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for a great part of his life, accused of listening with unwarrantable composure. Helena is no exception to that practice, but rather among the strong instances of it. This Interlude to Faust presents itself abruptly, under a charac-original. ter not a little enigmatic; so that, at first view, But our English criticisms of Faust have we know not well what to make of it; and only been of a still more unedifying sort. Let any after repeated perusals, will the scattered man fancy the Edipus Tyrannus discovered for glimmerings of significance begin to coalesce the first time, translated from an unknown into continuous light, and the whole, in any Greek manuscript, by some ready-writing measure, rise before us with that greater or less manufacturer, and "brought out" at Drury degree of coherence which it may have had in Lane, with new music, made as "apothecaries the mind of the poet. Nay, after all, no perfect make new mixtures, by pouring out of one clearness may be attained, but only various vessel into another!" Then read the theatrical approximations to it; hints and half glances report in the morning Papers, and the Magaof a meaning, which is still shrouded in vague-zines of next month. Was not the whole affair rather "heavy?" How indifferent did the audience sit; how little use was made of the handkerchief, except by such as took snuff! Did not Edipus somewhat remind us of a blubbering schoolboy, and Jocasta of a decayed milliner? Confess that the plot was monstrous; nay, considering the marriage-law of England, highly immoral. On the whole, what a singular deficiency of taste must this Sophocles have laboured under! But probably he was excluded from the "society of the influ

by that stupendous All, of which it forms an indissoluble though so mean a fraction. He who would study all this must for a long time, we are afraid, be content to study it in the

ness; nay, to the just picturing of which this very vagueness was essential. For the whole piece has a dream-like character; and, in these cases, no prudent soothsayer will be altogether confident. To our readers we must now endeavour, so far as possible, to show both the dream and its interpretation: the former as it stands written before us; the latter from our own private conjecture alone; for of those strange German comments we yet know nothing, except by the faintest hearsay. Helena forms part of a continuation to Faust:ential classes:" for, after all, the man is no but, happily for our present undertaking, its without indications of genius: had we had the connection with the latter work is much looser training of him,—And so on, through all the than might have been expected. We say, variations of the critical cornpipe. happily; because Faust, though considerably talked of in England, appears still to be nowise known. We have made it our duty to inspect the English translation of Faust, as well as the Extracts which accompany Retzsch's Outlines; and various disquisitions and animadversions, vituperative or laudatory, grounded on these two works; but, unfortunately, have found there no cause to alter the above persuasion. Faust is emphatically a work of Art; a work matured in the mysterious depths of a vast and wonderful mind; and bodied forth with that truth and curious felicity of composition, in which this man is generally admitted to have no living rival. To reconstruct such a work in another language; to show it in its hard yet graceful strength; with those slight witching traits of pathos or of sarcasm, those glimpses of solemnity or terror, and so many reflexes and evanescent echoes of meaning, which connect it in strange union with the whole Infinite of thought, were business for a man of different powers than has yet attempted German translation among us. In fact, Faust is to be read not once but many times, if we would understand it: every line, every word has its purport; and only in such minute inspection will the essential significance of the poem display itself. Perhaps it is even chiefly by following these fainter traces and tokens, that the true point of vision for the whole is discovered to us; and we stand at last in the proper scene of Faust; a wild and wondrous region, where, in pale light, the primeval Shapes of Chaos, -as it were, the Foundations of Being itself,-dent, smiling even in its sternness; there deep, seem to loom forth, dim and huge, in the vague meditative, awe-struck, austere.-in which bot! Immensity around us; and the life and nature they and it took their rise. To us, in these of man, with its brief interests, its misery and days, it is not easy to estimate how this story sin, its mad passion and poor frivolity, struts of Faust, invested with its magic and infernal and frets its hour, encompassed and overlooked horrors, must have harrowed up the souls of a

So might it have fared with the ancient Gre cian; for so has it fared with the only modern that writes in a Grecian spirit. This treatment of Faust may deserve to be mentioned, for various reasons; not to be lamented over, because, as in much more important instances, it is inevitable, and lies in the nature of the case. Besides, a better state of things is evidently enough coming round. By and by, the labours, poetical and intellectual, of the Germans, as of other nations, will appear before us in their true shape; and Faust, among the rest, will have justice done it. For ourselves, it were unwise presumption, at any time, to pretend opening the full poetical significance of Faust; nor is this the place for making such an attempt. Present purposes will be answered if we can point out some general features and bearings of the piece; such as to exhibit its relation with Helena; by what contrivances this latter has been intercalated into it, and how far the strange picture and the strange framing it is inclosed in correspond.

