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diff --git a/includes/js/dijit/tests/_editor/test_6112.html b/includes/js/dijit/tests/_editor/test_6112.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..785cd55 --- /dev/null +++ b/includes/js/dijit/tests/_editor/test_6112.html @@ -0,0 +1,745 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/html4/strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> + + <title>Rich Text System Test</title> + + <style type="text/css"> + @import "../../../dojo/resources/dojo.css"; + @import "../css/dijitTests.css"; + </style> + <script type="text/javascript" src="../../../dojo/dojo.js" + djConfig="parseOnLoad: true, isDebug: true"></script> + <script type="text/javascript" src="../_testCommon.js"></script> + + <script type="text/javascript" src="../../_editor/selection.js"></script> + <script type="text/javascript" src="../../_editor/RichText.js"></script> + <script language="JavaScript" type="text/javascript"> + dojo.require("dijit._editor.RichText"); + dojo.require("dojo.parser"); // scan page for widgets and instantiate them + </script> + +</head> +<body> + + <h1 class="testTitle">Rich Text Test</h1> + + <div style="border: 1px dotted black;"> + <h3>test case for bug #6112</h3> + <textarea dojoType="dijit._editor.RichText" id="editor1" + styleSheets="../../../dojo/resources/dojo.css"> +<p> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Goethe +</p> +<p> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net + +</p> +<p> + +Title: Faust + +</p> +<p> +Author: Goethe + +</p> +<p> +Release Date: December 25, 2004 [EBook #14460] + +</p> +<p> +Language: English + +</p> +<p> +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +</p> +<p> +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAUST *** +</p> +<p> +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Bidwell and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +</p> +<p> +<h1> FAUST </h1> +<h2>A TRAGEDY</h2> + +<h5> +TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN +<br> +OF +<br> +GOETHE + +<br> + +WITH NOTES + +<br> +BY + +<br> +CHARLES T BROOKS + +<br> + +SEVENTH EDITION. + +<br> +BOSTON +<br> +TICKNOR AND FIELDS + +<br> +MDCCCLXVIII. +</h5> + + + +<p> + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, +by CHARLES T. BROOKS, +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court +of the District of Rhode Island. + +</p> +<p> +UNIVERSITY PRESS: +WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY, +CAMBRIDGE. + +</p> +<p> + + + +TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. + +</p> +<p> + +Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those +who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of +a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the +public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal +prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with +great spirit, beauty, and power. +</p> +<p> + +The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering +of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the +original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one +defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the +exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of +_male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable +and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of +the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not +intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those +translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of +dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion. + +</p> +<p> +A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's +method of alternating different measures with each other. + +</p> +<p> +It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves, +how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his +native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità_) as +they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the +movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and +accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent. + +</p> +<p> +As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have +instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful +metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present +translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this +assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of +thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of +their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse +translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read +"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry," +the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well +admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a +metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it +in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one +every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one +who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung +itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering +must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._ + +</p> +<p> +The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a +translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he +flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between +meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into +that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is +so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy +sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted, +"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the +rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no +_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it +can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the +translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each +other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may +come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of +the Babel dispersion will allow. + +</p> +<p> +As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the +translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the +poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of +which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of +the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by +him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with +him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with +him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for +knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early +years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural +realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a +considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent +a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a +game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking, +scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be +traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown +into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust +especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy +fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches +himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the +dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most +secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the +image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of +Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of +fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him, +and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly +surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with +the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his +love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the +nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but +not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness +and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow." + +</p> +<p> + + + +DEDICATION.