with his sauntering progress; and I know not whether it was the peculiar softness of the scene or the sweetness of his mellow voice, but I think I never heard an air more tender, or warbled with a simpler grace. It was a tune quite in the style of those wild and heartmoving airs which make the traveller in Ireland so often stop and listen; then prompt him to look round at the desolate grandeur of the scenery and the rustic songster, and wonder how strains so exquisite had birth in so rude a land, or found expression from so rough a tongue. The words of Geoffroi's song were Gascon. I have already avowed my ignorance of the particular dialect of that language used in those parts, but still I caught here and there an occasional word, the meaning of which I knew. Thus cla dé lune means moonlight; pin, pine-tree; beoïtat, beauty; forêt, forest; and la vie, life. And at the end of every cadence the name of names, Cazille, filled up the close. I made meanings for the blanks to please my own fancy, and stringing together some lines that suited the music, I found that I had almost inadvertently composed a series of extempore stanzas, which a less candid story-teller might have called a faithful and literal translation. SONG OF THE LANDES. The moonlight, through the branching pines, When timid glances trembling steal I see thee not, but thou art here! Through sorrow's cloud thy mellow smile There were half a dozen stanzas more, pretty much in the same sing-song style; but I forget half of them, and will not inflict the rest upon my readers. [For the satisfaction of the reader's curiosity, we may explain who the mysterious beings were whom our traveller met under such peculiar circumstances. The stranger who rushed from the cottage on Mr. Grattan's entrance, turns out to have been one of the members of the Assembly which condemned Louis XVI. to death, and his conscience is troubled by the thought that not only had he supported the capital sentence himself, but he had influenced others to do so. Mr. Grattan never discovered his name. The young lady is the regicide's daughter, and the wife of the young man with whom Mr. Grattan had no very agreeable conversation.] JOHN ANSTER, LL.D. BORN 1793- DIED 1867. [John Anster, the translator of Goethe's | English, and Goethe himself readily recognized Faust, was born at Charleville, county Limerick, in 1793. In 1810 he entered Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated A.B. in 1816, and LL.D. in 1825. The poetical talent which afterwards distinguished him was exhibited at a very early period. About 1815 he published a small volume of verses, and in 1817 gained the prize offered by the Dublin University for the best poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte. In 1819 were republished his early poems, with some additional ones, and translations from the German. In 1820 appeared in Blackwood's Magazine his first translations from Faust. These were the first portions of this great poem ever rendered into the skill and delicacy with which the fine touches of sentiment and character were reproduced. Anster was called to the bar in 1824, and for some years went the Munster circuit, but he did not attain much professional success. The favourable reception accorded to his translation encouraged him to proceed with the work, the first part of which he completed in 1835, the second part not having been brought out till 1864. The Dublin University Magazine says of it: "It is as an English poem that Anster's Faust must be regarded; and it is really astonishing with what felicity thoughts the highest and deepest in German theology, and the subtlest in their metaphysics, find adequate expres- | injustice as a man combined to work him insion in our language." The work is accepted justice as a lawyer. But he was a profound in Germany as the standard English trans- civilian in the eyes of all who could estimate lation of Faust. In 1837 Dr. Anster was his depth. His mind was in constant associaappointed by the Lord-lieutenant of Ireland tion with the great jurists of ancient and registrar to the High Court of Admiralty, and modern times. He had drunk deeply at the in the same year published another volume fountain of the philosophy of law. But his of poems under the title of Xeniola, which admirers are more numerous than the mere comprised translations from Schiller and De votaries of a science which attracts so few. la Motte Fouqué, and fully maintained the He was not only a profound lawyer but a high reputation of the author. In 1850 he was poet. As a poet he achieved a glory which, elected to the chair of regius professor of civil from the days of Dryden and of Pope, has law in the Dublin University. His first lec- only been achieved by Coleridge and by him. ture in this capacity, On the Study of Civil In his marvellous rendering of a wondrous Law, was afterwards published in 1859. He work he has made a German masterpiece a