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'Hallo! ye pampered jades of Asia!

What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day?
And adds, with purest splendor, as with swaggering fustian:

The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven,
And blow the morning from their nostrils,
Making their fiery gait above the clouds,
Are not so honored in their governor

As you, ye slaves, in mighty Tamburlaine.' All the ferocities of the middle-age are in the Jer of Malta. If there is less bombast than in Tamburlaine, there is even more horror. Barabbas, the Jew, robbed by the Christians, has been maddened with hate till he is no longer human. He says to his servant:

'Hast thou no trade? then listen to my words,
And I will tcach thee that shall stick by thee:
First, be thon void of these affections,
Compassion, love, vain hope, and heartless fear;
Be moved at nothing, see thon pity none,
But to thyself smile when the Christians moan. ...

I walk abroad a-nights,
And kill sick people groaning under walls:
Sometimes I go about and poison wells.
Being young, I studied physic, and began
To practice first upon the Italian;
There I cnriched the priests with burials,
And always kept the sexton's arms in ure
With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells. ..
I fill'd the jails with bankrouts in a year,

And with young orphans planted hospitals.' By forged letters he causes his daughter's lovers to slay each other. She leaves him, and he poisons her. A friar comes to convert him, and he strangles him, joking with his cut-throat slave, who rejoices in the neatness of the job:

Pull amain,
"Tis neatly done sir; here's no print at all:
So, let him lean upon his staff; excellent!

He stands as if he were begging of bacon.' A true painting, conceived with an intensity and executed with a sweep of imagination unknown before. So in Eduard II, all is impetuous, excessive, and abrupt. Furies and hatreds clash; helplessness and misery wait for their hour alike in the fortalices of strength and the high places of pleasure. He who has seen and felt with volcanic energy the heights and depths of imagination and license can paint, more powerfully than Shakespeare in Richard II, the heart-breaking distress of a dying king:

· Hdward. Weep'st thou already! List awhile to me,

And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is,
Or as Matrevis, hewn froin the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me, is the sink

Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Lightborn. Oh villains !
Eduard. And here in mire und puddle have I stood

This ten days' space; and lost that I should sleep,
Onc plays continually upon a drum.
They give me bread and water, being a king;
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,
My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb*d;
And whether I have limbs or no, I know not.
Oh! would my blood drop out from every vein,
As doth this water from my tatter'd robes!
Tell Isabel, the Queen, I look'd not thus,
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,

And therc unhors'd the Duke of Cleremont.
What are we but sports of every pressure of the air? What is
life but a crushing fatality? A wreck upon the shore of time.
At

most, a brief day of joy or victory, then the silence and gloom of the Illimitable. Mortimer, brought to the block, says, with the mournful heroism of the old sea kings:

*Base Fortune, now I sec, that in thy wheel
There is a point, to which when men azpire,
They tumble headlong down that point I touched,
And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher,
Why should I grieve at my declining fall? –
Farewell, fair queen; weep not for Mortimer,
That scorns the world, and, as a traveller,

Goes to discover countries yet unknown.' So in Faustus, which best reflects the genius and experience of Marlowe, the overshadowing thought is

'Ay, we must die an everlasting death ...

What will be, shall be; divinity, adieu!' Therefore enjoy, at any cost, though you be swallowed up on the morrow; nor say to the passing moment, “Stay, thou art so fair,' but seek forever the intoxicating whirl. Faustus, glutted with ‘learning's golden gifts, swells with desire for the magi. cian's power:

• Emperors and kings
Are but obeyed in their sereral provinces;
But his dominion that exceeds in this,
Stretches as far as doth the mind of man.
A sound magician is a mighty god.
How I am glutted with conceit of this! .
I'll have them flv to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl.

