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tion, may challenge comparison with any effort of the tragic muse since the days of her earliest youth.

Faust is mad with remorse, and to this madness, love, deep and enduring, adds poignancy, but lends method. He demands to see her, and after fruitless attempts on the part of the devil to deter him from going, they start at night across a gloomy moor, on those black horses which the genius of Retzch has invested with demoniac appearance in every line. They pass a gibbet, around which a hellish crew are engaged in "brewing and incantations." Onward they rush "forward" and "faster""needs must when the Devil drives"-and at length arrive at the prison where the victim of love is to become the martyr of law.

By the magic of Satan, he enters unobserved by the gaolers, and finds her in the dark cell chained to the floor, and mad, mad irretrievably! Faust enters during her piteous song, and when she perceives him, her crazed brain imagines:

"Woe woe! They come! they come! bitter death!

Death, Faustus (in a low voice). Hush! hush!' "Tis I who

come to rescue thee!

Margaret (rolling herself at his feet). Art thou a man? have pity on me."

Faust takes hold of her chains to unlock them, when she bursts into prayer for time"a little more time!"

'Savage, who gave this cruel power to thee?

It is not more than midnight now have mercy!
Is it too long a time to wait till morn?
And I am still so young, so very young!
And must I die so soon? And I was fair,
And I was fair, and that was my undoing.
Oh! if my love were here! but he is gone.
Torn is my garland; scattered all its flowers.
Oh, do not grasp me with such violence!
Oh, spare me! Sure I have not injured thee;
Let me not weep and pray to thee in vain!
Spare me! I never saw thy face before."

Much time elapses before she recognizes her lover. At length are described the tumult of mind which agitates him, and the newlyawakened, rapturous consciousness with which she asks:

"Where is he? Where? I heard my own love's voice!

Amid the noises and the howls of hell,

And threats, and taunts, and laughs of devilish scorn, I heard my own love's voice, his loving voice!"

These form a scene which must be read fresh from the author's hand to be fully appreciated, but which have no small power in the translation.

But reason only totters on its throne, and all the efforts of Faust are ineffectual to convey her away from the prison :

Faustus. Day dawns; oh, hasten hence, my love! my love!

Margaret. Day! yes, 'tis day, the last, the judgment day;

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And now the fiend comes to triumph over Faust, and urges him to retire. Margaret is infuriated at the appearance of Mephistopheles :

Marg. What shape is that which rises from the earth?

'Tis he! 'tis he! Oh, send him from this place!
What wants he here! Oh, what can bring him here?
Why does he tread on consecrated ground?
He comes for me!

Faust. Oh, thou shalt live, my love!

Marg. Upon the judgment-throne of God I call, On God I call in humble supplication.

Meph. (to Faust). Come, or I leave thee here to share her fate.

Marg. Father of Heaven, have mercy on thy child!
Ye angels, holy host, keep watch around me!
Henry, I am afraid to look at thee.

Meph. Come; she is judged!
Voice (from above).
Meph. (to Faust).

And saved! Hither to me.

(Disappears with Faust). Voice (from within, dying away). Henry! Henry!

ones.

And here ends all of Faust which is familiar to English readers, and in fact to many German The second part, or continuation, is a poem which has never been looked upon either as a necessary part of the Faust, or as an indispensable sequel. Goethe's Faust, our Faust, the world's Faust, ends with the faint but expressive declaration of the entrance of injured innocence upon that rest where "the wicked cease from troubling," and the utter discomfiture of the principles, the philosophy, and the machinations of his Satanic Majesty.

Anyone could have dressed up the old story of "the Devil and Dr. Faustus" in a poetic garb: one man only has risen who could invest the fable with truth and the old story with a new and unfading interest; an interest due, we think, not to its dramatic effect, nor its versification, nor yet to its wonderful collocation of deity, angels, demons, men, witches, and brutes, but to its deep philosophy of the human mind; to the consideration of the power and scope of the human imagination; to the aspiration and despondency of the human heart; to the supremacy of God in nature; to the fine picture of agency, thwarted by the Omnipotence which permits it for a season; and perhaps more than all, to the felicitous manner in which he has catered to the taste, the sensibility, and the household superstition of every man and woman, who has the honour to call him fellow-country

Satanic

man.

