(To Sophia, who, with the others, has She has prayed God my sufferings to allay, now risen up.) At the Rector's house Died Agnes Payne, in childhood, at Gemind, And thou art AGNES MAY.-There are the proofs. The priest, though poor and needy, in his Received you fatherless; but Jacob Horst To thee he gave the name of thy lost play mate But in his last hours the deceit confess'd, Soph. Our past sorrows In heaven with him-beyond the starry spheres ? And He has will'd Emilius to survive. Soph. My child, thou long'st so much to To other worlds remov'd-that evermore Wal. No-'tis well; So let him look on high-Whene'er his eyes Our innocent child. Her dwelling is not far. Wal. Father! Both. (Together.) Look down on us! Heaven for his own has chosen you. Severe ANALYTICAL ESSAYS ON THE OLD ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. No VIII. The Witch of Edmonton.-Ford, Dekker, and Rowley. In this singular drama, there is no high passion-no high imaginationno impressive plot-yet it presents so perfect a picture of human life, that it is felt to be most truly tragical. The chief agents and sufferers are all of humble character and rank; but they come before us either deformed or agitated, by the vices, crimes, and miseries, from which the lowest are no more exempt than the loftiest; or a dorned and supported by the virtues, the hopes, and the happiness, which exist in power throughout the whole frame of human society. A direct appeal is made to some of the simplest and strongest feelings of our nature; and over the whole action of the drama, there is spread the influence of a superstition, which, though vile, squalid, and debasing, is yet at times made to partake of a character of sublimity, by the intense power which it exercises both over its minister and its victims. Witchcraft in its lowest shape, that of an old, decrepit, starving, persecuted beggar, and stick-gatherer, rules the lot of the blind, or erring and sinful creatures of the play; and as we listen to the Curses of the beldam, and see how, under their infatuation, her victims fulfil their own pitiable destiny, the days of superstition seem revived, and some of its most foul and hideous scenes reacted in the world. Witches are not to be dealt with but by men of genius; for they are ugly wretches in all real superstition, and their very power, terrible often in its effects, may be said to lie in their very impotency. It would be easy for the most common writer to paint a witch even to the very life-at once natural to the eye and the imagination; but it requires the knowledge and the power of the true poet to bring into contact with her the peculiar natures on whom her spells are to work-to make her even majestic in her bowed and ragged infirmity, from her mysterious relation with the destiny of others; and to offer up unto her, helpless in herself, and hurtless to the callous or the calm, the heart in whose depths fear lies ready to leap up and deliver its possessor to despair. Nothing but a wild power of poetry can, in poetry, render old women formidable; for now that the age of witchcraft is gone by, in real life they have lost all their grandeur. Now-a-days, an old crone may be ugly, blear-eyed, decrepit, poor, and boy-hooted, without being a whit the better of it; if she steal sticks, she must go to the police office-if her black cat fall in the way of a terrier, he must die-and if her curse have any power, it extends only to a fit of the ague, as in the noted case of Goody Blake, and Harry Gill; murders and suicides depend now on other principles, and aged women have scarcely the means of getting them selves hanged. It was otherwise in the days of Ford and of Dekker, and old Mother Sawyer herself taught them the poetry of witchcraft. All literary witches, that is the witches of literature, it may be conceived, owe some sort of derivation to the Thessalian witches of the ancients; for Horace's witch goes very near to making candles of infant's fat. Lucan's Erictho is a thorough witch, except, perhaps, that her invocations are too lofty. The Erictho of Marston in the Wonder of Women,' is something of the same family; and is moreover a gowl, and a nightmare, and a succuba. Middleton's Hecate is little better, though she and her train are immortal, as being the supposed models of the witches in Macbeth. Ben Johnson's witch, in the Sad Shepherd, is the best popular witch perhaps in all our literature; and we are let into her character at once, by seeing her sitting like a hare in her form. But of all witches who walk on the ground, and know not the use of broomsticks, she of Edmonton bears off the bell; and our own excellent Scottish witch, Miss Weir, sister to the worthy Major, did not perform her final part on the