speak.
It is—it is the sunrise hour Of thy own being; light, and power,
And fervour to the soul are given,
As proudly it ascends to heaven.
To ponder here o'er spells and signs,
Symbolic letters, circles, lines;
And from their actual use refrain,
Were time and labour lost in vain.
Then ye whom I feel floating near me,
Spirits, answer, ye who hear me!
"Where secret spells are scann'd." This is an interpolation of the translator, and we think a very unnecessary one. It was quite enough to mention that the book was by Nostradamus—upon that every one must have known that it contained magic "secret spells," and all that sort of thing. It is out of keeping with the character of Faust to make him more minute than this. Besides, the word "scann'd" is another of those that we never yet found answering any good purpose in poetry, and simply because no man ever seriously made use of it in actual life. "To ponder here, &c., were time and labour lost." Here the translator should have stopped, and not added, "in vain." Labour lost is labour lost; but "labour lost in vain," must be labour which the workman has been unsuccessful in losing, and must therefore be labour not lost, or, in other words, must be labour gained, and therefore the translator here says exactly the reverse of what he intends to say.
We will conclude our selections for the present by extracting a few more lines from Mr Birch's translation, it being the latest that has come to hand. After giving vent to what has just been uttered by Dr Anster, Faust throws open the book, and contemplates the sign of the Macrocosm: he proceeds:—
"What rapture flows at this first glance, !
Through all my sense—all my reins!
I feel youth's hallow'd high-day trance Re-glow throughout my nerves and veins, &c.
I comprehend at length the saying of the seer,—
The world of spirits is not lock'd,
Thy mind is shut, thy heart is dead.
Up, scholar, up! and bathe unshock'd Thy earthly bosom in the morning's red!' "
"And bathe unshock'd." We confess we have met with nothing in all these translations which has shocked us more than this rhyme. We were hardly prepared for it, even by Mr Talbot's version of the same passage, although we own he had done much to caseharden us. Let us remark in passing that we hardly think it would be safe for any reader to begin the study of these translations, suddenly, with Mr Birch. It would be too much for his nerves, just as it would be too severe upon him to subject him to a shower bath of cold spring water on this, the 14th day of January, unless he were accustomed to it. But let him gradually inure himself, and fortify his habit by commencing with Lord Gower or Dr Anster, and proceeding on through the others; and there is no saying but what he may bring himself in time to stand even Job Crithannah. Here, for example, in the present instance, Mr Talbot is good enough to come forward and give us the thing comparatively tepid:—
"The realm of spirits is never barr'd,
'Tis thy soul that is fetter'd—thy heart that is dead!
Then up, my disciple, and bathe, unscared,
Thy earthly breast in the morning's red!"
What does the reader imagine the original word means, which one of these translators interprets into "unshocked, and the other into " ​unscared?" It simply means "indefatigably" or "assiduously;" but neither of these words could be made to rhyme to "locked" or to "barred." Similar monstrosities are to be met with in almost every page of most of these translations. Here is one. Faust—gazing upon certain visions, is made to exclaim—
Oh, what a sight! yet 'tis but the eyeball's lure, Where shall I clutch thee—illimitable nature? Birch, p. 28.
Here is a still better one. When Wagner knocks at the door. Faust exclaims—
Alas! that the fullness of the flame-clad vision,
Should thwarted be by the sapless sneaker's intercision.
Birch, p. 31.
If Paul Pry, instead of saying, "I hope I don't intrude," had come forward, saying, "I hope I don't intercide," we wonder what his success would have been before a London audience. What could have tempted Mr Blackie on one occasion to put these words into Faust's mouth addressing Mephistopheles:—
There is the window—'twere no mighty matter,
For one like you adown the wall to clatter.
But there would be no end to it if we were to on extracting (tender dentist) such carious specimens as these. Verily, much requires to be done before the English public can know any thing at all about the veritable Faust. We do not pretend to be able to "imitate Goethe closely;" but, in our humble opinion, the following version of the opening soliloquy is more like the original than some of the samples we have given.