And here we leave our humble offering, until the times and the seasons demand a fresher and fuller garland from a more skilful hand,

LETTERS, &c., OF LORD BYRON.

Burgage Manor, Aug. 18th, 1804.

For my own part I can send nothing to amuse you, excepting a repetition of my complaints against my tormentor,* whose disposition seems to increase with age, and to acquire new force with time. The more I see of it the more my dislike to it augments; nor can I so utterly conquer the appearance of it, as to prevent her from perceiving my opinion; this so far from calming the gale, blows it into a hurricane, which threatens to destroy everything, till, exhausted by its own violence, it is lulled into a sullen torpor, which, after a short period, is again roused into a fresh and renewed phrenzy, to me most terrible, and to every other spectator astonishing . . . . . In this society, and in this instructive and amusing manner have I dragged out a weary fortnight, and am condemned to pass another, or three weeks, as happily as the former. No captive negro, or prisoner of war, ever looked forward to their emancipation with more joy, and with more lingering expectation than I do to my escape from bondage, and this accursed place. It is the region of dulness itself, and more stupid than the banks of Lethe, though it possesses contrary qualities to the river of Oblivion, as the detested scenes I now witness make me regret the happier ones already passed, and wish their restoration. Such, is the happy life I now lead-such my amusements. I wander about hating everything I behold, and if I remained here a few months longer, I should become, what with my spleen and all uncharitableness, a complete misanthrope; but notwithstanding, &c.

.....

Harrow-on-the-Hill, Oct. 25th, 1804. I am glad to hear that anybody gives a good account of me, but from the quarter you mention I should imagine it was exaggerated .. Love, in my humble opinion, is utter nonsense-a mere jargon of compliments, romance, and deceit. Now, for my part, had I fifty mistresses I should, in the course of a fortnight, drive them all out of my head (for as to heart I think it is out of the

* Irreverent and acrimonious as the complaints contained in these early letters may appear, they claim indulgence from the consideration that the angry feelings which dictated them ended-where they begun -with Lord Byron's boyhood. That the conduct which called them forth conduced to the gloomy habit of reflection which became the poison and the poetry of the noble writer's mind it is difficult to deny. The impression was never effaced-the oppression was seldom remembered; and when it was in after-years recollected, it was with respect for the rectitude of intention, without resentment for the miscalculation of

the means.

question) . . . . . I am sorry to say and myself do not agree like lambs in a meadow, but I believe it is all my own fault. I am rather too fidgetty We differ, then argue, and, to my shame be it spoken, fall out a little; however, after a storm comes a calm. I am happy enough, and comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but select; among them I rank, as the principal, Lord who is very amiable, and my particular friend. Do you know the 's at all? If Lady resembles her son she is the most amiable woman in Europe. I have plenty of acquaintances, but I reckon them as mere blanks.

This morning,

Harrow, Nov. 2nd. 1804.

I received your affectionate letter, and it reached me at a time when I wanted consolation-not, however, of your kind. . . . No, my sorrows are of a different nature, though more calculated to provoke risibility than excite compassion. You must know, that I am the most unlucky wight in Harrow-perhaps in Christendom, and am no sooner out of one scrape than into another. And to-day-this very morning-I had a thundering jobation from our good doctor, which deranged my nervous system for at least five minutes. But, notwithstanding he and I now and then disagree, we are very good friends; for there is so much of the gentleman;t so much mildness, and nothing of perlantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He leaves Harrow soon: àpropos, so do I. His quitting will be a considerable loss to the school. He is the best master we ever had, and is at the same time respected and feared. Greatly will he be regretted by all who know him. You tell me you do not know my friend, Lord He is considerably younger

*This friendship was only extinguished with Lord Byron's life. Its sincerity was afterwards distinguished by a refusal to subscribe to the monument to his memory.

