Letters from Abroad; or the Cockney in Lines written under an Epitaph in D-D Literary Souvenir; or Cabinet of Poetry London in the Olden Time, notice of, Lover's Last Meeting, the, by T. K. Lover's Lexicon, No. I. 102 Lover's Quarrel, the, No. II 242 Lyra, the Infant, 86 Lute, the Untouched, a Sonnet, 89 Stanzas, on hearing Caradori Sing. By Stanzas to One who will Understand them, Stanzas for Music. By Mrs. Cornwell Stanzas for Music. By C. Sn 150 Man of Fact, a, and a Man of Fancy, 263 Starlight, 170 Meeting at Twilight, the, 73 Memoirs of the Countess De Genlis, no- My Own Fireside, by Alaric A. Watts, Subtle Club, the, 17 Summer Evenings. No. I. 21 Summer Evenings. No. III. Ode by the Tales of the Crusaders, notice of, 35 Think Me not Happy. By Cheviot Tiehe- Troubadour, by L. E. L. notice of, with Twilight Musings, 62 University Intelligence, 47 Veiled Bride, the, a Romance. By the Veiled Bride, the, a Romance. Part. II. Watts, Alaric A. Esq. Lines to. By I.. What is Memory? By C. Sn, 262 Wreck, the By Mrs. Hemans, 245 Young Leslie, a Ballad. 262 Youth Renewed. By James Montgomery, THE LITERARY MAGNET; AND ACADEMICAL MAGAZINE. GOETHE'S FAustus. THE Faustus of Goëthe has not been inaptly defined, by Madame de Staël, to be the "nightmare of the imagination." Thrilled as we are with its magic horrors, during the influence, an oppression labours on the breast, arising perhaps from the repugnance we entertain to its supernatural objects. It is neither tragedy nor romance, but a mixture of both, occasionally borrowing the attributes of pantomime, for which it was originally written. There is a species of ludicrous horror, that makes us smile, even while we shudder-a wild pleasantry thrown over the most terrific scenes, as distinct from hilarity as the hysteric laugh of the maniac is to the cheerful smile of innocent gaiety. The impression we receive from the whole work is, that it was written either during the influence of a delirium, or from the inspiration of sorcery. A whirlwind of thoughts and ideas scatter themselves throughout the mind, inseparable and indefinable. We are tossed up into the heavens of the author's lofty aspirations in one line, and in the next we sink with him into the yawning abyss of insupportable darkness and despair. While starting at the horror with which we are surrounded, we are brought again on our feet by some ludicrous image or sarcastic remark. In many of the finest passages, we fancy we discern the spirit of Shakspeare, while the lighter parts have much of the rich humour and powerful satire of Aristophanes. The actionthe beautiful unity of the piece taken as a drama, seems formed after the severe propriety of Sophocles. It is much to be regretted, that we have no translation that can give to those unacquainted with the German language the mystical spirit of this extraordinary performance. Lord Leveson Gower's is unquestionably a work of very great talent, but it is deficient in that unearthly gloom which pervades the original. The only medium through which we can form an idea of its peculiar wildness, is Shelley's "May-day Night," which is executed in such a masterly style as to make every of its readers regret that the translator did not render the whole of the poem. Of the chief personages, or rather agents, of this drama, we must rank highest Mephistopheles, the Principle of Evil, as being drawn with the boldest conception, and executed with the most consummate precision. He seems like the triumph of hell over earth—of all the good qualities of mankind perverted for the purposes of wickedness. There MAGNET, VOL. IV. PART XXII. B is naturally in the mind a feeling of curiosity respecting the principle from whence evil is supposed to originate. We creep towards-we tremble while we lift up the veil which hides the Medusa from our sight; and, although we know the penalty, dare satisfy our longings. Here the character of the Devil puts the phantasms of the mind to flight, and the fallen spirit seems to assure of his horrid reality. There is a jocose familiarity in his speech, that would identify him with us as a human being, did not the depravity of his nature momentarily discover itself, and effectually destroy the illusion. He gloats over, with a savage triumph, the fallen state of mankind; he hails with glee every vicious propensity; and to satisfy us of his own base state, rejoices at every shade in the disposition of man that seems to be contrary to its original purity. The design of a great master may be traced throughout the whole play, and