The story of Faust forms one of the most remarkable productions of the Middle Ages; or rather, it is the most striking embodiment of a highly remarkable belief, which originated or prevailed in those ages. Considered strictly, it may take the rank of a Christian mythus, in the same sense as the story of Prometheus, of Titan, and the like, are Pagan ones; and to our keener inspection, it will disclose a no less impressive or characteristic aspect of the same human nature,-here bright, joyful, self-confi

ate oblivion.

rude and earnest people, in an age when its | article, suited for immediate use, and immedi dialect was not yet obsolete, and such contracts with the principle of Evil were thought not Goethe, we believe, was the first who tried only credible in general, but possible to every this subject; and is, on all hands, considered individual auditor who here shuddered at the as by far the most successful. His manner of mention of them. The day of Magic has gone treating it appears to us, so far as we can unby; Witchcraft has been put a stop to by act derstand it, peculiarly just and happy. He of parliament. But the mysterious relations retains the supernatural vesture of the story, which it emblemed still continue; the Soul of but retains it with the consciousness, on his Man still fights with the dark influences of and our part, that it is a chimera. His artIgnorance, Misery, and Sin; still lacerates magic comes forth in doubtful twilight; vague itself, like a captive bird, against the iron in its outline; interwoven everywhere with limits which Necessity has drawn round it; light sarcasm; nowise as a real Object, but as still follows False Shows, seeking peace and a real Shadow of an Object, which is also good on paths where no peace or good is to be real, yet lies beyond our horizon, and, except found. In this sense, Faust may still be con- in its shadows, cannot itself be seen. Nothing sidered as true; nay, as a truth of the most were simpler than to look into this poem for a impressive sort, and one which will always new "Satan's Invisible World displayed," or remain true. To body forth, in modern sym- any effort to excite the skeptical minds of these bols, a feeling so old and deep-rooted in our days by goblins, wizards, and other infernal whole European way of thought, were a task ware. Such enterprises belong to artists of a not unworthy of the highest poetical genius. different species: Goethe's Devil is a cultiIn Germany, accordingly, it has several times vated personage, and acquainted with the been attempted, and with very various success. modern sciences; sneers at witchcraft and Klinger has produced a Romance of Faust, full the black-art, even while employing them, as of rugged sense, and here and there not with- heartily as any member of the French Instiout considerable strength of delineation; yet, tute; for he is a philosophe, and doubts most on the whole, of an essentially unpoetical cha- things, nay, half disbelieves even his own exracter; dead, or living with only a mechanical istence. It is not without a cunning effort that life; coarse, almost gross, and, to our minds, all this is managed; but managed, in a consifar too redolent of pitch and bitumen. Maler derable degree, it is; for a world of magic is Müller's Faust, which is a Drama, must be re-opened to us which, we might almost say, we garded as a much more genial performance, so feel to be at once true and not true. far as it goes; the secondary characters, the In fact, Mephistopheles comes before us, Jews and rakish Students, often remind us of not arrayed in the terrors of Cocytus and Phleour own Fords and Marlowes. His main per- gethon, but in the natural indelible deformity sons, however, Faust and the Devil, are but of Wickedness; he is the Devil, not of Superinadequately conceived; Faust is little more stition, but of Knowledge. Here is no cloven than self-willed, supercilious, and, alas, insol- foot, or horns and tail: he himself informs us vent; the Devils, above all, are savage, long- that, during the late march of intellect, the winded, and insufferably noisy. Besides, the very Devil has participated in the spirit of the piece has been left in a fragmentary state; it age, and laid these appendages aside. Doubtcan nowise pass as the best work of Müller's.* less, Mephistopheles "has the manners of a Klingemann's Faust, which also is (or lately gentleman;" he "knows the world; " nothing was) a Drama, we have never seen; and have can exceed the easy tact with which he maonly heard of it as of a tawdry and hollow nages himself; his wit and sarcasm are unlimited; the cool heartfelt contempt with which he despises all things, human and divine, might make the fortune of half a dozen "fellows about town." Yet, withal, he is a devil in very deed; a genuine Son of Night. He calls himself the Denier, and this truly is his name; for, as Voltaire did with historical doubt, so does he with all moral appearances; settles them with a N'en croyez rien. The shrewd, all-informed intellect he has, is an attorney intellect; it can contradict, but it cannot affirm. With lynx vision, he descries at a glance the ridiculous, the unsuitable, the bad; but for the solemn, the noble, the worthy, he is blind as his ancient Mother. Thus does he go along, qualifying, confuting, despising: on ail hands detecting the false, but without force to bring forth, or even to discern, any glimpse

