THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

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of these throngs of people; these crowds of yours. What men may or may not wish, is to him nothing, he says. This surging mass of humanity, even to see, in him, “ puts out the fire of song.” He cries for sweet silences and the visionary forms of the inner world. Shall the fair thought, he asks, and the high expression that comes to the poet as a precious gift—shall this be put to low usage, for the amusement of the vulgar crowd? Closing, he says he does not care to work for popularity and the passing moment. He would leave his labors for posterity.

The manager is silent and the jester comes forward. “Posterity!” exclaims he “If everybody should work for the future, what would become of present pleasure.” This is but a passing word, but to the student of the drama it touches one of the prin­ciples of the play—the present moment, its value here and now—an idea and principle which is carried through the poem. The jester has much to say, and, becoming serious, in a few lines of fullest meaning he moves inward to the heart of things, and, facing the poet with utterance of deep-felt truth, by what he says in this first speech of his, sets before the reader the great motive of the whole Faust poem. He remarks first that in any case the people, it is to be noticed, will have their “ fun.” Then, re­verting to the words spoken by the poet, in answer to his expressed aversion to “the crowd,” he says that to his mind the presence of any fine young fellow 7 has in itself a human value and should be of worth to everyone. Brief as this word is, and quietly spoken, it strikes the theme of personality. Upon the reader’s imagination rises like a statue the jester’s “ fine young fellow ’—one of the crowd, it is true; still a son of man, a fellow mortal strong to labor, wdth eyes to see and heart to love. The poet in his self-protection may shrink therefrom, yet none the less the man is there, and as his jester shows he stands a claimant upon respect, if not upon regard. Having thus set his young man upon the stage as a figure for suggestion, typical of the crowd, the jester goes on, and with the privilege of speech allowed to professional fools, with gentle audacity he takes it upon himself to instruct the poet. Without calling him narrow'-minded or small-hearted the jester states a principle, saying that in society whenever a man gives out his own nature and power to others in a happy, cheerful v^ay, allowing free utterance of his own best in genial fashion, he does not become irritated by the varying conditions and moods of the crowd, but rather he grows to be himself the greater, because, by contact with human nature, he widens the circle of his own know ledge and sympathies, and, the jester says, such a one, meaning if he is great enough, can even from the people draw inspiration. “So, then,” he says, returning to the question of the desired play, he bids the poet “take heart and give them sterling coin, not counterfeit of high feeling.” The manager is encouraged by this direct address from his jester, and hastening to speak as if, upon this higher ground, the matter were even now quite settled, he tells the poet to be sure to have plenty of inci­dents in the play, so that each who listens shall find something for himself and all shall be amazed and delighted. He says there is no need to compose a drama altogether smooth in its unity—only to bring his facts and scenes, and have, among them all, enough to please the varied audience. But this assumption of success is of no use. The poet, still untaught and untouched, replied that they cannot understand him. That to make a trade of his art is impossible. He is an artist and loyal to himself. Such stringing together of scenes to amuse people; such pretence of literary art is not for his gifted hand, although he says, smilingly, he perceives that it is a principle with them.

The manager does not allow himself to be ruffled by this sarcasm. He shows himself quietly determined to get this play written; and going back to the crowd again for argument, he, in his turn, thrusts at the poet. He described the people as they come, already wearied with knowledge orgayety, yet eager for something to lift them out of themselves. Men and women—there they are; and now does not the poet recognize their faces? As he w'rites, dramatist that he is, does he not in reality work for these same people ? Does he not desire full houses also, and if he should look his audience over, follow its feet as it dispersed, would he not find it much the same in one case as the other—“ half coarse, half cold? ”