was a constant contributor to the Dublin Uni- British classic. He has proved that it is a versity Magazine, Blackwood, the North British poet only who can reproduce, revivify, and Review, and other magazines and journals. recreate a poet's work, and men will cease to Dr. Anster died at his residence in Dublin on remember the Wallenstein of Coleridge when the 29th of June, 1867. they cease to be instructed and entranced with Anster's Faust."] The following appeared in a Dublin newspaper:-"He was one of the chief lights and supporters of our national literature; foremost amongst that splendid band of writers, now scattered and silent, who founded and maintained the glory of the Dublin University Magazine. We mourn in him the loss of a man of brilliant and rare endowments. As a poet, a wit, a thinker, a talker, and a writer, his place will not be easily filled up in the literary circles of Dublin or in general society, where, sometimes brilliant or sometimes sad, according to the electric influences that surrounded him, he was yet always genial and gentle, and the best of conversationists on literary subjects, over which his keen wit played and flashed and flickered with strange eccentric lights, illuminating all he touched by his logic, his rapid fancy, and his playful irony, or the inexhaustible stores of his immense erudition." Shortly after his death a number of literary Germans resident | in Ireland presented an address of sympathy to his widow, in which they expressed their "profound sense of the important services rendered by Dr. Anster as an eminent scholar and poet in the promoting of German literature in this country." We conclude this sketch by an extract from the eulogium pronounced by Professor Webb on the occasion of his first occupying the chair of civil law after the decease of our author:"If there were any defect in that simple and unaffected nature it was the absence of the alloy of those harder if not baser materials which are so requisite in the practical concerns of life. The same causes which worked him THE DEATH OF MARGARET. (FROM "FAUST.") [Margaret is in prison awaiting execution her infant. Like Ophelia she has been driven on the following morning for the murder of mad by her sorrows. Faust, accompanied by Mephistopheles, visits and tries to rescue her.] PRISON. FAUST (with a bunch of keys and a lamp, before an iron wicket). Faust. 'Tis many a day since I have trembled Misery on misery heaped—a heavy burden, To die for that her brain was wild and frenzied. [He takes hold of the lock.-Singing from Song. My mother! my mother! Hear the chains, as they clank, and the straw Faust. 'Tis I. [He enters. rustling. Mar. (Hiding her face in the straw of her bed.) Woe! woe! they come! they come! death, bitter death! Faust. (In a low voice.) Hush! hush! 'tis I who come to rescue thee! Mar. (Rolling herself at his feet.) Art thou a man? Have pity upon me. Mar. more! 'Tis thou!-oh, tell me so once [Presses him to her bosom. 'Tis he, 'tis he-my pangs, where are they now? Dungeon, and chains, and scaffold, where are they? 'Tis thou, and thou hast come to rescue me. I am already free: look-there's the street Faust. Hush! hush! these screams and shrieks And yonder is the cheerful garden, smiling, [He takes hold of the chains to unlock them. [She stands up. Faust. I must-I must endure this misery! Faust. (Throws himself down.) A lover, Mar- Where I and Martha waited to receive thee. Mar. rue it. Mar. So short a time away from me, my love, Why do I feel so sad upon your neck? me As if you would smother me with your kisses! Where is my love? who robbed me of your love? break my chains! He comes to undo these bonds-unloose these down and call upon the saints. See! see! beneath us hell boils up-the devil Where is he? voice! That is my love's voice. How is it you do not shudder at my sight? away. Mar. My mother, I have murdered her-my I drowned my child-Oh was it not a gift Now am I free, none, none shall keep me from I scarcely can believe it is thyself. him. I'll clasp his neck, will lean upon his bosom ; I heard him call,-he's standing on the threshold,- Give me thy hand-it is not then a dream; moist Wipe, wipe it off! methought it felt like blood! And threats, and taunts, and laughs of devilish I pray thee do. scorn, I heard my own love's voice-his loving voice! Mar. No, you must live. No, you have to Looks heavy, and she sleeps too long too long remain, I will describe to you the graves which you But not too far from them must be my place-- Come to the bed of everlasting rest My bridal-day it should have been; tell none The square and street are thronged with crushing thousands; The bell hath sounded; the death-wand is broken; Yes, yes-that's all-that's all-not a step far- They bind and blindfold me, and force me on: Save thy poor child; By the side of the stream, With the motion of life. Faust. Recall thy wandering mind-be calm! be calm! One step, and you are free. Mar. Oh, that we had but left that hill behind! See there, my mother sitting on a stoneIcy-cold comes a dead hand on my temples. My mother there is sitting on a stone. And her gray head is trembling, and her eyes Close, and she now has ceased to nod; her head On to the scaffold they have hurried me; Is felt the bitter wound that severs mine. are lost; This trembling, and delay, and idle chattering, Of the gray morning. Mar. 