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devil and a scholar is quite contemptible. The scene which follows in the public-house in Leipzig is as bad, and not superior to the carousals in any ordinary melo-drama: compared with the same sort in Marlowe's tragedy it is truly despicable. Here is one of the devil's songs.”

“ Upon a time there lived a king,

This king he had a flea,
So much he loved the little thing,

That like his son was he.
His tailor he beseeches,

The tailor to him goes,
Now measure my flea for breeches,

And measure him for hose.

“ In satin and in laces,

Straitway this flea was drest.;
He had buckles to his braces,

And a cross upon his breast..
He govern’d then the nation,

With a star his coat to grace,
And he gave each poor relation

A pension or a place.

“ He set the ladies scoffing,

The lords were sore distress'd;
The queen too, and the dauphin,

Could neither eat nor rest;
And yet they dared not stifle,

And crush the flea outright;
We reckon it but a trifle

To crush one if he bite.

We reckon it, &c. &c.

* * *
Very good song, very well sung,

Jolly companions every one !" - The witch's kitchen is also a grotesque absurdity, to which the author has been indebted to some picture of the temptations of St Anthony. I shall only amuse you with this “horror” by the stagedirections."

A great caldron is boiling on a fire, which is seen blaz

ing on a low hearth. In the smoke that rises from it various figures are ascending. A meerkatze (an animal between a cat and a monkey) sits by the caldron, skimming it so that it may not boil over. The male, with his family, is warming himself. The walls and roof are hung round with all the strange and fantastic appa

ratus of witchcraft.: “ The interlocutors in the scene are worthy of this. The monkey-cats sing a trio, and he that was skimming the pot rubs fondly up against Mephistopheles and sings a solo. This, according to German taste, is sublime—a high fancy of German genius. The whole trash is a sad caricature of the incantation in Macbeth. The proper business of the drama, however, now commences. Neither the sublime nor the horrible belong to Goethe ; his forte is the pathetic, and with the entrance of Margaret, the true spirit of his genius descends into his pen; but the manner in which he accomplishes the seduction of that pretty and simple maiden is vile. He puts jewels in her box, for no other purpose, it would seem, than to draw forth an anathema on the greed of the priesthood—a crafty monk having contrived to possess himself of the jewels. He thus represents Margaret so sweet,--so gentle and confiding, -as really a mercenary wench. The whole idea of her seduction is poorly conceived, and executed in poverty. Even the simplicity with which she is made to poison her mother is without any effect. But the account of her antipathy to Mephistopheles is beautifully written.”

“ The man who still your steps attends,
That man, my deepest, inmost soul offends.
I never knew a feeling dart
So like a dagger through my heart,
As when his evil features cross my sight,

My foolish Margaret, why this causeless fright?

His presence chills my blood through every vein;
Ill-will to man I never entertain,
But, howsoe'er on you I love to gaze,
Still on that man my eye with horror strays;
To a bad race I hold him to belong.
May God forgive me, if I do him wrong! ,

He is not lovely, but such men must be.

Heaven keep me far from such a mate as he !
If at our door he chance to knock,
His very lip seems curl'd to mock,

Yet furious in his very sneers.
He takes no part in aught he sees or hears.
Written it stands his brow above-
No thing that lives that man may love.
Abandon'd to your circling arm,

I feel so blest, so free from harm-
** And he must poison joys so pure and mild.

Thou loveliest, best, but most suspecting child.

My nerves so strongly it comes o’er,

I feel, whene'er he joins us on our way,
As if I did not love you as before ;

As if I could not raise my voice to pray.
That fancy makes me tremble through my frame ;
Say what you will, yourself múst feel the same.”

“ The idea of Margaret placing flowers before the image of the Mater Dolorosa is delicately conceived, and the explanation given of the reason which led her to do this is also finely insinuated in the sorrow of her brother.”

“ When in some camp I joined the crowd,
Where jests went round, and boasting loud,
And many a clamorous voice proclaim'd
The charms and worth of maids they named,
And pledged, in mantling cups, the toast,
With elbows squared, I kept my post ; .
Let all their tongues at freedom run,
Nor utter'd, till the tale was done.
Then 'twas my turn my beard to stroke-
I fill'd my glass, aud smiled, and spoke..

Each to his mind—I gainsay none
But this I say, there is not one
Like my poor Margaret, or who
Is fit to tie my sister's shoe!
The merry glasses clang'd consent;
They clapp'd, they shouted-round it went-

She is the queen of all her race !'
The praise of others died apace,
And now !-my best resource remains,
Against the wall to dash my brains.
For I am one each knave who meets
May curl his nose at in the streets.
Nail'd like a felon by the ear,
Sweating each scurril jest to hear;
And though I smash'd them, low and high,
And gave the fiend their souls to fry,
I could not give one wretch the lie!

Who slinks this way ?—who passes there?
* Now, by my sister's shame I swear,
Should it be he whose blood I crave,
The miscreant treads upon his grave !"

“ A very noble scene is that also in which Margaret is described in the cathedral taunted by an evil spi- . rit. But the triumph of the author is the catastrophe, in which, after Margaret has been seized and condemned for the murder of her child, Faust goes to deliver her. I said that the horrible was beyond the powers of Goethe; but he has, in this exquisite passage, attained to something more rare and worthier of imitation, and which, for want of a better term, I would call the pathetic of horror.”

FAUST. “ Strength to my limbs my fainting soul denies,

Sick with the sense of man's collected wo;

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