a terrific moral is palpable. The higher that our aspirings become, the more elevated and daring is the soul; but yet, if we suffer our minds to wander into the fields of forbidden knowledge, the greater becomes our restlessness, and the more insupportable our discontent. From Faustus we may perceive the boundary that separates vice from virtue to be of the nicest edge, and that no sooner are we on the contrary side, than the greater our temptation increases to continue in the path of error, and the less is our power to return to that state of innocence from whence we have fallen. The character of Faustus is an apt illustration of the foregoing observations. Here is a man blessed with every faculty that can render the mind of one man superior to the bulk of its fellows. Greedy of pleasure, selfish and inconstant in his wishes, he grasps at boundless pleasures: he possesses them; and even in the fulness of enjoyment feels, that ere he has paid their price, their zest is flown, that ere his hunger is appeased, his appetite has fled, and has left him the curse of satiety while yet in the pursuit of happiness. Margaret is the only leading object in the drama whose fate deserves our commiseration. So young in years, so full of love, of the freshness of life, of a heart yearning with the kindest affections of our nature, with hope and happiness before her, her melancholy end appeals irresistibly to the soul. The very weakness through which she falls, makes her a closer object of our compassion, and destroys all feeling of pity for her remorseless betrayer. It is not our intention to give a full detail of the incidents of the poem; but, for the sake of entering more fully into the spirit of the exquisite designs of the artist who has so surprisingly caught the author's enthusiasm, (one of which is the accompanying embellishment), we propose giving the scene it illustrates, which is in general the finest of the play. It should be understood, that Faustus, having resigned himself to the control of the Principle of Evil, for the gratification of his inordinate desires, fixes on Margaret, a beautiful and virtuous girl, as one of the victims. Through the intervention of the Evil One, she falls beneath the fascinations of Faustus. The natural consequences ensue, and she is deserted by her betrayer, who, in aggravation of his cruelty, has killed her brother in a duel, upon that injured relative demanding justice of the sacrificer of his sister's honour. In an agony of shame and remorse, the unfortunate mother subjects herself to the charge of infanticide, for which she is thrown into prison. Here the Devil and Faustus endeavour in vain to release her, upon terms too revolting to the principles of her nature and religion. This scene, the last in the play, will be found harrowing beyond description, and the spirit will be found extremely well conveyed through the following translation : SCENE.-The Prison. FAUSTUS before the dungeon gates, with a key and a lamp. FAUSTUS. A trembling long unfelt assails my limbs, [He seizes the lock.-A voice is heard within, singing a She dreams not that her love is listening near, Hears the straw rustle, and the fetters clank. [He enters. MARGARET (striving to conceal herself in her straw bed). FAUSTUS (softly). Hush, hush! 'tis I: I come to set you free. MARGARET (throwing herself before him). If thou art human, pity my distress. FAUSTUS. You will alarm the slumbering jailors: hush! [He lays hold of the fetters, to unloose them. Ruffian who gave thee this authority, Is scattered: nay, nay, seize me not so rudely! 'Tis the first time I e'er beheld thy face. Thou see'st I'm in thy power-then let me only O, let us kneel, and supplicate the saints! See, see! beneath these steps, beneath this threshold, Raves wrathfully and horribly below. [Rises. Margaret-Margaret ! FAUSTUS (aloud). MARGARET (listens-then jumps up the fetters fall off'). That surely was the voice of him who loved me; Where does he stay ? I hear him call my name. I am at liberty: none none shall stay me : I fly to embrace, to hang upon his bosom : Margaret," he called; he stood upon the threshold : Through fiends' dark taunts, and diabolic laughter, What, not one kiss ! and hast thou, then, forgot When once thy words, thy looks, to me were heaven I am my mother's murderer. have drowned Wipe-wipe it off. Methinks there's blood upon it. What hast thou done? For heaven's sake, sheath that sword. FAUSTUS. Oh! let the past be past. Thou stabbest me. MARGARET. No, thou must stay, while I describe the craves |