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'Hallo! ye pampered jades of Asia!
What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day?
• The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven,
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,
I walk abroad a-nights,
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:
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,
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
This ten days' space; and lost that I should sleep,
And therc unhors'd the Duke of Cleremont.
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
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
I'll have them read me strange philosophy,
And make swift Rhine circle fair Wittenberg.'
Faust. And what are you that live with Lucifer?
Conspired against our God with Lucifer,
And are forever damned with Lucifer.
Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul.
For being deprived of the joys of heaven?
And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.'
‘Had I as many souls as there be stars
Why should'st thou not? Is not thy soul thy own?'
"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
'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.
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!
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,
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:
The clock strikes the half hour:
*Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. ...
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved.'
• It strikes! it strikes. Now body turn to air,
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,