pient derangement of the jailor's daughter, ere she breaks into actual frenzy, is at least as touching as the madness of Ophelia, which is absolute lunacy before she is produced to the spectators. And there are many other exquísite passages, to atone to the most fastidious for the unhappy management of a play, of which the first act very nearly elapses, without our even hearing of the two principal characters. King and No King illustrates that peculiar kind of composition called dramatic humour, which was commonly applied to comic purposes, but was also capable, as in this instance, of being illustrated by tragic examples. This species of theatrical writing will be further explained in our short prefatory remarks on British comedy; and indeed the piece which occasions our mentioning it might, without impropriety, have been ranked in either class. Philaster and Bonduca have been revived with effect within these few years. From the works of Massinger, the skilful intricacy and ingenious developement of whose plots form a striking exception to the gross negligence which we have stigmatized as characteristic of his contemporaries, our plan permits us to make more liberal extracts, in proportion to the extent of his labours. Of the two plays we have chosen, the Bondman was revived at Bath during the dawn of Mrs Siddons's reputation; and we have been assured, that in no part of her varied excellence was she more inimitable, than in the power of expressing, by gesture, the varied passions which occupy the mind of Cleora while her features were hidden by à veil. The Fatal Dowry may be considered as still occupying the stage, in Rowe's tame and feeble copy. From the pathetic Ford we have given The Broken Heart, a tragedy in which he has exerted his utmost power over the passions. Ere we leave this department of our collection, we may observe, that, as in Massinger's plays, we have used the corrected text of Gifford's excellent edition, so in those of Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ford, we have had the singular advantage of arranging the text according to that of Mr Henry Weber of Edinburgh, whose taste and erudition render him so eminently capable of discharging his intended task of editing these classical dramatists. II. When the Restoration had given a new birth to the theatre, its earlier efforts were formed upon the model of the French stage, to which the merry monarch and his wandering courtiers had accommodated their taste during their exile. But the character of an English audience, impatient of long and languid dialogue in couplets, demanded a more vehement stimulus of amusement; and although the authors of the rhyming, or heroic plays, as they were term ed, endeavoured to compound, by throwing in an unusual quantity of bustle, pomp, and procession, the taste was too unnatural to be permanent. Dryden, who had written in its favour, lived to read his recantation, and to exhibit the variety of his powers in a more natural style of composition. A forgotten poem, called "The Stage," has traced this change in the distinguished bard's composition with some success. Long felt the drama an inglorious dearth, Nor wept the tragic muse, nor smiled the comic mirth : At length his lyre harmonious Dryden strung, Excelled in both, and both alternate sung: At first, indeed, he made his heroes rant, art so near its commencement, but to a number of corresponding contingencies, that the imperfections of our earlier drama must necessarily be ascribed. The applause which the ancient tragedians courted was seldom that of a select audience, far less, as was early the case in France, that of a fastidious and critical court, with a monarch in its centre. The dramatic pieces of Shakespeare, Massinger, Beaumont, Fletcher, and Ford, were represented before a miscellaneous concourse, whom chance, or the reputation of the author, happened to assemble for the night, in any of the twenty theatres which were, nightly opened in the metropolis. Such an audience little prized the art, unity, and coherence of the pieces represented; and the indolence which almost uniformly accompanies genius was careful to give them no more than they demanded, and were capable of enjoying. If their pieces afforded striking incident, animated scenes, and glowing language, the authors, conscious that their hearers were indifferent how these were introduced or tacked together, took no trouble in subjecting their genius to the controul of the rules of art. Ben Jonson, who alone, among the dramatists of that period, attempted to found a reputation upon understanding and submitting to the discipline of the ancient stage, had so little reason to be proud of his success, that he growls upon every occasion against the rude taste of an age, which preferred to his laboured and well-concocted scenes, the more glowing, wild, and irregular effusions of his less learned contemporaries. The mode, also, in which these plays were composed excludes the very idea of artful arrangement, or skilful coherence of parts. If the piece was happily the work of a single author, it was usually composed under such circumstances of hurry and negligence, as distinguish the daily labour, which toils for daily bread, from the more ambitious efforts, which propose fame alone for their object and reward. But it often happened that several poets clubbed their scattered and unconnected scenes to make up a single play; and the circumstance shews what very little consequence the union and consistency demanded upon the modern stage, held in the eyes of an audience in the former part of the sixteenth century. It is possible that, upon the whole, the drama (at least considered as a department of poetry) has profited by this relaxation of discipline; for, doubtless, some of our greatest authors might have been deterred from engaging in dramatic composition, by the terror of such rigorous laws as were early submitted to by the French writers. On the other hand, viewing the subject with reference to theatrical representation only, we cannot suppress a natural regret, that out of so