CHAPTER V. THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. "THE Merry Deuill of Edmonton: As it hath been sundry times acted by his Maiesties Servants, at the Globe on the Bankeside,' was originally published in 1608. Kirkman, a bookseller, first affixed Shakspere's name to it in his catalogue. In 'The Companion to the Playhouse,' published in 1764, it is stated, upon the authority of a laborious antiquary, Thomas Coxeter, who died in 1747, to have been written by Michael Drayton; and in some posthumous papers of another diligent inquirer into literary history, Oldys, the same assertion is advanced. Charles Lamb, who speaks of this play with a warmth of admiration which is probably carried a little too far—and which, indeed, may in some degree be attributed to his familiarity with the quiet rural scenery of Enfield, Waltham, Cheshunt, and Edmonton, in which places the story is laid-says, "I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece: it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that panegyrist of my native earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stepped over) without honourable mention; and has animated hills and streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology.' ""* "The Merry Devil' was undoubtedly a play of great popularity. We find, from the account-books of the Revels at Court, that it was acted before the King in the same year, 1618, with 'Twelfth Night' and 'A Winter's Tale.' In 1616, Ben Jonson, in his Prologue to 'The Devil is an Ass,' thus addresses his audience : Its popularity seems to have lasted much longer: for it is mentioned by Edmund Gayton, in 1654, in his 'Notes on Don Quixote.'+ The belief that the play was Shakspere's has never taken any root in England. Some of the recent German critics, however, adopt it as his without any hesitation. Tieck has translated it; and he says that it undoubtedly is by Shakspere, and must have been written about 1600. It has much of the tone, he thinks, of 'The Merry Wives of Windsor,' and "mine host of the George" and "mine host of the Garter" are alike. It is surprising that Tieck does not see that the one character is, in a great degree, an imitation of the other. Shakspere, in the abundance of his riches, is not a poet who repeats himself. Horn declares that Shakspere's authorship of "The Merry Devil' is incontestable. Ulrici admits the bare possibility of its being a very youthful work of Shakspere's. The great merit, on the contrary, of the best scenes of this play consists in their perfect finish. There is nothing careless about them; nothing that betrays the very young adventurer; the writer is a master of his art to the extent of his power. But that is not Shakspere's power. Fuller, in his 'Worthies,' thus records the merits of Peter Fabel, the hero of this play: "I shall probably offend the gravity of some to insert, and certainly curiosity of others to omit, him. Some make him a friar, others a lay gentleman, all a conceited person, who, with his merry devices, deceived the Devil, who by grace may be resisted, not deceived by wit. If a grave bishop in his sermon, speaking of Brute's coming into this land, said it was but a bruit, I hope I may say without offence that this Fabel was but a fable, supposed to live in the reign of King Henry the Sixth." His fame is more confidingly recorded in the Prologue to 'The Merry Devil : + Collier's Annals of the Stage,' vol. iii. p. 417. 66 "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 com pass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirl pools, 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 This, as it appears to us, is not in Shakmagical part becomes nearly superfluous." spere'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, While the fiend sits down in the necromantic "Fabel. O that this soul, that cost so dear 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, 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, 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 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 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." And come we back unto our native home, We'll first hang Envil* in such rings of mist 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-Enfield. by their friend, whatever be the intrigues of their parents: "Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch With the true feeling of a zealous friend. Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me, And I have taught the nightingale to wake, That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours Moun. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot And from the mouth of hell, where now I I feel my spirit rebound against the stars; 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, thou know'st it well, I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I, 'T was 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 hearkened willingly, and the rather, Because I was persuaded it proceeded Nor is my poor distressed state so low 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." 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) : "Lady Clare. Madam, The love unto this holy sisterhood, : And our confirm'd opinion of your zeal, Hath truly won us to bestow our child Rather on this than any neighbouring cell. Prioress. Jesus' daughter! Mary's child! Holy matron! woman mild! For thee a mass shall still be said, Every sister drop a bead; And those again succeeding them Sir Arthur. Madam, for a twelvemonth's approbation, 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, 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 |