platform, more completely in character, than, as we shall see by and by, did old Mother Sawyer. It would, in our opinion, be a much easier thing to describe a sorceress than a witch. There is a sublime imagination of magic, as a science above human knowledge, and of preterhuman power acquired by that science. Such personages, therefore, are men or women of high acquisition, like Sir Humphrey Davy, or Miss Porden, and they act on principle. They invent safety-lamps, and are the authors of systems. Accordingly, they do just whatever they choose, and nobody is entitled to call their conduct in question, unless a greater magician than themselves. All Mr Southey's sorcerers perform whatever they think most adviseable-so does Manfred and Dr Faustus, and Professor Leslie. Just set them once fairly a-going, and a sorcerer or magician will never stop; he will eat fire, and make ice; and the very elements are not sure of themselves when he is a-stir. But there is also a foul and obscene imagination of magic, as a power obtained by desperate violation of natural laws, and by giving up the soul to the dominion of baleful desires, and the courses of a hideous life. Of this last magic are witches. There are here elements of poetical power; but the real witch, with her damnable practices, and hellish lusts, seems to drag down the popular imagination when it conceives of her, and to debase it. Yet the poet may there find these wild elements of power; he sees a dark and troubled region gleaming with flashes of lurid light; a wild play of human desires in conflict with na ture's laws; and a strange disturbance of the realities of the world, and an escaping from, or overcoming them by dark agencies, and the suddenly appearing force of inscrutable relations; to all which there is added a general grim and grotesque feature, that heightens the strangeness of the whole. Let any man attempt first a sorcerer, and then a witch, and he will find the former comparatively easy. Shakspeare's witches are of a class by themselves. They are neither sorceresses nor old women. It has been said that he must have been in Scotland-they are so truly Scottish. We have lived long in Scotland, and have had some solitary midnight walks through scenes terrifying enough, but we never saw nor heard of any beings in the Highlands, even cousins, sixteen times removed, to those things so withered and so wild in their attire. Shakspeare has created our witches for us, and we are all very much obliged to him-particularly the good people of Forres. Let us not seek for them a more ancient origin. Shakespeare, no doubt, was on that very blasted heath, whether personally or not we shall not say and he knew by inspiration what things should hurry through the rueful skies of Albyn, and over her black heath-wildernesses, and through the heart of the thunder, lightning, and rain, of those dismal regions. Neither their characters nor their forms are distinct, for depend upon it, Shakspeare did not see them distinctly-nor Banquo nor Macbeth.No more does one see distinctly the raven that alights near his feet during some stormy midnight, and on some wild moor-with sughing wings and the croak of a demon. But critics must make every thing out, forgetting that no creatures are so poetical, as those that are imperfect and ob scure and even contradictory-and exhibiting the senses under the influence of the imagination warring with themselves. The causes of the motions in the minds of Shakspeare's witches are not more obscure to our eyes, than they were to their own; for, in the bosom of creatures not human, we dream that the very desires move blindly and in blindness. There is a hint somewhere dropt, that those creatures are to be rewarded for their labours against Macbeth-but we can hardly believe that any more than themselves; and they seem to meet and part upon no imaginable motives, as if they were but half-willers in their own agency. At one time they seem to have no divination, but call up heads and spectres to shew the future; at another they predict, of themselves, to Macbeth and Banquo. No one can guess at the limits of their knowledge, or of their power, or at the nature of their impulses and desires. They cannot be said to love lofty agency, for they swim like tailless rats in sieves to revenge themselves on "rump-fed ronyons" by the death of masters of small trading vessels; nor can they be said to be exclusively fond of low company, for they speak imperiously to kings, and hold in their skinny hands, and utter with their shrivelled lips, the doom and destiny of empires. They brew toad-broth-and they fly from lapping it on the wings of the wind. They are consistent in nothing, but in a dim, vague, indefinite, glimmering, and gloomy spirit of