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? Faust. Oh, thou shalt live, my love. Meph. (To Faust.) Come, or I leave thee here to share her fate. Mar. Father of heaven, have mercy on thy child. Ye angels, holy hosts, keep watch around me. Is saved. Hither to me! [Disappears with Faust. Voice. (From within, dying away.) Henry! Henry! DANIEL OWEN MADDEN. BORN 1815 DIED 1859. Our author's death was accelerated by his untiring energy. He died in Dublin on August 6, 1859, and was buried with his ancestors beneath the chimes of the Shandon Bells. A few days before his death he requested his friend Mr. W. J. Fitzpatrick to collect from his writings a volume of papers which he proposed to publish under the title of My Study Chair, or Memoirs of Men and Books. He also contemplated writing Thomas Davis, or Irish Aspirations, a voluminous correspondence with Davis during the five years preceding the latter's death having given rise to this proposed work. [This author was the only son of Owen | While in Dublin he also wrote occasionally Maddyn, a merchant of Cork, and was born on Irish topics for the Athenæum, as he had in the town of Mallow in the year 1815. The done for several years previously in London. change in the spelling of his patronymic by the subject of our memoir, was adopted in consequence of the existence of another Irish littérateur who bore the name of Maddyn; but his works are entered under the old form of name in the catalogues of the British Museum. Mr. Madden displayed a love for literature from childhood, and at a very early age contributed articles to Irish journals and magazines, the vividness of his sketches rendering them always welcome to editors. As he grew older his literary productions increased in extent and variety, embracing almost every subject connected with Irish history and politics. His first publica- Madden was a genuine Irishman of the tion appeared in 1843, and was entitled Ire-highest order, racy, talkative, sparkling, and land and its Rulers since 1829. In 1846 he prodigal of help to his young literary brethren, published The Right Hon. J. P. Curran and Amany a one of whom owed his rise to him. Memoir of the Life of the Right Hon. Henry Grattan. He was an enthusiastic admirer of Grattan, and in 1853 produced a volume of that statesman's speeches, with a commentary on his career and character, a second edition of which was published in 1854. He also wrote the first volume of The Age of Pitt and Fox, a work of brilliant promise, though its unfavourable reception discouraged him from completing it. This volume was written during the earlier portion of his career, and was followed in 1848 by Revelations of Ireland in the Past Generation. In 1842 he had mi- About the noon of a summer's day (circa grated to London, where he became per- 1787-8), sauntering along that "sweet shady manently connected with the Press newspaper. side of Pall Mall" sung of by Captain Morris, In his new home he wrote Wynville, or Clubs the fancy seizes us to visit Mr. Fox, whose and Coteries; The Game of Brag or the Bat-orations we have read with delight, of whose teray Boys, a Comic Novel; and The Chiefs of marvellous talents we have heard such wonParties, the latter being his last and most successful work. He also published anonymously Mildmay, or the Clergyman's Secret. A suggestion made in the Athenæum by a reviewer of Wynville induced him to turn his attention to men instead of questions, and the hint is acknowledged by him in the preface to The Chiefs of Parties. He had a singular objection to any obituary notice being written, and one of his dying requests was that no Irish newspaper should publish an account of his life or works. The only memoir of him extant is in an interesting letter by Mr. Fitzpatrick to the Athenæum, from which we extract our particulars of his career.] A DAY WITH CHARLES FOX.1 ders. Accordingly we proceed to one of the innumerable residences that he occupied during the vicissitudes of his career. We find him living in second-rate lodgings in the neighbourhood of St. James's Street, and the mediocrity of his abode strikes us as contrasting with the splendour of his fame. Ascending to his sitting-room we are face to face with a great historical character, and our breath is About the year 1857 he returned to Dublin, having undertaken an engagement with Mr. Skeet, the publisher of his earlier works, to devote himself to history and biography.f Parties. 1 This and the following extracts are from The Chiefs |