Robertson’s _Faust and Marguerite_, played at the Princess’s Theatre in April, 1854: some are operatic; the ever-popular _Faust_ of Gounod, with libretto by Barbier and Carré, first seen at the Théâtre Lyrique, Paris, in 1859; and Hector Berlioz’ _The Damnation of Faust_, which, adapted to the English stage by T. H. Friend, was performed at the Court, Liverpool, 3 February, 1894; many more are burlesques, descendants of the eighteenth-century farces, amongst which may be remembered F. C. Burnard’s _Faust and Marguerite_, S. James, 9 July, 1864; C. H. Hazlewood’s _Faust: or Marguerite’s Mangle_, Britannia Theatre, 25 March, 1867; Byron’s _Little Doctor Faust_ (1877); _Faust in Three Flashes_ (1884); _Faust in Forty Minutes_ (1885); and the most famous of all the travesties _Faust Up to Date_, produced at the Gaiety, 30 October, 1888, with E. J. Lonnen as Mephistopheles and Florence St. John as Marguerite. In France the _Faust_—après Goethe—of Theaulou and Gondelier first seen at the Nouveautés, 27 October, 1827, had a great success, and in the following year no less than three pens, Antony Béraud, Charles Nodier, and Merle, combined to produce a _Faust_ in three acts, the music of which is by Louis Alexandre Piccini, the grandson of Gluck’s famous rival. In 1858 Adolphe Dennery gave the Parisian stage _Faust_, a “drame fantastique” in five acts and sixteen tableaux, a drama of the Grattan school, effective enough in a lurid Sadlers Wells way, which is, at any rate, a vein greater dramatists have exploited with profit and applause. Of more recent English dramas which have the Faust legend as their theme the most striking is undoubtedly the adaptation by W. G. Wills from the first part of Goethe’s tragedy, which was produced at the Lyceum 19 December, 1885, with H. H. Conway as Faust; George Alexander, Valentine; Mrs. Stirling, Martha; Miss Ellen Terry, Margaret; and Henry Irving, Mephistopheles. Not merely in view of the masterpieces of Marlowe and Goethe, but even by the side of theatrical versions of the legend from far lesser men the play itself was naught, a superb pantomime, a thing helped out by a witches’ kitchen, by a bacchanalia of demons, by chromo-lithographic effects, by the mechanist and the brushes of Telbin and Hawes Craven, but it was informed throughout and raised to heights of greatness, nay, even to awe and terror, by the genius of Irving as the red-plumed Mephistopheles, that sardonic, weary, restless figure, horribly unreal yet mockingly alert and alive, who dominated the whole.