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-to-
bacco;

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
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
Watched on the top of Peter-house highest

tower,

And come we back unto our native home, For want of skill to loose 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 brined 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 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.

"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
Seized 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 plea-

sure.

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 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
From love thou borest to me and to my boy;
And gavest him free access unto thy house,
Where he hath not behaved 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." 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
For you shall sing a requiem.

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,
The glass wherein yourself must look ;
Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly,
Must be turned to motions holy;
For your busk attires, and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past
You must do penance, pray, and fast.
You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed;

Bind your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy aves, and your creeds:
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a nun."

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. What means the friar?
Moun. O Millisent! 't is I.

Millisent. My heart misgives me; I should
know that voice.

You? who are you? the holy Virgin bless me!
Tell me your name; you shall ere you confess

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,
Frank Jerningham's old friend and confessor,
Plotted by Frank, by Fabel, and myself,
And so deliver'd to Sir Arthur Clare,
Who brought me here unto the abbey-gate,
To be his nun-made daughter's visitor.

Millisent. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father.

O my dear life, I was a dream'd to-night,
That, as I was praying in my psalter,
There came a spirit unto me, as I kneel'd,
And by his strong persuasions tempted me
To leave this nunnery: and methought
He came in the most glorious angel shape
That mortal eye did ever look upon.
Ha! thou art sure that spirit, for there's no
form

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

'AS YOU LIKE IT' was first printed in the folio collection of 1623.

The exact date of this comedy cannot be fixed, but there is no doubt that it belongs to the first or second year of the seventeenth century. It is not mentioned in the list published by Meres in 1598; and there is an allusion in the comedy which fixes the limits of its date in the other direction: "I will weep for nothing," says Rosalind," like Diana in the fountain." The cross in Westcheap, originally erected by Edward I., was reconstructed in the reign of Henry VI., and converted to the useful purpose of a conduit. The images about the cross were often broken and defaced, probably by the misdirected zeal of the early reformers; and so the heathen deities were called in, and in 1596, according to Stow, was set up "an alabaster image of Diana, and water conveyed from the Thames prilling from her breast." Stow gives us this information in 1599; but in 1603, when the second edition of his 'Survey of London' was published, the glories of Diana were passed away; her fountain was no longer "prilling." "The same is ofttimes dried up, and now decayed," says Stow. There can be no doubt that Diana was included in the popular hatred of this unfortunate cross; for although Elizabeth, on the 24th September, 1600, sent a special command to the city respecting "the continuance of that monument," in accordance with which it was again repaired, gilded, and cleansed from dust, "about twelve nights following the image of our Lady was again defaced by plucking off her crown, and almost her head." When Rosalind made the allusion to Diana in the fountain, we may be pretty sure that the fountain was not " dried up."

If we were to accept the oracular decisions of Farmer and Steevens, as to the sources from which Shakspere derived the story of 'As You Like It,' we might dismiss the subject very briefly. The one says, with his usual pedantic insolence, "As You Like It' was certainly borrowed, if we believe Dr. Grey and Mr. Upton, from the 'Coke's Tale of Gamelyn,' which, by the way, was not printed till a century afterward, when, in truth, the old bard, who was no hunter of MSS., contented himself solely with Lodge's 'Rosalynd, or Euphues' Golden Legacye,' quarto, 1590."* Thus "the old bard," meaning Shakspere, did not take the trouble of doing, or was incapable of doing, what another old bard, Lodge (first a player, and afterwards a naval surgeon), did with great care-consult the manuscript copy of an old English tale attributed, but supposed incorrectly so, to Chaucer. In spite, however, of Dr. Farmer, we shall take the liberty of looking at the 'Tale of Gamelyn,' in the endeavour to find some traces of Shakspere. Steevens disposes of Lodge's 'Rosalynd' in as summary a way as Farmer does of 'Gamelyn.' Shakespeare has followed Lodge's novel more exactly than is his general custom when he is indebted to such worthless originals, and has sketched some of his principal characters and borrowed a few expressions from it. The imitations, &c., however, are in general too insignificant to merit transcription." All this is very unscrupulous, ignorant, and tasteless. Lodge's 'Rosalynd' is not a worthless original ; Shakspere's imitations of it are not insignificant. Lodge's novel is, in many respects, however quaint and pedantic, informed with

* Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare, Boswell's Edition, p. 214.