evil, which involves all nature, animate or inanimate in its atmosphere; now settling on the mountain-tops, now creeping along the marshes-now shewing all things wild and terrible-and now bringing out bats and worms, from mean or slimy obscurity. Yet, after all-they are nothing" the earth hath bubbles as the water hath, and those are of them." But we must leave the witches of Shakspeare, and return to her of Edmonton. Without farther preface, let us give an analysis and specimens of this strange play. The first scene is laid in Edmon- ton, in the house of Sir Arthur Clarington, and introduces to us Frank Thorney (the wretched hero of the tale, and son of a respectable yeoman) in conversation with his fellow-servant Winnifrede, whom he has just married, after an illicit amour. There is sincere affection subsisting between them, and it is expressed in several speeches of considerable beauty. Winnifrede. Ay, ay: in case No other beauty tempt your eye, whom you Like better, I may chance to be remember'd, And see you now and then. 'Faith! I did hope You'd not have used me so: 'tis but my fortune. And yet, if not for my sake, have some pity Upon the child I go with; that's your own. You cannot but remember that. And 'less you'll be a cruel-hearted father, Heaven knows how Frank. To quit which fear at ones, Disgrace, reproof, lawless affections, threats, That binds me thine. And, Winnifrede, whenever The wanton heats of youth, by subtle baits Win. Swear no more; I am confirm'd, and will resolve to do What you think most behoveful for us. It appears, however, that though Winnifrede is sincerely attached to her new-married husband, she had, unknown to him, been seduced by her master Sir Arthur Clarington, who, unacquainted with the marriage that has just taken place, makes his appearance, and as Winnifrede leaves the stage, threatens and bribes Thorney to wed her. Thorney first accepts the bribe, and then avows his marriage, beseeching Sir Arthur not to inform his father of the event, lest the old man should disinherit him. The scene concludes with an interview between poor Winnifrede and her seducer, in which we are greatly interested in the character of this humble heroine. We see that she has thorough ly repented of the crime into which she had been basely betrayed; and at the same time we feel, as if her duplicity to her husband was one day or other to be punished, in spite of the sincerity both of her affection and repentance. Winnifrede and Thorney are but in very humble life-but even in their destinies we see the punishment of frailty and of crime; and while we anticipate calamity to the lowly pair, perhaps feel as deeply the mournful darkness of our human lot, as if we were watching the fortunes of the very highest personages. As Sir Ar 3 F thur tries Winnifrede's fidelity to her husband, she exclaims. Can you name Win. That brings not with it pity for the wrongs Sir Ar. Wilt thou turn monster now? art not asham'd After so many months to be honest at last? Win. My resolution Is built upon a rock. This very day Young Thorney vow'd with oaths not to be doubted, In Heaven's book? Sir Arthur, do not study By any unchaste word to tempt my constancy, Of holy marriage. I have said enough: Sir Ar. Get you to your nunnery, Then freeze in your old cloister. This is fine! Win. Good angels guide me! Sir, you'll give me leave To weep, and pray for your conversion! Thorney now goes to his father's house, and convinces him, by a letter procured from Sir Arthur Clarington for that purpose, that the rumours of his attachment to Winnifrede are false. The old man then proposes that he shall marry Susannah Carter, a maid whom he had formerly loved, and with whom he will receive a rich dowry, sufficient to remove all incumbrances from their little estate. This Frank consents to do-and it is fixed that the marriage is to take place next day. The behaviour of the young man in all this seems to arise from fickleness, weakness, want of principle, and avarice-making him the slave of impulse. He undergoes many struggles of conscience; but at last satisfies himself with that desperate expedient of the guilty, 66 it is the will of Providence.' Frank. No man can hide his face from heaven that views him, In vain he flies, whose destiny pursues him. So strong is this feeling of destiny in the hearts of the wicked or the unfortunate, that it has been held to be a law of life, and particular houses, more especially, to exhibit its dreadful operation. Genius has, as we know, founded on this belief sublime imaginary histories-so has tradition attributed them to reality. The prince and the peasant have felt themselves under the same dark power, Throw all their scandalous malice upon me! upon my ground. Saw. Gathering a