[1] + +</p> +<p> +Once more ye waver dreamily before me, +Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes! +To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me? +Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies? +Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me, +As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise; +The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing, +Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing. + +</p> +<p> +Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian, +And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze; +First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision +Like an old tale of legendary days; +Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition, +Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways; +And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated +Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted. + +</p> +<p> +These later songs of mine, alas! will never +Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung! +Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever! +Mute the first echo that so grateful rung! +To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor +Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung; +And all that kindled at those earlier numbers +Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers. + +</p> +<p> +And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning +For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day; +Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,) +Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay; +Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning, +The rigid heart to milder mood gives way! +What I possess I see afar off lying, +And what I lost is real and undying. + +</p> +<p> + + + +PRELUDE + +</p> +<p> +IN THE THEATRE. + + +</p> +<p> + _Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._ + +</p> +<p> +_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress +Have both held fast your old allegiance, +What think ye? here in German regions +Our enterprise may hope success? +To please the crowd my purpose has been steady, +Because they live and let one live at least. +The posts are set, the boards are laid already, +And every one is looking for a feast. +They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing, +Expecting something that shall set them staring. +I know the public palate, that's confest; +Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion; +True, they are not accustomed to the best, +But they have read a dreadful deal, past question. +How shall we work to make all fresh and new, +Acceptable and profitable, too? +For sure I love to see the torrent boiling, +When towards our booth they crowd to find a place, +Now rolling on a space and then recoiling, +Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace: +Long before dark each one his hard-fought station +In sight of the box-office window takes, +And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation, +For tickets here they almost break their necks. +This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet +Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it! + +</p> +<p> +_Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean, +Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill! +Hide from my sight that billowy commotion +That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will. +No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion, +Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill; +Where love and friendship aye create and cherish, +With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish. +Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing, +Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed, +Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging, +To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast. +Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing +It comes in full and rounded shape at last. +What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure; +The genuine leaves posterity a treasure. + +</p> +<p> +_Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it; +Supposing I the future age would profit, +Who then would furnish ours with fun? +For it must have it, ripe and mellow; +The presence of a fine young fellow, +Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one. +Whoso can pleasantly communicate, +Will not make war with popular caprices, +For, as the circle waxes great, +The power his word shall wield increases. +Come, then, and let us now a model see, +Let Phantasy with all her various choir, +Sense, reason, passion, sensibility, +But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire. + +</p> +<p> +_Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one +Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun. +Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly, +So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise, +Then have you made a wide impression quickly, +You are the man they'll idolize. +The mass can only be impressed by masses; +Then each at last picks out his proper part. +Give much, and then to each one something passes, +And each one leaves the house with happy heart. +Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces! +Such a ragout your fame increases; +It costs as little pains to play as to invent. +But what is gained, if you a whole present? +Your public picks it presently to pieces. + +</p> +<p> +_Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be! +In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow! +Our genteel botchers, well I see, +Have given the maxims that you follow. + +</p> +<p> +_Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind; +A man who has right work in mind +Must choose the instruments most fitting. +Consider what soft wood you have for splitting, +And keep in view for whom you write! +If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight, +That other comes full from the groaning table, +Or, the worst case of all to cite, +From reading journals is for thought unable. +Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder, +As to a masquerade they wing their way; +The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder +And without wages help us play. +On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you? +What glads a crowded house? Behold +Your patrons in array before you! +One half are raw, the other cold. +One, after this play, hopes to play at cards, +One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses, +Poor fools, why court ye the regards, +For such a set, of the chaste muses? +I tell you, give them more and ever more and more, +And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever; +To mystify be your endeavor, +To satisfy is labor sore.... +What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion---- + +</p> +<p> +_Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave! +What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave, +The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent, +Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean! +How does he stir each deep emotion? +How does he conquer every element? +But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs, +And draws into his heart all living things? +When Nature's hand, in endless iteration, +The thread across the whizzing spindle flings, +When the complex, monotonous creation +Jangles with all its million strings: +Who, then, the long, dull series animating, +Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round? +And, to the law of All each member consecrating, +Bids one majestic harmony resound? +Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power? +The earnest soul with evening-redness glow? +Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower +Along the path where loved ones go? +Who weaves each green leaf in the wind that trembles +To form the wreath that merit's brow shall crown? +Who makes Olympus fast? the gods assembles? +The power of manhood in the Poet shown. + +</p> +<p> +_Merry Person_. Come, then, put forth these noble powers, +And, Poet, let thy path of flowers +Follow a love-adventure's winding ways. +One comes and sees by chance, one burns, one stays, +And feels the gradual, sweet entangling! +The pleasure grows, then comes a sudden jangling, +Then rapture, then distress an arrow plants, +And ere one dreams of it, lo! _there_ is a romance. +Give us a drama in this fashion! +Plunge into human life's full sea of passion! +Each lives it, few its meaning ever guessed, +Touch where you will, 'tis full of interest. +Bright shadows fleeting o'er a mirror, +A spark of truth and clouds of error, +By means like these a drink is brewed +To cheer and edify the multitude. +The fairest flower of the youth sit listening +Before your play, and wait the revelation; +Each melancholy heart, with soft eyes glistening, +Draws sad, sweet nourishment from your creation; +This passion now, now that is stirred, by turns, +And each one sees what in his bosom burns. +Open alike, as yet, to weeping and to laughter, +They still admire the flights, they still enjoy the show; +Him who is