he high word of vision! And in vain!
Till, not having found, its bitterness corrodes
Inward--like one betrayed by his last god....

Strange, that my father was a worthy man!
Perhaps 'tis his blood in me that withholds
Unreasoning my hand from washing clear
This scribbled slate with one quick tide of peace.
Would more of him were in me! that like him
I might spend eagerly a useful life
In medicining miserable men
Who were better dead--employ my force
To aid a world within whose marrow dwells
An evil none can cure, an agony
Beyond our dearest aiding.

Ah, well, well!
Such are the great men of this busy world,
Whose ardor for the game is anodyne
Against its buffets, and intoxicant
To lend it reveller's meaning. Ardor given,
All things are possible....

You, old marble-face,
Who front me from the corner with that grave
Virtuous Father-of-your-Country look,
I pay you my respects; you are a light
Of leading, as I see you now. Your soul
Was never shaken by convulsive doubts
Of life or man or liberty; you built
Unsceptical of bricks, but such as lay
To hand you took, nor did your purpose shake
At prescient thought of how your edifice
Might be turned pest-house some day. Undismayed
By doubt, you rose, and in heroic mould
Led--dauntless, patient, incorruptible--
A riot over taxes. Not a star
In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you
With whisperings of more transcendent goals.
O despicable, admirable man!
How much I envy you--the devil take you!

[_The bust of Washington and its pedestal move
slightly; gradually they change and shape
themselves into the figure of a well-dressed man,
rather short and stocky, with a sociable,
commonplace face. His head, however, is very
peculiarly modelled; it reminds one, indescribably
and faintly, of the fact that men sprang from
beasts. The high position of the ears help this
impression, as does also the astonishing animal
brilliance of the eyes. Faust, passing his hand
over his forehead, turns away._

FAUST

This is what comes of smoking far too much.

SATAN

Good evening, Mr. Faust.

FAUST

Well, I'll be damned!...
And who, I beg, are you?

SATAN

I ask your pardon
For thus appearing in a way unknown
To strict convention. But I never set
Great store by custom; and though nowadays
I follow the proprieties, s