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 favors 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 Shakspeare'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-humor The only person who is angry is old Mounchensey.

of the whole drama.

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 hearkened 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.

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 humor 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 n 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 of 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! 'tis I.

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

* Cheston-Cheshunt.

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 deart heart!
Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul
To wake a little from this swoon of joy.

By what means cam'st 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 eyes 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 decrees,

I this confess to my sweet ghostly father;

If chaste pure love be sin, I must confess

I have offended three years now with thee.

Moun. But you do yet repent you of the same?
Millisent. I' faith I cannot.

Moun. Nor will I absolve thee

Of that sweet sin, though it be venial:

Yet have the penance of a thousand kisses;
And I enjoin thee to this pilgrimage ;-
That in the evening you bestow yourself
Here in the walk near to the willow-ground,
Where I'll be ready both with men and horse
To wait your coming, and convey you hence
Unto a lodge I have in Enfield Chase:
No more reply if that you yield consent:
I see more eyes upon our stay are bent.

Millisent. Sweet life, farewell!' tis 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 forrester, 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.

139.-THE POET DESCRIBED.

S. JOHNSON.

[We have already given a brilliant estimate of the character of Dr. Johnson in connection with his times, from the pen of Mr. Macaulay. (Vol. i. p. 382.) It is therefore scarcely necessary for us here to add more than a statement of the dates connected with the life of this eminent man. He was born at Lichfield, on the 18th of September, 1709, in which city his father was a bookseller. He was placed at Pembroke College, Oxford, but the straitened circumstances of his father compelled him to leave the University without taking

a degree. He became usher in a school at Market Bosworth, married in 1736 and with a little fortune that his wife brought him, set up a school, which was unsuccessful. In company with his pupil, David Garrick, he came to London. For many years he was a literary drudge for periodical works, ill-paid, neglected by the great, unknown to the small reading public whom he addressed. At length his great talents and acquirements forced their way into notice. He completed his English Dictionary in 1755. His "Rambler" and his "Imitations of Juvenal" had previously given him a high rank amongst the original writers of his day. In 1762 a pension of three hundred a year was bestowed upon him, and from that time to his death in 1784 his life was a happy one as far as worldly circumstances were concerned. The following extract is from his "Rasselas." It is one of the many examples which his writings present of the occasional largeness of his critical views when applied to the general principles of poetry-a characteristic singularly in contrast with the narrowness with which he regards particular styles and individual authors.]

"Wherever I went, I found that poetry was considered as the highest learning, and regarded with a veneration somewhat approaching to that which man would pay to the angelic nature. And it yet fills me with wonder, that in almost all countries the most ancient poets are considered as the best; whether it be that every other kind of knowledge is an acquisition gradually attained, and poetry is a gift conferred at once; or that the first poetry of every nation surprised them as a novelty, and retained the credit by consent which it received by accident at first; or whether, as the province of poetry is to describe nature and passion, which are always the same, the first writers took possession of the most striking objects for description, and the most probable occurrences for fiction, and left nothing for those that followed them but transcriptions of the same events, and new combinations of the same images. Whatever be the reason, it is commonly observed, that the early writers are in possession of nature, and their followers, of art; that the first excel in strength and invention, and the latter in elegance and refinement.

"I was desirous to add my name to this illustrous fraternity. I read all the poets of Persia and Arabia, and was able to repeat by memory the volumes that are suspended in the mosque of Mecca. But I soon found that no man was ever great by imitation. My desire of excellence impelled me to transfer my attention to nature and to life. Nature was to be my subject, and men