The truth of these feelings is confirmed by their duration. In the notes to the fourth canto of Childe Harold we find the following tribute of gratitude: ... My preceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late, when I have erred; and whose counsels I have best followed when I have done well and wisely. If this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration-of one who would gladly boast of having been his pupil, if by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his inIstructor."

than myself, but the most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe-to all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being remarkably handsome; almost too much so for a boy. He is at present very low in the school; not owing to his want of ability, but to his years. I am nearly at the top of it. By the rules of our seminary he is under my power, but he is too good-natured ever to offend me, and I like him too well ever to exert my authority over him. If ever you should meet him, and chance to know him, take notice of him on my account. .... All our disputes have been lately heightened by my own with that object of my earliest deliberate detestation, Lord She wishes me to explain my reasons for disliking him, which I will never do. Could I do it to anyone, be assured you, would be the first who would know them. She also insists on my being reconciled to him . . He called once during my last vacation. She threatened, stormed, begged me to make it up; he himself bored me, and wished it, but my reason was so excellent that neither had effect; nor would I speak or stay in the room, or re-enter it, till he took his departure. No doubt this appears odd; but were my reason known (which it never will be if I can help it), I should be considered justified in my conduct. Now if I am to be tormented by her and him in this style, I cannot submit to it. You,, are the only relation I have who treats me as a friend: if you, too, desert me, I have nobody I can love but If it was not for his sake Harrow would be a desert, and I should dislike staying at it. You desire me to burn your epistles: indeed I cannot do that; but I will take care they shall be invisible. If you burn any of mine I shall be monstrous angry. Take care of them till we meet.

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and my

self are in a manner connected, for one of our forefathers, in Charles the First's time, married into their family. H-, whom you inquire after, is on very good terms with me-nothing more. He is of a soft, milky disposition, and of a happy apathy of temper, which defies the softer emotions, and is insensible of ill-treatment. So much for him. I should like to know your Lady -, as you and she are such good friends.

...

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When she has occasion to lecture me (not very seldom you will think, no doubt) she does not do it in a manner that commands respect, and in an impressive style. No did she do that I should amend my faults, with pleasure, and dread to offend one kind but just; but she flies into a fit of phrenzy, upbraids me as if I was the greatest wretch in existence; rakes up the ashes of my father, abuses him, says I shall be a true Byron, which is the worst epithet she can bestow I to be trampled upon in this manner? Am I to be goaded with insult, loaded with obloquy, and suffer my feelings to be outraged on the most trivial occasions? ... What an example does she show me! I hope in God I shall never follow it! I have not told you all, nor can I shock you with the repetition of scenes which you may judge of by the sample I have given you, and which, to all but you, are buried in oblivion-would they were so in my mind! I am afraid they never will be . . . Am I to be eternally subjected to her caprice? I hope not. A few short years will emancipate me from the shackles I now bear . . . . . It is her duty to impress precepts of obedience, but her method is so violent and capricious that the patience of Job, the versatility of a member of the House of Commons could not support it. I revere Dr. Drury more than I do her, yet he is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him, not, however, through fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy under his displeasure. Her precepts never convey instruction to my mind; to be sure they are calculated to inculcate obedience-so are chains and tortures; but though they may restrain for a time, the mind revolts from such treatment-not that Mrs. -ever injures my sacred person. I am rather too old for that; but her words are of that rough texture which offends much more than personal ill-usage. "A talkative woman is like an adder's tongue." -so says one of the prophets, but which I can't tell, and very likely you don't wish to know; but he was a true one whoever he was

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Harrow-on-the-Hill, Nov. 21st, 1804. This morning I received your by no means unwelcome epistle, and, thinking it demands an immediate answer, once more take up my pen to employ it in your service . . . . . To Lord make my warmest acknowledgments. I feel more gratitude than my feelings can well express. I am truly obliged to him for his endeavours on my behalf, and am perfectly satisfied with your explanation of his reserve, though I was hitherto afraid it might proceed from personal dislike. I have some idea I leave

