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 Moun-. chensey, and his son Raymond, to whom Millisent is betrothed; but old Clare 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 hignest 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;

Envil-Enfield.

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.

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 sus. picion, 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.

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. We 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-" 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. The votaress is carried off by her brother and Jerningham; but in the darkness of the night they lose their way, and encounter the deer-stealers and the keepers. A friendly forester, however, assists them, and they reach Enfield in safety. Not so fortunate are Sir Arthur and Sir Ralph, who are in pursuit of the unwilling nun: they are roughly treated by the keepers, and, after a night of toil, find a resting-place at Waltham. The priest and his companions are terrified by their encounters in the Chase: the lady in white, who has been hiding from them, is taken for a spirit; and the sexton has seen a vision in the church-porch. The morning, however, arrives, and we see "Sir Arthur Clare and Sir Ralph Jerningham trussing their points, as newly made up." They had made good their retreat, as they fancied, to the inn of mine host of the George, but the Merry Devil of Edmonton had set the host and the smith to change the sign of the house with that of another inn; and at the real George the lovers were being happily married by the venison-stealing priest, in the company of their faithful friends. Sir Arthur and Sir Ralph are of course very angry when the truth is made known; but reconcilement and peace are soon accomplished.

* Cheston-Cheshunt.

111.-MENTAL STIMULUS NECESSARY TO EXERCISE.

ANDREW COMBE.

[IN the desire to enhance the benevolent intentions of its author, we give the following extract from one of the most valuable and popular works of our time, The Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and to the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education:' By Andrew Combe, M.D. This eminent man was only in his forty-ninth

year when he died in 1848. His knowledge was of the best kind; but he had the high merit, which men of science have sometimes thought beneath them, of rendering that knowledge useful to the greatest number.]

That exercise should always spring from, and be continued under, the influence of an active and harmonious nervous and mental stimulus, will scarcely require any additional evidence; but, as the principle is not sufficiently appreciated or acted upon, a few remarks seem still to be called for to enforce its observance. The simple fact that the muscles are expressly constructed for the purpose of fulfilling the commands of the will, might of itself lead to the inference that a healthy mental stimulus ought to be considered an essential condition or accompaniment of exercise; and, accordingly, the muscular action becomes easy and pleasant under the influence of mental excitement, and a vigorous nervous impulse is useful in sustaining and directing it. On the other hand, how difficult, wearisome, and inefficient, muscular contraction becomes when the mind, which directs it, is languid or absorbed by other employments! Hence the superiority, as exercises for the young, of social and inspiriting games, which, by their joyous and boisterous mirth, call forth the requisite nervous stimulus to put the muscles into vigorous and varied action; and hence the utter inefficiency of the dull and monotonous daily walk which sets all physiological conditions at defiance, and which, in so many schools, is made to supersede the exercise which it only counterfeits. Even the playful gambolling and varied movements which are so characteristic of the young of all animals, man not excepted, and which are at once so pleasing and attractive, might have taught us that activity of feeling and affection, and sprightliness of mind, are intended by nature to be the sources and accompaniments of healthful and invigorating muscular exercise; and that the system of bodily confinement and mental cultivation now so much in vogue is calculated to inflict lasting injury on all who are subjected to its restraints. The buoyancy of spirit and comparative independence enjoyed by boys when out of school prevent them from suffering under it so much as girls do; but the mischief done to both is the more unpardonable when it does occur, because it might so easily have been entirely avoided. Even in some infant schools, where properly conducted exercise ought to be considered as a necessary of life, the principle on which I am insisting is so little understood or valued, that no play-grounds have been provided, and the very best means of moral as well as physical training -play with companions-has, to the great injury of the poor children been wholly omitted. Under judicious direction the play-ground affords the most valuable and effective aid to the parent and teacher, not only in eliciting the highest degree of physical health, but in developing the general character by the practical inculcation of moral principle, kindness, and affection, in the daily and hourly conduct of the children committed to their charge. A double evil is thus incurred in its neglect or omission.

