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Good night!"

We are very loath to turn over so many pages, but we must pass to the last scene of all. The poor ruined girl, who has innocently killed her mother, and madly her child, is alone in her dungeon-She is to leave it for the gallows at day-break. Faust, her miserable betrayer, more miserable than she, appears at the door with a bundle of keys and a lamp.-But we entreat our reader to turn back to the number of June 1820, ere he proceeds to read what follows-or if Madame de Stael's Germany be at hand, it will do equally well.

"Dungeon.

FAUST, with a Bundle of Keys and a
Lamp before a low iron Door.
Faust. Strength to my limbs my faint-
ing soul denies,

Sick with the sense of man's collected

woe;

Behind this dungeon's dripping wall she lies,

Frenzy the crime for which her blood
must flow.

Traitor, thou darest not enter in
To face the witness of thy sin.

Forward! thy cowardice draws down
the blow.

Marg. (within) sings. Now shame on
my mother,

Who brought me to light,
And foul fall my father

Who nursed me in spite.
Faust. (unlocking the door.) She dreams
not that her lover hears the strain,
The straw's sad rustling, and the clinking
chain.

Marg. (hiding herself in the straw on
which she lies.)

Woe, woe! they wake me! bitter fate!
Faust. Hush, hush! I come to give thee
means to fly.

Marg. Art thou a man? then be com-
passionate.

Faust. Soft! thou wilt wake thy jailers
with that cry.

[He seizes the chains to unlock them.

Marg. (on her knees.) Who gave the
hangman power

So soon to wake and slay?
Why call'st thou me at midnight's hour?—
O! let me live till day!-
Is it not time when morn has sprung
[She stands up.

?

And I am yet so young! so young!
And yet so soon to perish by your laws.
Once I was fair too-that is just the cause.
One friend was near me then: he too is
fled.

My flowers are wither'd, and my garland
dead.

Seize me not thus! it gives me pain.

Have I e'er wrong'd thee? why then bind me so?

Let not my woman's voice implore in vain

Can I have hurt one whom I do not
know?

Faust. Can I outlive this hour of woe!
Marg. Ah! I am now within thy power;
Yet let me clasp my only joy,
My child! I nursed it many an hour,
But then they took it from me to annoy,
And now they say the mother kill'd her
boy.

"And she shall ne'er be happy more'—
That is the song they sing to give me
pain;

It is the end of an old strain,
But never meant me before.

Faust. He, whom you deem'd so far, be-
fore you lies,

To burst your chains, and give the life you prize.

Marg. Oh! raise we to the saints our
prayer!

For see, beneath the stair,
Beneath the door-stone swell
The penal flames of hell.
The evil one,

In pitiless wrath,
Roars for his prey.

Faust. (aloud) Margaret! Margaret! Marg. (starting) That was his voice! [She springs up; her chains fall off. Where is he? for I know 'twas he. None, none shall stay me; I am free! "Tis to his bosom I will fly,

In his embraces I will lie.

His Margaret he calls, on the threshold he stands,

'Mid the laughter and howls of the fiendish bands;

Through the shouts of their malice, their hissings of scorn,

How sweetly his voice of affection was borne !

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The garden blooms before me now,
Where first we shared the kiss, the vow.
Faust. Away! away!
Marg. Oh, not so fast!
Time is with you so sweetly past.
Faust. Haste, Margaret, haste!
For, if thou lingerest here,
We both shall pay it dear.

Marg. What, thou canst kiss no more!
Away so short a time as this,

And hast so soon forgot to kiss!
Why are my joys less ardent than they

were?

Once in those folding arms I loved to lie,

Clung to that breast, and deem'd my heaven was there,

Till, scarce alive, I almost long'd to die!

Those lips are cold, and do not move,

Alas! unkind, unkind!

Hast thou left all thy love,
Thy former love, behind?

Faust. Follow me! follow, Margaret!
be not slow:

With twice its former heat my love shall glow.

Margaret, this instant come, 'tis all I pray. Marg. And art thou, art thou, he for certain, say?

Faust. I am; come with me.

Marg. Thou shalt burst my chain, And lay me in thy folding arms again. How comes it, tell me, thou canst bear my sight?

Know'st thou to whom thou bring'st the means of flight?

Faust. Come, come!-I feel the morning breeze's breath.

Marg. This hand was guilty of a mo-
ther's death!

I drown'd my child! And thou canst tell,
If it was mine, 'twas thine as well.
I scarce believe, though so it seem→→
Give me thy hand-I do not dream-
That dear, dear hand. Alas, that spot!
Wipe it away, the purple clot!