Harrow, Saturday, Nov. 4th, 1804. I thought, , that your opinion of would coincide with mine: her temper is so variable and, when inflamed, so furious that I dread our meeting; not but I dare say I am troublesome enough, but I always endeavour to be as little so as possible. She is so strenuous and so tormenting in her entreaties with regard to my reconciliation with that detestable Lord, that I suppose. . . . . She has * While the reader is again called upon to admire an excellent opinion of her personal attractions a pleasing eulogy on Dr. Drury, he will probably -sinks her age a good six years but regret the juxtaposition of opposite sentiments to vanity is the weakness of your sex, and these which it owes much of its beauty. The objectionable are mere foibles that I have related to you, and passages would have been entirely omitted could they provided she never molested me, I should look have been wholly condensed, both in this and in other letters. upon them as follies very excusable in a woman

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Harrow these holidays. The Doctor, whose | character I gave you in my last, leaves the Mastership at Easter; who his successor may be I know not, but he will not be a better I am confident. She does not trouble me much with epistolatory communications. When I do receive them they are very concise and very much to the point; however I will do her the justice to say that she behaves, or, rather, means well, and is in some respects very kind, though her manners are not the most conciliatory. . . . I again request you will return my sincere thanks to Lord and for the future I shall consider him more my friend than I have hitherto been taught to think. I have more reasons than one to wish to avoid going to Notts, for there I should be obliged to associate with Lord -, whom I detest, his manners being unlike those of a gentleman, and the information to be derived from him but little, except about shooting, to which I do not intend to devote life; besides, I have a particular motive for not liking him . . . .

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6, Chancery-lane, Jan. 30th, 1805. I have delayed writing to you so long, from ignorance of your residence, not knowing whether you graced with your I have contrived to pass the holidays with Mr. and Mrs. to whom I am greatly obliged for their hospitality You are now within a few days' journey of If you wish your spirits raised, or, rather, roused, I recommend you to pass a week or two with her.

A WORD IN SEASON.

Oh! grant relief-to ye the power is given,

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On whom earth's blessings have been shower'd by

To

Heaven;

ye, who misery only know by name,

And health, content, and affluence can claim,

The voice of poverty, with piercing cry,

Appeals, and humbly sues for charity.

Can ye behold unmov'd the suffering poor,
And drive pale want and famine from your door,
Yet think all-seeing Heaven will bless your store?
Ye who possess all-all your soul's desire,
Much hath been given-much will God require;
It is His edict, His divine command,
That ye shall clothe the naked of the land-
Take to your hearts the stranger in his need-
Visit the sick, and those "an hunger'd" feed;
What a dread sentence, what a fearful lot
Will be their portion, this command forgot!
Depart, ye wicked, for I know ye not;
Ye sent the hungry empty from your door-
Denied a covering to the naked poor-
The sick, the imprison'd, came ye not to see;
Ye did it not to these, nor unto me.
DIVES, on earth, enjoy'd his sumptuous state,
Unmindful of the beggar at his gate;
Learn from his fate, hereafter, to avoid
The sentence pass'd on riches misemployed.

Such doom avert-your liberal alms bestowRelieve the needy-seek the house of woe

Cheer, by your aid the victims of distress,
Struggling with fate, in utter wretchedness,
Pining with want, in squalid hut or shed,
Without wherewith to gain their daily bread:
And timely bounty fail not to impart,
Make glad the widowed and the orphaned heart.
Oh! learn to value and to merit here
The widow's blessing, and the orphan's tear;
Whose thousand ills embitter human life;
The father, husband, and devoted wife,
Assuage their wants, or soothe the hour of death,
That they may bless ye with life's falt'ring breath.
May in your hearts this sacred precept live!
Freely ye have received, as freely give;
Twice bless'd that aid which charity confers
On friendless, homeless, houseless wanderers,
"It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:"
Oh, then, for such-for such poor suppliants' sakes,
Now grant relief-now aid, with willing hand,
The helpless destitution of the land:
Bestow your bounty with the hand 'tis given,
Die honour'd here-live recompens'd in heaven.
Ashford.
FREDERICK RULE.

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THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.

BY A DETECTIVE OFFICER.

