""T is Peter Fabel, a renowned scholar, Not full seven miles from this great famous That, for his fame in sleights and magic won, Farther than reason (which should be his pilot) Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirl- As he doth lose the very sight of heaven: But the magician has tricked the fiend; the That whilst he lived he could deceive the chair holds him fast, and the condition of devil." The Prologue goes on to suppose him at Cambridge at the hour when the term of his compact with the fiend is run out. We are not here to look for the terrible solemnity of the similar scene in Marlowe's 'Faustus;' but, nevertheless, that before us is written with great poetical power. Coreb, the spirit, thus addresses the magician : “Coreb. Why, scholar, this is the hour my I must depart, and come to claim my due. Coreb. Fabel, thyself. release is a respite for seven years. The supernatural part of the play may be said here to end; for, although throughout the latter scenes there are some odd mistakes produced by the devices of Fabel, they are such as might have been accomplished by human agency, and in fact appear to have been so accomplished. Tieck observes, “It is quite in Shakspere's manner that the magical part becomes nearly superfluous." This, as it appears to us, is not in Shakspere's manner. In 'Hamlet,' in 'Macbeth,' in 'The Midsummer Night's Dream,' in ‘The Tempest,' the magical or supernatural part Fabel. O let not darkness hear thee speak is so intimately allied with the whole action that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amain, that it impels the entire movement of the piece. Shakspere knew too well the soundness of the Horatian maxim,— "Nec Deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus,”— to produce a ghost, a witch, or a fairy, without necessity. However, the magical part here finishes; 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, “Fabel. O that this soul, that cost so dear and his son Harry, arrive at the inn, where a price As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer, more Than man should know! For this alone God cast the angels down. The infinity of arts is like a sea, 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 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 Into which when man will take in hand to Jerningham. Old Mounchensey, it seems, sail has fallen upon evil days : U "Clare. For look you, wife, the riotous old by their friend, whatever be the intrigues of their parents :— knight Hath overrun his annual revenue, In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: His hawks devour his fattest hogs, 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 God, 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 tower, And come we back unto our native home, We'll first hang Envil* in such rings of mist drown the marshes unto Stratfordbridge: I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, And scatter them, like sheep, in every field. We may perhaps be crossed; but, if we be, He shall cross the devil that but crosses me." Harry Clare, Frank 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 *Envil-Eufield. "Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief With the true feeling of a zealous friend. Her angel-like perfections: but thon know'st 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 I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans, That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours 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, 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 sure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, 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 rap. turously:-"This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness 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, I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I, Lady Clare. Husband, it was so; he lies 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." 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 (Cheshunt):— We mean to make this trial of our child. Your care, and our dear blessing, in mean time, We pray may prosper this intended work. Prioress. May your happy soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tithe : He that many children gave, "T is fit that he one child should have. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell. Millisent. Good men and true, stand together, And hear your charge. Prioress. First, a mornings take your book, Bind your beads, and tell your needs, The sweetness of some of these lines argues the practised poet. Indeed the whole play is remarkable for its elegance rather than its force; and it appears to us exactly such a performance as was within the range of Drayton's powers. 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 : "Moun. Life of my soul! bright angel! Millisent. My heart misgives me; I should You? who are you? the holy Virgin bless me! me. Moun. Mounchensey, thy true friend. Millisent. My Raymond! my dear heart! Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul To wake a little from this swoon of joy. By what means camest thou to assume this shape? Moun. By means of Peter Fabel, my kind tutor, Who, in the habit of friar Hildersham, Millisent. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father. O my dear life, I was a dream'd to-night, Is in mine eye so glorious as thine own. Moun. O thou idolatress, that dost this worship To him whose likeness is but praise of thee! Thou bright unsetting star, which, through this veil, For very envy mak'st the sun look pale. Millisent. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother Should think the friar too strict in his de Millisent. Sweet life, farewell? 't is done, let that suffice; What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes." 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 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 :— "Fabel. To end this difference, know, at first I knew What you intended, ere your love took flight From old Mounchensey: you, Sir Arthur Clare, Were minded to have married this sweet beauty Such as but sat upon the skirts of art; Have I effected. Now, methinks, 't is strange That you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit Your forehead on this match; since reason fails, No law can curb the lover's rash attempt; Sir Arthur. Well, 't is in vain to cross the providence: Dear son, I take thee up into my heart; Host. Why, Sir George, send for Spindle's noise presently: Ha! ere 't be night I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Sir John. Grass and hay, mine host; let's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end." We lament with Tieck that the continuation of the career of 'The Merry Devil' is possibly lost. We imagine that we should have seen him expiating his fault by doing as much good to his fellow-mortals as he could accomplish without the aid of necromancy. Old Weever, in his 'Funeral Monuments,' has no great faith in his art magic: "Here (at Edmonton) lieth interred under a seemelie Tome, without Inscription, the Body of Peter Fabell (as the report goes) upon whom this Fable was fathered, that he by his wittie devises beguiled the devill: belike he was some ingenious conceited gentleman, who did use some sleighty trickes for his owne disports. He lived and died in the To young Frank Jerningham. To cross this raigne of Henry the Seventh, saith the booke match I used some pretty sleights, but, I protest, of his merry pranks." |