What hast thou done? Put up thy sword;
It was thy Margaret's voice implored.

Faust. Oh Margaret! let the hour be past;

Forget it, or I breathe my last.

Marg. No; you must live till I shall

trace

For each their separate burial-place.
You must prepare betimes to-morrow
Our home of sorrow.

For my poor mother keep the best;
My brother next to her shall rest.
Me, Margaret, you must lay aside,
Some space between, but not too wide.
On the right breast my boy shall be ;
Let no one else lie there but he.
"Twere bliss with him in death to lie,
Which, on this earth, my foes deny,
"Tis all in vain-you will not mind,
And yet you look so good, so kind.
Faust. Then be persuaded-come with

me.

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pare

I come; the grave is yawning there! The grave, no farther-'tis our journey's end.

You part. Oh! could I but your steps attend.

Faust. You can! But wish it, and the deed is done.

Marg. I may not with you; hope for me is none !

How can I fly? They glare upon me still! It is so sad to beg the wide world through, And with an evil conscience too!

It is so sad to roam through stranger lands, And they will seize me with their iron hands!

Faust. I will be with you.
Marg. Quick! fly!
Save it, or the child will die!
Through the wild wood,
To the pond!

It lifts its head!

The bubbles rise!
It breathes!

Oh save it, save it!

Faust. Reflect, reflect! One step, and thou art free!

Marg. Had we but pass'd the hillside
lone-

My mother there sits on a stone.
Long she has sat there, cold and dead,
Yet nodding with her weary head.
Yet winks not, nor signs, other motion is

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see

But not at the dance will our meeting be. We two shall meet

In the crowded street:

The citizens throng-the press is hot,
They talk together I hear them not:
The bell has toll'd-the wand they break-
My arms they pinion till they ache!
They force me down upon the chair!
The neck of each spectator there
Thrills, as though itself would feel
The headsman's stroke-the sweeping steel!
And all are as dumb, with speechless pain,
As if they never would speak again!
Faust. Oh, had I never lived!
Mephistopheles (appears in the doorway)

Off! or your life will be but short; My coursers paw the ground, and snort! The sun will rise, and off they bound. Marg. Who is it rises from the ground! 'Tis he!-the evil one of hell! What would he where the holy dwell? 'Tis me he seeks !

Faust. To bid thee live.

Marg. Justice of Heaven! to thee my soul I give! Meph. (to Faust.) Come! come! or tarry else with her to die. Marg. Heaven, I am thine! to thy embrace I fly!

Hover around, ye angel bands!
Save me! defy him where he stands.
Henry, I shudder! 'tis for thee.
Meph. She is condemn'd!
Voices from above. Is pardon'd!
Meph. (to Faust.) Hence, and flee!
[Vanishes with Faust.
Marg. (From within.) Henry! Henry!

We notice that Lord F. Gower has given but a very mutilated version of the May-day night scene. This was wrong in every point of view. It destroys the poem of Goethe; and, if his Lordship thought, (which he probably did, and certainly might well do,) that he could not outstep Shelley in thiswhy not adopt the fragment at once? We trust this may yet be done. As it is, Lord Francis has produced a work which must at once give him a place, and no mean one, among the literary men of his time. He must prepare himself for encountering something of

that vulgar and petulant sneering, with which the gentlemen of the press are ever ready to insult the first appearance of a gentleman-still more of a nobleman. But all this will be of no avail. He has a right to be tried by his literary peers, and from their decision he has no reason to shrink. Mr Coleridge himself will not now dream of translating the Faust-another hand has done almost all that could be done even by him; and the English public may congratulate themselves upon the possession of one more work worthy to be associated with Coleridge's Wallenstein-worthy of being placed above even the best of Mr Gillies's translations from the German theatre-and

worthy of being placed above them for this one plain, simple reason-that Goethe is what Müller, Grillparzer, and Oehlenshlaeger aspire to be-and may perhaps be ere they die; but certainly have not as yet shewn themselves to be. We hope this splendid example will not be lost upon Mr Gillies. We earnestly hope he will turn seriously to the true masterpieces of German genius, and not meddle with the pupils, however meritorious, until their great, and we half fear, inimitable masters have been exhausted. Let him give us the BRIDE OF MESSINA-or the WILLIAM TELL— or the EGMONT, and take his place where he is entitled to be.

RAPP'S MEMOIRS."

MOST of our readers must have seen the print of Gérard's picture of the battle of Austerlitz-indeed it is on many a snuff-box. They may remember the cavalry officer, who, with his hat off, and sabre broken, is galloping up to Napoleon, who receives him, surrounded by his suite. This is no other than the author of the autobiographical volume now before us, the General Rapp himself. He was returning from the decisive charge which he had led in person, and which decided the day. "My sabre half broken," says he, "my wound, the blood with which I was covered, the decisive advantage gained over the choice of the

enemies' troops, inspired the Emperor at the moment with the idea of the picture, afterwards executed by Gérard."

