Coreb. Fabel, thyself.

Fabel. O let not darkness hear thee speak that word,
Lest that with force it hurry hence amain,
And leave the world to look upon my woe:
Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth,
And let a little sparrow with her bill
Take but so much as she can bear away,
That, every day thus losing of my load,

I may again, in time, yet hope to rise."

While the fiend sits down in the necromantic chair, Fabel thus soliloquizes:

Fabel. O that this soul, that cost so dear a price
As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer,
Inspir'd by knowledge, should by that alone,
Which makes a man so mean unto the

powers,
Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell;

When men in their own praise strive to know more
Than man should know!

For this alone God cast the angels down.

The infinity of arts is like a sea,

Into which when man will take in hand to sail
Farther than reason (which should be his pilot)
Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass
He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools,
As he doth lose the very sight of heaven:
The more he strives to come to quiet harbour,
The farther still he finds himself from land.

Man, striving still to find the depth of evil,
Seeking to be a god, becomes a devil.

But the magician has tricked the fiend; the chair holds him fast, and the condition of release is a respite for seven years. The supernatural part of the play may be said here to end, and we are introduced to the society of no equivocal mortal, the host of the George, at Waltham. Sir Arthur Clare, his wife Dorcas, his daughter Millisent, and his son Harry, arrive at the inn, where the host says, Knights and lords have been drunk in my house, I thank the destinies." This company have arrived at the George to meet Sir Richard Mounchensey, and his son Raymond, to whom Millisent is betrothed; but old Clare

VOL. II.

66

T

informs his wife that he is resolved to break off the match, to send his daughter for a year to a nunnery, and then to bestow her upon the son of Sir Ralph Jerningham. Old Mounchensey, it seems, has fallen upon evil days:

Clare. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight
Hath overrun his annual revenue

In keeping jolly Christmas all the year:
The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff'd
With smoke, more chargeable than cane-tobacco;
His hawks devour his fattest dogs, whilst, simple,
His leanest curs eat his hounds' carrion.
Besides, I heard of late his younger brother,
A Turkey-merchant, hath sure suck'd the knight,
By means of some great losses on the sea;
That (you conceive me) before gods, all 's nought,
His seat is weak; thus, each thing rightly scann'd,
You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land.

Fabel, the kind magician, who has been the tutor to Raymond, arrives at the same time with the Mounchensey party. He knows the plots against his young friend, and he is determined to circumvent them:

Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I

Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy?
Have I so many melancholy nights

Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower,
And come we back unto our native home,

For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st?
We'll first hang Envil * in such rings of mist
As never rose from any dampish fen;
I'll make the brinned sea to rise at Ware,
And drown the marshes unto Stratford-bridge;
I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks,
And scatter them, like sheep, in every field,
We may perhaps be cross'd; but if we be,
He shall cross the devil that but crosses me.

* Envil-Enfield.

Harry Clare, Ralph Jerningham, and Raymond Mounchensey, are strict friends; and there is something exceedingly delightful in the manner in which Raymond throws away all suspicion, and the others resolve to stand by their friend whatever be the intrigues of their parents:

Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief
With the true feeling of a zealous friend.

And as for fair and beauteous Millisent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber
Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st
That Essex hath the saint that I adore :
Where'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial,
But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me,
And with regardless jesting mock'd my love?
How many a sad and weary summer's night
My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth,
And I have taught the nightingale to wake,
And from the meadows sprung the early lark
An hour before she should have list to sing:
I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans,
That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day.
But, dear Mounchensey, had not my affection.
Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame,
Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love
Of one so worthy, and so true a friend,

I will abjure both beauty and her sight,
And will in love become a counterfeit.

Moun. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life,
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sate,
I feel my spirit rebound against the stars;
Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul,
There time, nor death, can by their power control.
Fabel. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy;
And were he not my pupil, I would say,
He were as fine a metall'd gentleman,
Of as free spirit, and of as fine a temper,
As is in England; and he is a man

That very richly may deserve thy love:
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse,
What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself
Exact upon the measure of thy grace?

Young Clare. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know
He does not breathe this air whose love I cherish,
And whose soul I love, more than Mounchensey's:
Nor ever in my life did see the man

Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts,
I think more worthy of my sister's love.
But since the matter grows unto this pass
I must not seem to cross my father's will;
But when thou list to visit her by night,
My horse is saddled, and the stable-door
Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure.
In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy,
And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy.

Moun. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend,
Back'd with the favours of so true a friend.

Charles Lamb, who gives the whole of this scene in his 'Specimens,' speaks of it rapturously ::-"This scene has much of Shakspere's manner in the sweetness and good-naturedness of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a saint in Essex;' and how sweetly

his friend reminds him!"

The ancient plotters, Clare and Jerningham, are drawn as very politic but not over-wise fathers. There is, however, very little that is harsh or revolting in their natures. They put out their feelers of worldly cunning timidly, and they draw them in with considerable apprehension when they see danger and difficulty before them. All this is in harmony with the thorough good-humour of the whole drama. The only person who is angry is old Mounchensey.

Clare. I do not hold thy offer competent;
Nor do I like the assurance of thy land,
The title is so brangled with thy debts.

Old Moun. Too good for thee: and, knight, thou know'st it well,

I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I,

'Twas thine own motion; that thy wife doth know.

Lady Clare. Husband, it was so; he lies not in that.

Clare. Hold thy chat, quean.

Old Moun. To which I hearken'd willingly, and the rather, Because I was persuaded it proceeded

From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy;

And gav'st him free access unto thy house,
Where he hath not behav'd him to thy child
But as befits a gentleman to do:

Nor is my poor distressed state so low

That I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee.

Clare. Let it suffice, Mounchensey, I mislike it;

Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.

Old Moun. I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear
As the best drop that panteth in thy veins:
But for this maid, thy fair and virtuous child,
She is no more disparag'd by thy baseness,
Than the most orient and the precious jewel
Which still retains his lustre and his beauty,

Although a slave were owner of the same.

We

For his "frantic and untamed passion" Fabel reproves him. The comic scenes which now occur are exceedingly lively. If the wit is not of the highest order, there is real fun, and very little coarseness. are thrown into the midst of a jolly set, stealers of venison in Enfield Chase, of whom the leader is Sir John, the priest of Enfield. His humour consists of applying a somewhat pious sentence upon every occasion- 66 Hem, grass and hay -we are all mortal-let 's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end." Mine host of the George is an associate of this goodly fraternity. The comedy is not overloaded, and is very judiciously brought in to the relief of the main action. We have next the introduction of Millisent to the Prioress of Cheston *.

The device of Fabel proceeds, in the appearance of Raymond Mounchensey disguised as a friar. Sir Arthur Clare has disclosed to him all his projects. The "holy young novice" proceeds to the priory as a visitor sent from Waltham House to ascertain whether Millisent is about to take the veil from conscience and devotion." The device succeeds, and the lovers are left together:

* Cheston-Cheshunt.