Frederic Müller (more commonly called Maler, or Painter Müller) is here, so far as we know, named for the first time to English readers. Nevertheless, in any solid study of German literature, this author must take precedence of many hundreds whose reputation has travelled faster. But Müller has been unfortunate in his own country, as well as here. At an early age, meeting with no success as a poet, he quitted that art for painting; and retired, perhaps in disgust, into Italy; where also but little preferment seems to have awaited him. His writings, after almost half a century of neglect, were at length brought into sight and general estimation by Ludwig Tieck; at a time when the author might indeed say, that he was "old and could not enjoy it, solitary and could not impart it," but not, unhappily, that he was "known and did not want it," for his fine genius had yet made for itself no free way amid so many obstructions, and still continued unrewarded and unrecognised. His paintings, chiefly of still-life and animals, are said to possess a true though no very extraordinary merit: but of his poetry we will venture to assert that it bespeaks a genuine feeling and talent, nay, rises at times

even into the higher regions of Art. His Adam's Awak

ening, his Satyr Mopsus, his Nusskernen (Nutshelling), of the true. Poor Devil! what truth should informed as they are with simple kindly strength, with there be for him? To see Falsehood is his clear vision, and love of nature, are incomparably the best German or, indeed, modern Idyls; his "Genoveva" only truth: falsehood ar.. evil are the rule, will still stand reading, even with that of Tieck. These truth and gr. the exception which confirms things are now acknowledged among the Germans; but it. He car. believe in nothing, but in his own to Müller the acknowledgment is of no avail. He died self-conceit, and in the indestructible baseness, some two years ago at Rome, where he seems to have subsisted latterly as a sort of picture-cicerone folly, and hypocrisy of men. For him, virtue

is some bubble of the blood: "it stands written | Brutus, reproaches as a shadow, what he once on his face that he never loved a living soul." worshipped as a substance. Whither shall Nay, he cannot even hate: at Faust himself he now tend? For his loadstars have gone he has no grudge; he merely tempts him by out one by one; and as the darkness fell, the way of experiment, to pass the time scientifi- strong and steady wind has changed into a cally. Such a combination of perfect Under- fierce and aimless tornado. Faust calls himstanding with perfect Selfishness, of logical self a monster, "without object, yet without ife with moral Death; so universal a denier, rest." The vehement, keen, and stormful naoth in heart and head,-is undoubtedly a ture of the man is stung into fury, as he thinks hild of Darkness, an emissary of the pri- of all he has endured and lost; he broods in neval Nothing and coming forward, as he gloomy meditation, and, like Bellerophon, oes, like a person of breeding, and without wanders apart, " eating his own heart;" or ny flavour of Brimstone, may stand here, in bursting into fiery paroxysms, curses man's is merely spiritual deformity, at once potent, whole existence as a mockery; curses hope, dangerous, and contemptible, as the best and and faith, and joy, and care, and what is worst, nly genuine Devil of these latter times. "curses patience more than all the rest." Had his weak arm the power, he could smite the Universe asunder, as at the crack of Doom, and hurl his own vexed being along with it into the silence of Annihilation.