I'll have them read me strange philosophy,
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings;
I'll have them wall all Germany with brass,

And make swift Rhine circle fair Wittenberg.'
To satisfy these vast desires, he summons, by his mystic art,
Mephistophilis from Hell:

Faust. And what are you that live with Lucifer?
Meph. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,

Conspired against our God with Lucifer,

And are forever damned with Lucifer.
Faust. How comes it then that thou art out of hell?
Meph. Why this is hell, nor am I out of it;

Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands

Which strike a terror to my fainting soul.
Faust. What: Is great Mephistophilis so passionate

For being deprived of the joys of heaven?
Learn then of Faustus manly fortitude,

And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.'
Boldly, to obtain four-and-twenty years of power, he sends an
offer of his soul to Lucifer:

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‘Had I as many souls as there be stars
I'd give them all for Mephistophilis.
By him I'll be great emperor of the world,
And make a bridge through the moving air.

Why should'st thou not? Is not thy soul thy own?'
At midnight the answer comes, and the bond is signed with
blood. Pangs of conscience come. Good and evil angels plead,
and he cries:

"O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour,

Help thou to save distressed Faustus' soul!' Too late, says the demon. Plunge into the rushing of time, into the rolling of accident, and deaden thought in the feast of the

senses:

'Oh, might I see hell, and return again,

How happy were I then!' He is conducted invisible over the whole world, around the whole circle of sensual pleasure and earthly glory, hurried and devoured by desires and conceptions that burn within him like a furnace with bickering flames. Ever and anon, in the midst of his transports, he starts, falters, and struggles with the toils of Destiny:

'I will renounce this magic and repent.
My heart's so harden'd I cannot repent;
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven,
But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears,
“Faustus thou art damned!" the swords, and knives,
Poison, guns, halters, and envenom'd steel,
Are laid before me, to despatch myself,
Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair.
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander's love and (Enon's death?
And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis ?
Why should I die, then, or basely despair?
I am resolved; Faustus shall ne'er repent.
Come Mephistophilis, let us dispute again,

And argue of divine astrology.' The term expires, and the forfeit is exacted. Faustus has run the round of his brilliant dream, and stands on the brink of the Bottomless. Never was such an accumulation of horrors and anguish. Mephistophilis gives him a dagger. An old man enters, and with loving words warns him:

"Oh, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps!
I see an angel hover o'er thy head,
And with a vial full of precious grace
Offers to pour the same into thy sonl:

Then ca}} for mercy, and avoid despair.' He would weep, but the devil draws in his tears; he would raise his hands, but he cannot. The lovely Helen is conjured up, between two Cupids, to prevent his relapse, and the wildfire kindles in his heart:

"Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless tow‘rs of Ilium?
Sweet Ilelen, make me immortal with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul! See where it fies.
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for Hear'n is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not llelena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy shall Wittenberg be sack'd;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
Yea I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh! thou art fairer than the erening air,

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.' The clock strikes eleven. He implores the mountains and hills to fall upon him, would rush headlong into the gaping earth, but it will not harbor him:

Oh, Faustus!
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.
Oh, I'll leap up to my God! -Who pulls me down?--
See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop would save my soul, half a drop: ah, my Christ,
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him.'

The clock strikes the half hour:

*Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. ...
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,

A hundred thousand, and at last be saved.'
The clock strikes twelve:

His poetry

• It strikes! it strikes. Now body turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
Oh soul! be changed into small water-drops,

And fall into the ocean: ne'er be found.' This tormented soul, who reels from desire to enjoyment, from the diabolical to the divine, is not the philosophic type of Goethe's Faust, the ferment of whose spirit impels him towards the ‘far-away,' though both are equally lost in the end; but I find nothing in that tragedy equal, in power of delineation, to this closing scene of terror, despair, and remorse.

If ever there was poet born, Marlowe was one. is irregular, but the irregularity is that of the extreme flight of virgin nature, the inequality of the young, eager, bounding blood. His Faustus was his twin-spirit, the expression of the social life of the period,- restless, self-asserting, hot-headed, and omnivorous. Extremes meet, at such times, in such men. With capacity for Titanic conceptions, they render gentlest beauty into sweetest music. Capable of enamored hate and soundless sensuality, they are also capable of the most delicate tenderness and the purest dreams. Thus Marlowe could leave his powerful verse, his images of fury, and say to his lady-love, in strains like the breath of the morning which has swept over flowery meads:

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hill and valley, grove and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,

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