Facts, illustrative of the beneficial influence of a mental stimulus as the only legitimate source of muscular activity, abound every where, and must be familiar to every reflecting mind; but as the practical influences deducible from them have, to a great extent, escaped the notice of parents and teachers, I shall add a few remarks in their farther elucidation.

Every body knows how wearisome and disagreeable it is to saunter along, without having some object to attain; and how listless and unprofitable a walk taken against the inclination, and merely for exercise, is, compared to the same exertion made in pursuit of an object on which we are intent. The difference is simply, that in the former case the muscles are obliged to work without that full nervous impulse which nature has decreed to be essential to their healthy and energetic action;

and that, in the latter, the nervous impulse is in full and harmonious operation, The great superiority of active sports, botanical and geological excursions, gardening and turning, as means of exercise, over mere monotonous movements, is referable to the same principle. Every kind of youthful play and mechanical operation interests and excites the mind, as well as occupies the body, and, by thus placing the muscles in the best position for wholesome and beneficial exertion, enables them. to act without fatigue, for a length of time which, if occupied in mere walking for exercise, would utterly exhaust their powers.

The elastic spring, the bright eye, the cheerful glow of beings thus excited form a perfect contrast to the spiritless and inanimate aspect of many of our boardingschool processions; and the results, in point of health and activity, are not less different. So influential, indeed, is the nervous stimulus, that examples have occurred of strong mental emotions having instantaneously given life and vigour to paralytic limbs. This has happened in cases of shipwrecks, fires, and sea-fights, and shows how indispensable it is to have the mind engaged and interested along with the muscles. Many a person who feels ready to drop from fatigue, after a merely mechanical walk, would have no difficulty in subsequently undergoing much continuous exertion in active play or in dancing; and it is absurd, therefore, to say that exercise is not beneficial, when, in reality, proper exercise has not been tried.

The amount of bodily exertion of which soldiers are capable is well known to be prodigiously increased by the mental stimulus of pursuit, of fighting, or of victory. In the retreat of the French from Moscow, for example, when no enemy was near, the soldiers became depressed in courage and enfeebled in body, and nearly sank to the earth through exhaustion and cold; but no sooner did the report of the Russian guns sound in their ears, or the gleam of hostile bayonets flash in their eyes, than new life seemed to pervade them, and they wielded powerfully the arms which, a few moments before, they could scarcely drag along the ground. No sooner, however, was the enemy repulsed, and the nervous stimulus which animated their muscles withdrawn, than their feebleness returned. Dr. Sparrman, in like manner, after describing the fatigue and exhaustion which he and his party endured in their travels at the Cape, adds,-" yet, what even now appears to me a matter of wonder is, that as soon as we got a glimpse of the game all this languor left us in an instant." On the principle already mentioned this result is perfectly natural, and in strict harmony with what we observe in sportsmen, cricketers, golfers, skaters, and others, who, moved by a mental aim, are able to undergo a much greater amount of bodily labour than men of stronger muscular frames, actuated by no excitement of mind or vigorous nervous impulse. I have heard an intelligent engineer remark the astonishment often felt by country people, at finding him and his town companions, although more slightly made, withstand the fatigues and exposure of a day's surveying better than themselves; but, said he, they overlooked the fact, that our employment gives to the mind, as well as the body, a stimulus which they were entirely without, as their only object was to afford us bodily aid, when required, in dragging the chains or carrying our instruments.-The conversation of a friend is, in the same way, a powerful alleviator of the fatigue of walking.

The same important principle was implied in the advice which the Spectator tells us was given by a physician to one of the eastern kings, when he brought him a racket, and told him that the remedy was concealed in the handle, and could act upon him only by passing into the palms of his hands when engaged in playing with it-and that, as soon as perspiration was induced, he might desist for the time, as that would be a proof of the medicine being received into the general system. The effect, we are told, was marvellous; and, looking to the principle just stated, to the cheerful nervous stimulus arising from the confident expectation of a cure, and to