Rapp was a native of Alsace; he early distinguished himself under Desaix, and was taken notice of by that talented general. He soon rose to favour under Napoleon, whose esteem at times, and whose suspicion and displeasure, at others, he won by a military frankness and bluntness of speech. Whenever any of Rapp's friends fell into disgrace with Napoleon, the blunt Alsacian was sure to shew it by some expression of spleen or ill-timed expostulations. And he thus became

• Mémoires du Général Rapp, Aide-de-camp de Napoléon écrits par lui-même. Paris et Londres, 1823.

generally implicated in the misfortunes of Regnier, Bernadotte, and subsequently of Josephine. But his gallantry at Austerlitz and Essling, with twenty and odd wounds, out-balanced his want of flexibility with Napoleon. Ney and Rapp were the only generals, said Napoleon, that preserved the hearts of stout soldiers in the retreat from Moscow. Rapp certainly paid his court at the Tuilleries in 1814, and in 1815 commanded the army of the Rhine for his old master. We shall see, whether the curious interview, in which Napoleon won him over, can excuse the desertion. He became afterwards chamberlain, or some such officer about Louis the Eighteenth's person, and was on duty at St Cloud the very day that the news of Napoleon's death arrived in Paris; the veteran, summoned suddenly before the King, made his appearance in undissembled tears:-" Go, Rapp," said the Monarch," I honour you for this tribute to your old master."

These memoirs, seemingly excited by the ultra calumnies against the ExEmperor, which they commence with answering, are sketched by the bold and hurried hand of an old soldier. He represents Napoleon as mild, tender, and scarcely ever inexorable in matters of life and death. He relates many instances of successful interference in such cases, but allows that he was often driven into excesses by the servile adulations of the court. He represents him as open to advice, even to remonstrance, though intolerant of the common-place arguments, which his relations especially sometimes pestered him with.

"Fesch was about to remonstrate with him one day on the war in Spain. He had not uttered two words, when Napoleon, drawing towards the window, asked, 'Do you see that star ?'-It was broad day.-

No,' replied the archbishop. Well, as long as I alone can perceive it, I follow my plan, and suffer no observations.""

The following anecdote, though nothing in itself, may account for the contradictions and contrary reports about the Emperor's apathy of feeling, on which point the author of Child Harold, and the Quarterly Review, are at issue:

"On his return from the Russian campaign, he was deploring with deep emotion, the death of so many gallant soldiers, mowed down, not by the Cossacks, but by cold and hunger. A courtier seeking to put in his word, added, with a pitiful tone -We have indeed suffered a great loss.'

-Yes,' rejoined Napoleon, Madam Barilli, the singer, is dead.""

He mystified indiscretion, says Rapp, but repulsed neither pleasantry nor frankness.

After some chapters devoted to the character of Napoleon, and to anecdotes concerning him, the Memoirs proceed with the "Third War of Austria," when, all hopes of invading our island being at an end, the French succeeded in shutting up Mack with the remains of his army in Ulm. Segur's account of the surrender is exceedingly interesting; the getting possession of the bridge over the Danube at Vienna is one of the best morceaus of Rapp's books, and shews how effectually Buonaparte was seconded by the dexterity and courage of his generals:

"We were marching on the traces of the enemy's rear-guard. It would have been easy for us to have routed it, but we knew better. The object was to deceive them into an abatement of vigilance: we never pushed them, but, on the contrary, spread about reports of approaching peace. We permitted troops and baggage to escape; a few men were of little importance in comparison with the preservation of the bridges. Once broken, we would have had the whole campaign to fight over again. Austria was assembling fresh forces, Prussia was throwing off the mask; and Russia presented herself prepared for action with all the resources of these two powers. The possession of the bridges was a victory, and one only to be obtained by surprise. We took our measures in consequence. The troops stationed on the route were forbidden to give the least demonstration that might create alarm; no one was permitted to enter Vienna. When everything had been seen, and examined, the Grand Duke took possession of that capital, charging Lannes and Bertrand to make a strong reconnoissance on the river. These two officers were followed by the Tenth Hus. sars. They found at the gates of the Faubourg a post of Austrian cavalry. There had been no fighting for three days; there was a kind of suspension of arms on both sides. Lannes and Bertrand address the commandant, enter into conversation with him, attach themselves to his steps, nor leave him for a moment. Arrived at the borders of the river, they determine to follow him farther: the Austrian grows angry: they demand to speak with the officer commanding the troops on the left side of the river. He suffers them to proceed, but without any of their hussars; the Tenth are obliged to take up a position. In the meantime our troops arrived, conducted by the Grand Duke (Murat) and Lannes. The bridge was yet untouched, but the