In strong contrast with this impersonation of modern worldly-mindedness, stands Faust himself, by nature the antagonist of it, but destined also to be its victim. If Mephistopheles represent the spirit of Denial, Faust may represent that of Inquiry and Endeavour: the two are, by necessity, in conflict; the light and the darkness of man's life and mind. Intrinsically, Faust is a noble being, though no wise one. His desires are towards the high and true; nay, with a whirlwind impetuosity he rushes forth over the Universe to grasp all excellence; his heart yearns towards the infinite and the invisible: only that he knows not the conditions under which alone this is to be attained. Confiding in his feeling of himself, he has started with the tacit persuasions, so natural to all men, that he at least, however it may fare with others, shall and must be happy; a deep-seated, though only half-conscious conviction lurks in him, that wherever he is not successful, fortune has dealt with him unjustly. His purposes are fair, nay, generous: why should he not prosper in them? For in all his lofty aspirings, his strivings after truth and more than human greatness of mind, it has never struck him to inquire how he, the striver, was warranted for such enterprises; with what faculty Nature had equipped him; within what limits she had hemmed him in; by what right he pretended to be happy, or could, some short space ago, have pretended to be at all. Experience, indeed, will teach him, for "Experience is the best of schoolmasters; only the school-fees are heavy." As yet, too, disappointment, which fronts him on every hand, rather maddens than instructs. Faust has spent his youth and manhood, not as others do in the sunny crowded paths of profit, or among the rosy bowers of pleasure, but darkly and alone in the search of Truth: is it fit that Truth should now hide herself, and his sleepless pilgrimage towards Knowledge and Vision end in the pale shadow of Doubt? To his dream of a glorious higher happiness, all earthly happiness has been sacrificed; friendship, love, the social rewards of ambition were cheerfully cast aside, for his eye and his heart were bent on a region of clear and supreme good; and now, in its stead, he finds isolation, silence, and despair. What solace remains? Virtue once promised to be her own reward; but because she does not pay him in the current coin of worldly enjoyment, he reckons her too a delusion; and, like

Thus Faust is a man who has quitted the ways of vulgar men, without light to guide him on a better way. No longer restricted by the sympathies, the common interests and common persuasions by which the mass of mortals, each individually ignorant, nay, it may be, stolid, and altogether blind as to the proper aim of life, are yet held together, and like stones in the channel of a torrent, by their very multitude and mutal collision, are made to move with some regularity, he is still but a slave; the slave of impulses, which are stronger, not truer or better, and the more unsafe that they are solitary. He sees the vulgar of mankind happy; but happy only in their baseness. Himself he feels to be peculiar; the victim of a strange, an unexampled destiny; not as other men, he is "with them, not of them." There is misery here; nay, as Goethe has elsewhere wisely remarked, the beginning of madness itself. It is only in the sentiment of companionship that men feel safe and assured: to all doubts and mysterious" questionings of destiny," their sole satisfying answer is, Others do and suffer the like. Were it not for this, the dullest day-drudge of Mammon might think himself into unspeakable abysses of despair; for he, too, is "fearfully and wonderfully made;" Infinitude and Incomprehensibility surround him on this hand and that; and the vague spectre Death, silent and sure as Time, is advancing at all moments to sweep him away for ever. But he answers, Others do and suffer the like; and plods along without misgivings. Were there but One Man in the world, he would be a terror to himself; and the highest man not less so than the lowest. Now it is as this One Man that Faust regards himself; he is divided from his fellows; cannot answer with them, Others do the like; and yet, why or how he specially is to do or suffer will nowhere reveal itself. For he is still in the gall of bitterness;" Pride and an entire uncompromising, though secret love of Self, are still the mainsprings of his conduct. Knowledge with him is precious only because it is power; even virtue he would love chiefly as a finer sort of sensuality, and because it was his virtue. A ravenous hunger for enjoyment haunts him everywhere; the stinted allotments of earthly life are as a mockery to him: to the iron law of Force h

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with orient beauty, as a Land of Wonders, and new Poetic Heaven.

With regard to that part of the work already finished, we must here say little more. Faust, as it yet stands, is, indeed, only a stating of the difficulty; but a stating of it wisely, truly, and with deepest poetic emphasis. For how many living hearts, even now imprisoned in the perplexities of Doubt, do these wild pierctones of Faust, his withering agonies and fiery desperation, “speak the word they have long been waiting to hear!" A nameless pain had long brooded over the soul: here, by some light touch, it starts into form and voice; we it and know it, and see that another also knew it. This Faust is as a mystic Oracle for the mind; a Dodona grove, where the oaks and fountairs prophesy to us of our destiny, and murmur unearthly secrets.