I don't think that I was ever out in a hotter day in Australia than the one of which I am now about to write. The sun had been pouring down streams of fiery light, that made me thank my stars that I was not in "Force" uniform, though, as it was, the heat burning through the tweed coat upon my back made me feel as if it was cast-iron, and riveted upon my body. My poor mare felt the fatigue and almost insuf-vating trees in the universe. Fortunately I was ferable heat quite as much as I did, I dare say; while the flies, those tormenting nuisances of bush life, nearly drove both him and me mad.

Very beautiful in early morning is the green scattered "bush" of Australia. A thousand beauties may be freshly discovered, as it were, at every fresh mile of travel. In one spot, grand, crooked old leaves lean caressingly over some tortuous and glistening creek, or stand sentinel over their own reflections in the placid water. Early birds call to each other from scented golden wattles, or wash themselves in the shadows of the old gum-trees upon the edge of the creek. If it is the season for the stately magpie, he utters those delicious gurgles of music, that cannot be compared with the notes of any other bird in the wide world, or stalks proudly over the grassy slopes, as if he really believed he and his were the "monarchs of all they surveyed."

Later in the day, too, when the thermometer stands no higher than 103 or 104 or so, one may yet enjoy a ride through the glades of our eastern forest. The screams of the cockatoos are discordant, no doubt, but how enjoyable it is to catch a glimpse of them hovering over some tall tree or resting upon a bough, with outspread wing, swaying themselves to and fro in the very enjoyment of pure life! Cawing crows are nasty things, too, and suggestive of something that one doesn't at all want to come in contact with; nevertheless, their feathers are so glossy and black, and the clear blue sky, unflecked by a single cloud, throws their wings out into such bold relief above the green treetops, that one cannot but try to forget their disagreeable habits, and admire them as a part of every Australian bush scene.

Well, I cannot be sure that you will exactly know what I am driving at, but I am coming to the point. After assuring you that I admire and enjoy the beauty of bush scenery as much as any one, when it ia really admirable and enjoyable, I defy any man living to picture to himself or to endure a more detestable ordeal than a ride through that same beautiful bush scenery on the sort of day when my story commences. Over a long, broad, treeless plain,

we will say, with the sun burning up every blade of grass dry and brown, and pouring down upon your miserable head; or on a lonely track, where only now and then a tree comes aggravatingly near the road to make you wish for shade, if it were but for one moment; I say aggravatingly, for I think that, with respect to shade, those same eucalypti are the most aggrain no hurry on that particular day. I was returning from the successful accomplishment of a troublesome piece of police business, and was only anxious to get to my destination for the night, and over the seemingly interminable day of heat I had just past through; but had I been upon the most urgent business in the world, it would have been next to impossible for my poor horse to have galloped many miles at a stretch, with the thermometer standing so high as it did that day.

Poor Vino! I fancy I see her now, as we neared the lonely bush inn, where she was as certain as I was myself of rest and refreshment. She was a glossy bright bay, strongly built, and yet a half-blood; and although she bore no broad arrow painted on her silky coat, she had been in the Force many years. She was a detective's animal, and I had ridden her for most of the three years during which I had seen colonial service. I do believe she was almost as good as a detective, as I was myself; and I am not ashamed to own that her sagacity and instinct-whatever you may choose to call it-gave me many a hint, of which I never found it to my disadvantage to avail myself.

The sun then was just dipping below the tops of the trees as Vino pricked up her ears with a glad whinny, and I perceived, away through the heavy bush that was thickly scattered upon the grassy plain over which we passed. the loug, weather-boarded "Wallaby Hotel," which was my destination for the night. I had been there before, but in such a different guise, that I had no fear of mine host recognizing me; nor did I much care though he should, save that the usual caution of a detective officer made me prefer secrecy, with a view to some possible future contingency.

As we neared the hotel I perceived a bullockdray approaching it from an opposite direction to that in which I myself travelled, and just as I drew up at the door, the team also came to a halt in front of it; while the driver, leisurely tumbling himself off the empty dray, proceeded into the bar, one might guess for the purpose of obtaining a nobbler. All this was very natural and there was nothing whatever suspicious about it; but as this man passed Vino, from

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