formed, can nothing suit thereafter; +The yet unformed with thanks will ever glow. + +</p> +<p> +_Poet_. Ay, give me back the joyous hours, +When I myself was ripening, too, +When song, the fount, flung up its showers +Of beauty ever fresh and new. +When a soft haze the world was veiling, +Each bud a miracle bespoke, +And from their stems a thousand flowers I broke, +Their fragrance through the vales exhaling. +I nothing and yet all possessed, +Yearning for truth and in illusion blest. +Give me the freedom of that hour, +The tear of joy, the pleasing pain, +Of hate and love the thrilling power, +Oh, give me back my youth again! + +</p> +<p> +_Merry Person_. Youth, my good friend, thou needest certainly +When ambushed foes are on thee springing, +When loveliest maidens witchingly +Their white arms round thy neck are flinging, +When the far garland meets thy glance, +High on the race-ground's goal suspended, +When after many a mazy dance +In drink and song the night is ended. +But with a free and graceful soul +To strike the old familiar lyre, +And to a self-appointed goal +Sweep lightly o'er the trembling wire, +There lies, old gentlemen, to-day +Your task; fear not, no vulgar error blinds us. +Age does not make us childish, as they say, +But we are still true children when it finds us. + +</p> +<p> +_Manager_. Come, words enough you two have bandied, +Now let us see some deeds at last; +While you toss compliments full-handed, +The time for useful work flies fast. +Why talk of being in the humor? +Who hesitates will never be. +If you are poets (so says rumor) +Now then command your poetry. +You know full well our need and pleasure, +We want strong drink in brimming measure; +Brew at it now without delay! +To-morrow will not do what is not done to-day. +Let not a day be lost in dallying, +But seize the possibility +Right by the forelock, courage rallying, +And forth with fearless spirit sallying,-- +Once in the yoke and you are free. + Upon our German boards, you know it, +What any one would try, he may; +Then stint me not, I beg, to-day, +In scenery or machinery, Poet. +With great and lesser heavenly lights make free, +Spend starlight just as you desire; +No want of water, rocks or fire +Or birds or beasts to you shall be. +So, in this narrow wooden house's bound, +Stride through the whole creation's round, +And with considerate swiftness wander +From heaven, through this world, to the world down yonder. + + +</p> +<p> + + + PROLOGUE + +</p> +<p> + + IN HEAVEN. + +</p> +<p> + +[THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS _afterward_ MEPHISTOPHELES. +_The three archangels_, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, _and_ MICHAEL, _come forward_.] + +</p> +<p> +_Raphael_. The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding, + With brother-spheres, in rival song; +And, his appointed journey rounding, + With thunderous movement rolls along. +His look, new strength to angels lending, + No creature fathom can for aye; +The lofty works, past comprehending, + Stand lordly, as on time's first day. + +</p> +<p> +_Gabriel_. And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting, + The pomp of earth turns round and round, +The glow of Eden alternating + With shuddering midnight's gloom profound; +Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean + Heaves from its old, primeval bed, +And rocks and seas, with endless motion, + On in the spheral sweep are sped. + +</p> +<p> +_Michael_. And tempests roar, glad warfare waging, + From sea to land, from land to sea, +And bind round all, amidst their raging, + A chain of giant energy. +There, lurid desolation, blazing, + Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way: +Yet, Lord, thy messengers[2] are praising + The mild procession of thy day. + +</p> +<p> +_All Three_. The sight new strength to angels lendeth, + For none thy being fathom may, +The works, no angel comprehendeth, + Stand lordly as on time's first day. + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. Since, Lord, thou drawest near us once again, +And how we do, dost graciously inquire, +And to be pleased to see me once didst deign, +I too among thy household venture nigher. +Pardon, high words I cannot labor after, +Though the whole court should look on me with scorn; +My pathos certainly would stir thy laughter, +Hadst thou not laughter long since quite forsworn. +Of sun and worlds I've nought to tell worth mention, +How men torment themselves takes my attention. +The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way +And is as singular as on the world's first day. +A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given +The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven; +He calls it reason, using it +To be more beast than ever beast was yet. +He seems to me, (your grace the word will pardon,) +Like a long-legg'd grasshopper in the garden, +Forever on the wing, and hops and sings +The same old song, as in the grass he springs; +Would he but stay there! no; he needs must muddle +His prying nose in every puddle. + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. Hast nothing for our edification? +Still thy old work of accusation? +Will things on earth be never right for thee? + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be. +Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em, +I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em. + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. Knowest thou Faust? + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. The Doctor? + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. Ay, my servant! + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. He! +Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion; +No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion; +Its grasping greed no space can measure; +Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest; +The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure. +Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest, +Not all the world--the boundless azure-- +Can fill the void within his craving breast. + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant, +Yet will he soon attain the light of reason. +Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant, +That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season? + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager! +If you will give me leave henceforth, +To lead him softly on, like an old stager. + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. So long as he shall live on earth, +Do with him all that you desire. +Man errs and staggers from his birth. + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. Thank you; I never did aspire +To have with dead folk much transaction. +In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction. +A corpse will never find me in the house; +I love to play as puss does with the mouse. + +</p> +<p> +_The Lord_. All right, I give thee full permission! +Draw down this spirit from its source, +And, canst thou catch him, to perdition +Carry him with thee in thy course, +But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess, +That a good man, though passion blur his vision, +Has of the right way still a consciousness. + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles_. Good! but I'll make it a short story. +About my wager I'm by no means sorry. +And if I gain my end with glory +Allow me to exult from a full breast. +Dust shall he eat and that with zest, +Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary. +</p> +<p> + +_The Lord_. Well, go and come, and make thy trial; +The like of thee I never yet did hate. +Of all the spirits of denial +The scamp is he I best can tolerate. +Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy, +He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest; +And therefore such a comrade suits him best, +Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy. +But you, true sons of God, in growing measure, +Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure! +The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye, +Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring, +And what in floating vision glides away, +That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring. +</p> +<p> +[_Heaven closes, the archangels disperse._] + +</p> +<p> +_Mephistopheles. [Alone.]_ I like at times to exchange with him a word, +And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil +In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord +To talk so kindly with the very devil. + +</p> + + </textarea> + </div> +</body> +</html> |