Faust.
All that philosophy can teach,
All that that theology can preach.
The lore of lawyer and of leech,
Is mine—and now my curse on each!
For here I stand, when all is o'er,
No whit wiser than before,
A fool whose life has flow'd amiss;
Though one thing, to be sure, my lore
Has done for me, and it is this,
I'm class'd with 'masters' and such scum,
And yea, with 'doctors,' by my soul!
And like them I have become A plodding pedant of the schools,
Into every musty hole,
And up and down through mazes vile,
Leading flocks of docile fools,
And seeing plainly, all the while.
That wisdom will not thus be caught,
That, in his present plight, a man May strive, but as for knowing aught,
That he neither does nor can.
'Tis true I'm of another stamp Than those who make the schools their camp,
Doubts and scruples never cramp My soul that soars from weakness free,
And hell is terrorless to me,
But, for this very cause, my lamp Of joy is sunk as in the sea.
I feel the simplest matter lies Beyond my understanding's reach;
I have no hope that man will rise To virtue, or become more wise By any lesson I can teach.
Then I have neither pelf nor place.
Nor station's claims, nor glory's race,
What dog, with any spark of grace,
Would deign to live in such a case?
Therefore to magic I have flung
My being in despairing hours,
To try if truth may not be wrung From the lips of spirit-powers,
And myself spared the labour vain,
The forehead wet
With bitter sweat,
When teaching what I can't explain;
That I may view the secret rings Whose grasp the universe engirds,
May know the force that works in things,
Not the mere sound that breathes in words.
Oh! Would, fair moon! that thou wert shining— The last time shining on my woes.
How oft I've waited here, repining
Till thy face of beauty rose:
And when my papers and my books
From thoughts of thee perchance had won me,
Then would thy pure and peaceful looks
Be lifted suddenly upon me.
While sorrow seem'd to thee to lend
The expression of a tender friend,
Whose aspect doubts if all be right.
Oh! would that I, o'er mountain height.
Might wander in thy blessed light,
Float across, on spirit-sails,
The luminous and gulfy vales,
Weave my being in thy beams,
Which, with dark and lustrous gleams,
Kiss the placid meadow-streams,
And, bathing in thy dewy springs,
Wash out the curse which knowledge brings.
I had forgotten where I stood,
But thy walls, thou dungeon-hole,
Awake me to a sob'rer mood,
And I curse thee from my soul!
Here, day and night, I sit begirt
By heaps of literary dirt Which worms begnaw and smoke bestains,
And waste away my baffled brains— Here where God's very light comes hurt
And sadden'd through the painted panes— Boxes stuff'd with stones and grasses,
Bottles fill'd with chemic juices.
Foul abortions cramm'd in glasses,
Instruments for which no use is,
Ancestral lumber rare and fine,
Litter'd round in brave neglect— These form the world which I call "mine,"
And does it not command respect!
But does my serious heart confess
The sense that something is amiss,
The weight of an obscure distress
That checks her health :—my answer's this,
That man by God is ever told
To lead the life that nature owns;
But here art thou 'mid smoke and mould,
Beasts' skeletons, and dead men's bones.
Up into wider spheres, my soul,
And cast these dismal wrecks aside,
And there unrol this mystic scroll
of Nostradamus for a guide:
It shall spread out thine eyes afar
Through all the boundlessness of space And make thee see how star on star
In millions weave their order'd race.
And when thou once hast got the sign
Which only nature's lips can teach,
Which barren sense in vain would reach,
The spirit-power shall then be thine,
And thine shall be the spirit-speech.
Ye guardians of the mystic token,
Make answer when the spell is spoken.
[He throws the book open, and gazes
on the sign of the Macrocosm.
Ha! how my bosom drinks the flood
or rapture circling there,
My blood grows calm as infant's blood,
My breath as infant's prayer,
I feel such promises as bud
When spring is in the air.