trains were laid, the cannoneers held the matches the least appearance of endeavouring to pass by force had ruined the enterprize. It was necessary to trick them, and the bonhommie of the Austrians gave us the means. The two marshals alighted, halted the column, and ordered but a very small detachment to advance and establish themselves on the bridge. General Belliard then advanced, walking with his hands behind his back, accompanied by two officers of his staff. Lannes joined him with others; they went, and came, talked, and even ventured into the middle of the Austrians. The commander of the post at first refused to receive them, but he yielded at last, and conversation was established between them. They repeated to him what Bertrand had already said, that the negotiations advanced, that the war was

finished. Why,' said the Marshal,

hold your cannons pointed against us? Haven't we had enough of blood, of combats? Do you wish to attack us, to prolong the evils of war, severer for you than for us. Come, no more provocation; turn your pieces.' Half convinced, half overborne, the commandant obeyed, the artillery was turned on the Austrians, and the arms piled up.

"During these arguments, the small body of the vanguard advanced slowly, masking sappers and artillerymen, who threw the combustible matters into the stream, poured water on the powder, and cut the trains. The Austrian, too ignorant of our language to take much interest in the conversation, soon perceived that the troops gained ground, and endeavoured to make us comprehend that this was wrong, that he would not suffer it. Lannes and Belliard tried to reassure him; they told him, it was but the cold that made the soldiers mark step, in order to warm their feet. The column, however, still approached, it had passed three-fourths of the bridge-the officer lost patience, and ordered his troops to fire. The troop ran to arms-the pieces were pointed-the position was terrible; with a little less presence of mind, the bridge was in the air, our soldiers in the waves, and the whole campaign compromised. But the Austrian had to do with men not so easily disconcerted. Marshal Lannes took hold of him on one side, General Belliard seized him on the other; they shake him, menace, shout, prevented his being heard. In the meantime Prince d'Aversperg arrives, accompanied by General Bertrand. An officer runs to acquaint Murat with the state of things, and to pass the order to the troops to hasten their step. The Marshal advances to Aversperg, complains of the commander of the post, demands that he be replaced, and sent off from the rear-guard, where he might trouble the negotiations. A versperg is deceived. He argues, approves, contradicts,

and loses time in a vain discussion. Our troops profit by the time, they arrive, expand, and the bridge is ours," &c.

The Memoirs sketch livelily and rapidly the victories of Austerlitz and Jena, and livelily describe the disgust of the French soldier in Poland ::

"Quatre mots constituaient, pour eux, tout l'idiome Polonais: Kleba? Niema; VOTA? SARA:-Bread? There's none. Water? You shall have it. C'était là toute la Pologne."

The dislike and horror of the French at passing the Vistula, amounted, indeed, almost to a presentiment, a prophetic feeling of their sufferings in Russia. Meantime, peace was concluded at Tilsit. Napoleon went to Spain, but was soon compelled to return by the wavering faith of the North. But the fame of Wellington's victories soon followed him-the Invincibles retreated-were mowed down by our forces-and English example wrought as much against Napoleon in the North, as their arms in the South.

"The reports, the disasters of Baylen gave Napoleon fresh doubts on the conduct of Prussia. He charged me to redouble my vigilance. Spare nothing to the Prussians,' he wrote me, they must not raise their heads more.'

"The news of the ill success which we met with in the Peninsula, spread itself immediately over Germany: they awakened new hopes, every breast was in fermentation. I forwarded accounts to Napoleon: but he did not like to be reminded of unpleasant occurrences, much less when they foretold a more disastrous future. • The Germans are not Spaniards,' replied he;

the phlegmatic character of the German has nothing in common with that of the ferocious Catalonians.""

In opposition to the opinion of all his counsellors, military or civilian, We all Buonaparte entered Russia.

know the consequences. Rapp received four wounds in the battle of the Moskwa, and lay sick when the flames of Moscow began; five or six times he dislodged to escape the flames. He gives a lively picture of the scene.The noise, the hurry, the conflagration, the sane even affrighted, and the litters of the wounded generals meeting here and there, as they were dragged in search of a secure spot. Rapp, however, survived, and in the retreat was dispatched by Napoleon to take the command of Dantzic. Here he supported a long siege, but at length surrendered, and was carried prisoner into Russia. He returned to

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