To invest a man of this character with supernatural powers is but enabling him to repeat his error on a larger scale, to play the same false game with a deeper and more ruinous stake. Go where he may, he will "find himself again in a conditional world;" widening his sphere as he pleases, he will find it again encircled by the empire of Necessity; the gay island of Existence is again but a fraction of the ancient realm of Night. Were he all-wise and all-powerful, perhaps he might be content-see ed and virtuous; scarcely otherwise. The poorest human soul is infinite in wishes, and the infinite Universe was not made for one, but for all. Vain were it for Faust, by heaping height on height, to struggle towards infi- How all this is managed, and the poem so nitude; while to that law of Self-denial, by curiously fashioned; how the clearest insight which alone man's narrow destiny may become is combined with the keenest feeling, and the an infinitude within itself, he is still a stran- noblest and wildest imagination; by what soft ger. Such, however, is his attempt: not in- and skilful finishing these so heterogeneous deed incited by hope, but goaded on by des- elements are blended in fine harmony, and the pair, he unites himself with the Fiend, as dark world of spirits, with its merely metawith a stronger though a wicked agency; reck-physical entities, plays like a chequering of less of all issues, if so were that by these means strange mysterious shadows among the palpathe craving of his heart might be stayed, and ble objects of material life; and the whole, firm the dark secret of Destiny unravelled or for- in its details, and sharp and solid as reality, gotten. yet hangs before us melting on all sides into air, and free, and light, as the baseless fabric of a vision; all this the reader can learn fully nowhere but, by long study, in the work itself. The general scope and spirit of it we have now endeavoured to sketch: the few incidents on which, with the aid of much dialogue and exposition, these have been brought out, are perhaps already known to most readers, and, at all events, need not be minutely recapitulated here. Mephistopheles has promised to himself that he will lead Faust "through the bustling inanity of life," but that its pleasures shall tempt and not satisiy him; "food shall hover before his eager lips, but he shall beg for nourishment in vain." Hitherto they have travelled but a short way together; yet, so far, the Denier has kept his engagement well. Faust, endowed with all earthly, and many more than earthly advantages, is still no nearer contentment; nay, after a brief season of marred and uncertain joy, he finds himself sunk into deeper wretchedness than ever. Margaret, an innocent girl whom he loves, but has betrayed, is doomed to die, and already crazed in brain, less for her own errors than for his: in a scene of true pathos, he would fain persuade her to escape with him, by the aid of Mephistopheles, from prison; but in the instinct of her heart she finds an invincible aversion to the Fiend; she chooses death and ignominy, rather than life and love, if of his giving. At her final refusal. Mephistopheles proclaims that "she is judged," a "voice from Above" that "she is saved;" the action termi. nates; Faust and Mephistopheles vanish from our sight, as into boundless Space.

It is this conflicting union of the higher nature of the soul with the lower elements of human life; of Faust, the son of Light and Free-will, with the influences of Doubt, Denial, and Obstruction, or Mephistopheles, who is the symbol and spokesman of these, that the poet has here proposed to delineate. A high problem; and of which the solution is yet far from completed; nay, perhaps, in a poetical sense, is not, strictly speaking, capable of completion. For it is to be remarked that, in this contract with the Prince of Darkness, little or no mention or allusion is made to a Future Life; whereby it might seem as if the action was not intended, in the manner of the old Legend, to terminate in Faust's perdition; but rather as if an altogether different end must be provided for him. Faust, indeed, wild and wilful as he is, cannot be regarded as a wicked, much less as an utterly reprobate man: we do not reckon him ill-intentioned, but misguided and miserable; he falls into crime, not by purpose, but by accident and blindness. To send him to the Pit of Wo, to render such a character the eternal slave of Mephistopheles, would look like making darkness triumphant over light, blind force over erring reason; or, at best, were cutting the Gordian knot, not loosing it. If we mistake not, Goethe's Faust will have a finer moral than the old nurserytale, or the other plays and tales that have been founded on it. Our seared and blighted, yet still noble Faust, will not end in the madness of horror, but in Peace grounded on better Knowledge. Whence that Knowledge is to come, what higher and freer world of Art or Religion may be hovering in the mind of the poet, we will not try to surmise: perhaps in bright aerial emblematic glimpses, he may yet show it us, transient and afar off, yet clear

will not yield, for his heart, though torn, is yet unweakened, and till Humility shall open his eyes, the soft law of Wisdom will be hidden from him.

And now, after so long a preface, we arrive at Helena, the "Classico-romantic Phantasmagoria," where these Adventurers, strangely

F

altered by travel, and in altogether different costume, have again risen into sight. Our long preface was not needless, for Faust and Helena, though separated by some wide and marvellous interval, are nowise disconnected. The characters may have changed by absence; Faust is no longer the same bitter and tempestuous man, but appears in chivalrous composure, with a silent energy, a grave, and, as it were, commanding ardour. Mephistopheles alone may retain somewhat of his old spiteful shrewdness: but still the past state of these personages must illustrate the present; and only by what we remember of them, can we try to interpret what we see. In fact, the style of Helena is altogether new: quiet, simple, joyful; passing by a short gradation from Classic dignity into Romantic pomp; it has everywhere a full and sunny tone of colouring; resembles not a tragedy, but a gay gorgeous mask. Neither is Faust's former history alluded to, or any explanation given us of occurrences that may have intervened. It is a light scene, divided by chasms and unknown distance from that other country of gloom. Nevertheless, the latter still frowns in the back-ground; nay, rises aloft, shutting out further view, and our gay vision attains a new significance as it is painted on that canvas of

storm.