Was it a god who framed the spell
That bids my troubles cease,
And turns my heart into a well
Of happiness and peace?
Am I a god? I'm fill'd with grace,
I've got within the inner shrine,
The veil is up from nature's face,
And all her mysteries are mine.
I fathom now, and read aright
The necromancer's words of might :—
"A spirit-world encircles thee,
The Genii have not fled,
Thine is the eye that will not see,
And thine the heart that's dead.
Would'st thou be taught to disabuse The heart that's dead, the eye that's dim,
Then rise when first the sun renews
His course above the ocean's brim,
And bathe thy breast in ruddy dews
That drip from off his mighty rim."
[He continues gazing intently on the sign
In continuation of Faust's soliloquy, we here draw upon Dr Anster for a passage, which, we rejoice to say, commands our most unqualified praise and admiration. O, si sic omnia! We candidly confess it is far beyond any thing to which our powers are competent in dealing with the same passage. Faust resumes:—
Oh! how the spell before my sight
Brings nature's hidden ways to light:
See all things with each other blending
Each to all its being lending,
All on each in turn depending— Heavenly ministers descending,
And again to heaven up-tending— Floating, mingling, interweaving,
Rising, sinking, and receiving Each from each, while each is giving
On to each, and each relieving Each, the pails of gold, the living
Current through the air is heaving
Breathing blessings see them bending
Balanced worlds from change defending,
While every where diffused is harmony unending.
With this harmonious close we stop for the present, without going into any further details respecting either the original "Faust" or these translations. But it is possible that we may return ere long to the subject, for we know that there are other versions in the wind, and "where the bungler is, there will the critics be gathered together;" so let future translators look to their tackle.
* ↑ Faust: a Drama, by Goethe, &c.Translated by Lord Francis Leveson Gower. London: 1823. Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe.Translated, &c. by John S. Blackie. Edinburgh: 1834. Faust: a Tragedy.Translated from the German of Goethe, by David Syme. Edinburgh: 1834. Faustus: a Tragedy — (Anonymous) — London: 1834. Faustus: a Dramatic Mystery, &c.Translated by John Anster, LL.D. London: 1835. The Faust of Goethe.Attempted in English Rhyme by the Honourable Robert Talbot. London: 1835.Second Edition, revised and much corrected. London: 1839. Faust: a Tragedy by J. Wolfgang Von Goethe.Translated into English Verse, by J. Birch, Esq. London — Leipzig: 1839.
* ↑ For German readers we add the words of the original,— Es wechselt Paradieses-Helle Mit tiefer schauervoller Nacht. In the preceding lines Gabriel had described the inconceivably rapid revolution of the earth; and in those before us he points out the consequence of this revolution—not its consequence in relation to us human beings, but in relation to himself and his brother-spectators; namely, that (es wechselt) "there is continually alternating" upon the earth a succession of light and shade, as rapidly as it is possible for them to alternate.
* ↑ Faust, a dramatic poem by Goethe, translated into English prose, with remarks on former translations and notes. By A. Hayward, Esq. Second edition. London: 1834.
* ↑ Psalm civ. 4. Job xxxviii. 35. We subjoin the original verse:— Da flammt ein blitzendes Verheeren Dem Pfade vor des Donnerschlags; Doch deine Boten, Herr, verehren Das sanfte Wandeln deines Tags. Lord Gower translates it thus, and gives, though not very forcibly or clearly, the sense for which we are contending:— The lightnings of the dread destroyer Precede his thunder's through the air; Yet at the nod of their employer, The servants of his wrath forebear.
* ↑ By avowedly he evidently means intentionally, otherwise he must mean that he has left out some parts, but has resolved not to confess what they are.
* ↑ We, of course, give Mr. Talbot the benefit of his latest emendations by quoting from the second edition of his work.
* ↑ "Expect her rising (the moon's) as you will, the suddenness always adds a slight surprise to your delight,"— Blackwood's Magazine, xxxi, 880.