few rotten sticks to war. me Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quick I'll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else! Saw. You won't, churl, cut-throat, miser! there they be. Would they stuck 'cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, Thy midriff! Banks. Say'st thou me so? Hag, out of my ground! [Beats her. Saw. Dost strike me slave, curmudgeon? May Thy joints cramp, and convulsions stretch and thy bones ache, crack Thy sinews! Banks. Cursing, thou hag? take that, and that. [Beats her and exit. Saw. Strike! do, and withered may that hand and arm, Whose blows have lam'd me, drop from the rotten trunk! Abuse me! beat me! call me hag and witch! Then enters Cuddy Banks, and s roaring, shouting, and hooting rabble at his heels, all abusing and tormenting the wretched old woman, till rage does, in good truth, convert her into something very witch-like. There cannot be a better written recipe for making a witch-and we could almost believe that it would succeed even in our own days. Saw. Still vex'd? still tortur'd? That curmud geon Banks Is ground of all my scandal. I am shunn'd blood: But by what means they came acquainted with them, I am now ignorant. 'Would some pow'r, good or bad, Instruct me which way I might be reveng'd Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths, Enter a Spirit in the shape of a black Dog. Dog. Ho! have I found thee cursing? Now thou Mine own. art Saw. Thine? what art thou? Dog. Come, do not fear, I love thee much too well To hurt or fright thee. If I seem terrible, Dog. To confirm't, command me Do any mischief unto man or beast, And I'll effect it, on condition That uncompell'd thou make a deed of gift Of soul and body to me. Out, alas! And that instantly, And seal it with thy blood: if thou deniest, Saw. I know not where to seek relief: but shall 1, After such covenants seal'd, see full revenge Dog. Ha, ha! silly woman! The devil is no liar to such as he loves. Did'st ever know or hear the devil a liar To such as he affects? Saw. Then I am thine; at least so much of me, As I can call mine own. Dog. Equivocations? Art mine or no? speak, or I'll tear Saw. Dog. Sealt with thy blood. All thine. [He sucks her arm.-Thunder and lightning.] See, now I dare call thee mine! For proof, command me; instantly I'll run, To any mischief; goodness can I none. Saw. And I desire as little. There's an old churl, One Banks Dog. That wronged thee: he lam'd thee, call'd thee witch. Saw. The same: first upon him I'll be reveng'd. Dog. I cannot. Go, touch his life. Saw. Hast thou not vow'd? Go, kill the slave! Saw. I cancel then my gift. Ha, ha! Fool! because I cannot. The witch of Edmonton shall see his fall, 1 shall. This is quite a scene to excite laughter or horror, according to the mind that peruses it. There is no doubt that the dog appeared on the stage, and that he was looked on, by all who saw him, as a personification, and a fearful personification too, of the evil spirit. His appearance probably excited as deep a feeling, in its kind, as the ghost of Hamlet himself-and our ancestors had little inclination, we dare say, to laugh at the dog of hell. People had too much imagination in those days to laugh at any thing except jokes and nothing was less ludicrous to them than exhibitions of human passion. Now-a-days-an audience will laugh, when all sitting together compactly in the pit, at what would make the hair to stand on end, were each individual by himself and many people go to the theatre, on the night of a new tragedy, for the purpose of laughing. One fool in the pit can damn a tragedy. The scene we have now quoted will, we think, inspire, amid all its grotesqueness, a feeling of horror, even now-a-days, in those who have studied the history of human nature. Indeed, there is a power in superstition which might yet be brought to be of mighty avail in poetry. The ground-work on which all superstition rests, endures for ever-and though the common belief respecting its objects be changed, our poetical belief is unchangeable. It is as open now as ever to a man of genius to work on our minds by supernatural or preternatural terror; shadows are not exiled from the realms of imagination; and the powers of fear, death, and the grave, are yet ready to obey the commands of the magician. This the author of Waverly will one day shew. Frank Thorney, meanwhile, has married the innocent and unfortunate Susannah Carter; and on their first appearance, we see in him the troubled countenance, voice, and demeanour of conscious guilt. Sus. Why change you your face, sweatheart? Frank. Who, I? For nothing. Sus. Dear, say not so: a spirit of your constancy Cannot endure this change for nothing. I've ob served Strange variations in you. Frank. |