We question whether it ever occurred to any English reader of Faust, that the work needed a continuation, or even admitted one. To the Germans, however, in their deeper study of a favourite poem, which also they have full means of studying, this has long been no secret; and such as have seen with what zeal most German readers cherish Faust, and how the younger of them will recite whole scenes of it, with a vehemence resembling that of Gil Blas and his Figures Hibernoises, in the streets of Oviedo, may estimate the interest excited in that country by the following Notice from the Author, published last year in his Kunst und Allerthum.

"Helena. Interlude in Faust.

"Faust's character, in the elevation to which latter refinement, working on the old rude Tradition, has raised it, represents a man who, feeling impatient and imprisoned within the limits of mere earthly existence, regards the possession of the highest knowledge, the enjoyment of the fairest blessings, as insufficient even in the slightest degree to satisfy his longing a spirit, accordingly, which, struggling out on all sides, ever returns the more unhappy.

must necessarily elevate itself altogether away from the hampered sphere of the First, and conduct a man of such a nature into higher regions, under worthier circumstances.

"How I, for my part, had determined to essay this, lay silently before my own mind, from time to time exciting me to some progress; while, from all and each, I carefully guarded my secret, still in hope of bringing the work to the wished-for issue. Now, however, I must no longer keep back; or, in publishing my collective Endeavours, conceal any further secret from the world; to which, on the contrary, I feel myself bound to submit my whole labours, even though in a fragmentary state.

"Accordingly I have resolved that the abovenamed Piece, a smaller drama, complete within itself, but pertaining to the Second Part of Faust, shall be forthwith presented in the First Portion of my Works.

"The wide chasm between that well-known dolorous conclusion of the first part, and the entrance of an antique Grecian Heroine, is not yet overarched; meanwhile, as a preamble, my readers will accept what follows:

"The old Legend tells us, and the Puppetplay fails not to introduce the scene, that Faust, in his imperious pride of heart, required from Mephistopheles the love of the fair Helena of Greece; in which demand the other, after some reluctance, gratified him. Not to overlook so important a concern in our work, was a duty for us; and how we have endeavoured to discharge it, will be seen in this Interlude.. But what may have furnished the proximate occasion of such an occurrence, and how, after manifold hindrances, our old magical Craftsman can have found means to bring back the individual Helena, in person, out of Orcus into Life, must, in this stage of the business, remain undiscovered. For the present, it is enough if our reader will admit that the real Helena may step forth, on antique tragedy-cothurnus, before her primitive abode in Sparta. We then request him to observe in what way and manner Faust will presume to court favour from this royal all-famous Beauty of the world."

To manage so unexampled a courtship will be admitted to be no easy task; for the mad hero's prayer must here be fulfilled to its largest extent, before the business can proceed a step; and the gods, it is certain, are not in the habit of annihilating time and space, even to "make two lovers happy." Our Marlowe was not ignorant of this mysterious liaison of Faust's: however, he slurs it over briefly, and without fronting the difficulty; Helena merely flits across the scene as an airy pageant, without speech or personality, and makes the lovesick philosopher "immortal by a kiss." Probably there are not many that would grudge Faust such immortality; we at least nowise envy him: for who does not see that this, in all human probability, is no real Helena, but

"This form of mind is so accordant with our modern disposition, that various persons of ability have been induced to undertake the treatment of such a subject. My manner of attempting it obtained approval: distinguished men considered the matter, and commented only some hollow phantasm attired in her on my performance; all which I thankfully shape, while the true Daughter of Leda stili observed. At the same time I could not but dwells afar off in the inane kingdoms of Dis, wonder that none of those who undertook a and heeds not and hears not the most poten: continuation and completion of my Fragment, invocations of black-art? Another matter it is had lighted on the thought, which seemed so to call forth the frail fair one in very deed; not in obvious, that the composition of a Second Part form only, but in soul and life, the same Helena

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