many plays, sparkling with scenes at once passionate and poetical, we have been able, under the principle of exclusion already explained, to select only a very few for the purpose of this collection. This imperfection is, however, remedied, by the publication of the Ancient Drama, upon the same plan with the following volumes; which contains an ample selection from the theatrical remains of that wonderful age, when the art, though only in its infancy, displayed a lustre of genius, which, however rude and irregular, has never been equalled in the maturer period of our theatrical history. The pieces which we have selected as examples of the drama during this period are taken from the works of the most celebrated writers. Four of these are selected from the works of Beaumont and Fletcher; and the Publisher cannot but hope that the beautiful scenes which they exhibit will be a sufficient apology for the irregularity of the action. In the Two Noble Kinsmen, Shakespeare is supposed to have given his assistance, and it contains passages abounding even in the higher class of his beauties. The inci pient derangement of the jailor's daughter, ere she breaks into actual frenzy, is at least as touching as the madness of Ophelia, which is absolute lunacy before she is produced to the spectators. And there are many other exquisite passages, to atone to the most fastidious for the unhappy management of a play, of which the first act very nearly elapses, without our even hearing of the two principal characters. King and No King illustrates that peculiar kind of composition called dramatic humour, which was commonly applied to comic purposes, but was also capable, as in this instance, of being illustrated by tragic examples. This species of theatrical writing will be further explained in our short prefatory remarks on British comedy; and indeed the piece which occasions our mentioning it might, without impropriety, have been ranked in either class. Philaster and Bonduca have been revived with effect within these few years. From the works of Massinger, the skilful intricacy and ingenious developement of whose plots form a striking exception to the gross negligence which we have stigmatized as characteristic of his contemporaries, our plan permits us to make more liberal extracts, in proportion to the extent of his labours. Of the two plays we have chosen, the Bondman was revived at Bath during the dawn of Mrs Siddons's reputation; and we have been assured, that in no part of her varied excellence was she more inimitable, than in the power of expressing, by gesture, the varied passions which occupy the mind of Cleora while her features were hidden by a veil. The Fatal Dowry may be considered as still occupying the stage, in Rowe's tame and feeble copy. From the pathetic Ford we have given The Broken Heart, a tragedy in which he has exerted his utmost power over the passions. Ere we leave this department of our collection, we may observe, that, as in Massinger's plays, we have used the corrected text of Gifford's excellent edi tion, so in those of Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ford, we have had the singular advantage of arranging the text according to that of Mr Henry Weber of Edinburgh, whose taste and erudition render him so eminently capable of discharging his intended task of editing these classical dramatists. II. When the Restoration had given a new birth to the theatre, its earlier efforts were formed upon the model of the French stage, to which the merry monarch and his wandering courtiers had accommodated their taste during their exile. But the character of an English audience, impatient of long and languid dialogue in couplets, demanded a more vehement stimulus of amusement; and although the authors of the rhyming, or heroic plays, as they were term, ed, endeavoured to compound, by throwing in an unusual quantity of bustle, pomp, and procession, the taste was too unnatural to be permanent. Dryden, who had written in its favour, lived to read his recantation, and to exhibit the variety of his powers in a more natural style of composition. A forgotten poem, called "The Stage," has traced this change in the distinguished bard's composition with some success. foremost rank of tragic authors. The truth seems to be, that the theatre is affected by the change of fashion, which, among other caprices, has assigned late and irregular hours as a test of its votaries adherence to its dictates. Thus, unless on particular nights, the greater part of the audience is composed of persons whose day has been spent in fatiguing occupation, and whose state of mind, not to mention their general taste, seeks relaxation, rather in the amusement of comedy, than from the graver efforts of the tragic author. It were well if this were all. But women of the higher rank, whose taste used formerly to have much influence upon the amusements of the drama, cannot, in the present state of our theatres, easily visit them, without many and inconvenient precautions. A large portion of the house is avowedly abandoned to females of the worst description, whose numbers enable them to outrage decency with. insolence and impunity, and to exhibit scenes much fitter for the haunts of low debauchery, than for a place of polished amusement. Late incidents also lead us to complain, that the slightest infraction of the rights of the public, real or supposed, leads to the repetition of tremendous remedies, which irresistibly remind us of the peasant in the fable, who called a squire and a pack of hounds into his garden, to chace out a poor hare, who had eat some of his cabbages. Until the natural good sense of an English audience find some remedy for these growing evils, the taste for this delightful art must become daily more corrupt and degraded. Meanwhile, the Editors may claim some merit, for furnishing the admirers of the drama with an opportunity of deriving from its master-pieces that amusement in their closet, which is now too unfrequently offered to them upon the stage, which GARRICK once trode, and which still boasts of SIDDONS. |