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236, 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.

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 "