Page images
PDF
EPUB

Jonson, of being a slow writer, but he consoles himself with the example of Euripides, and confesses that he did not write with a goose quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted play there are some exquisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The grief of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described :-

I found them winding of Marcello's corse,
And there is such a solemn melody,

"Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,
Such as old grandames watching by the dead

Were wont to outwear the nights with; that, believe me,

I had no eyes to guide me forth the room,
They were so o'ercharged with water.

The funeral dirge for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, that intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates :

Call for the robin red-breast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole,

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harın ;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
The following couplet has been admired :---

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The Duchess of Malfy' abounds more in the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal offence which the lady gives to her two proud brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a cardinal, by indulging in a generous though infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward.

This passion,' Mr Dyce justly remarks, a subject most difficult to treat, is managed with infinite delicacy; and, in a situation of great peril for the author, she condescends without being degraded, and declares the affection with which her dependant had inspired her without losing anything of dignity and respect.' The last scenes of the play are conceived in a spirit which every intimate student of our elder dramatic literature must feel to be peculiar to Webster. The duchess, captured by Bosola, is brought into the presence of her brother in an imperfect light, and is taught to believe that he

wishes to be reconciled to her.

[blocks in formation]

For I account it the honourablest revenge,

[blocks in formation]

Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh a bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our to keep flies in, more contemptible; since ours is to preserve earthworms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage! Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ?

Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs)

Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs twenty years' sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. Duch. Whom?

[blocks in formation]

Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still.

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken.
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright;
But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.

I am a tomb-maker.

Duck. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our deathbed? Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the toothache): they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces.

Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation,

This talk, fit for a charnel.

Bos. Now I shall.

[blocks in formation]

Hark, now every thing is still;

This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay 's now competent.
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet:

And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day:
End your groan, and come away.

Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas ! What will you do with my lady? Call for help. Duch. To whom; to our next neighbours? They

are mad folks.

Farewell, Cariola.

I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy
Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.-Now what you please;

What death?

[blocks in formation]

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits: and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way (for heav'n
sake)

So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers
That I perceive death (now I'm well awake)
Best gift is they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault;
I'd not be tedious to you.

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.

Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep.
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kneeling.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

A conjecture that an old neglected drama by THOMAS MIDDLETON supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations, of Macbeth,' has kept alive the name of this poet. So late as 1778, Middleton's play, the Witch, was first published by Reed from the author's manuscript. It is possible that the 'Witch' may have preceded Macbeth;' but as the latter was written in the fulness of Shak. speare's fame and genius, we think it is more probable that the inferior author was the borrower. He may have seen the play performed, and thus caught the spirit and words of the scenes in question; or, for aught we know, the 'Witch' may not have been written till after 1623, when Shakspeare's first folio appeared. We know that after this date Middleton was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A Game at Chess, was brought out, and gave great offence at court, by bringing on the stage the king of Spain, and his ambassador, Gondomar. The latter complained to King James of the insult, and Middleton (who at first shifted out of the way') and the poor players were brought before the privycouncil. They were only reprimanded for their audacity in bringing modern Christian kings upon the stage.' If the dramatic sovereign had been James himself, nothing less than the loss of ears and noses would have appeased offended royalty! Middleton wrote about twenty plays: in 1603, we find him assisting Dekker at a court-pageant, and he was afterwards concerned in different pieces with Rowley, Webster, and other authors. He would seem to have been well-known as a dramatic writer. On Shrove Tuesday, 1617, the London apprentices, in an idle riot, demolished the Cockpit Theatre, and an old ballad describing the circumstance, states

And study curses, imprecations,
Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths,
Or anything that's ill; so I might work
Revenge upon this miser, this black cur,
That barks, and bites, and sucks the very blood
Of me, and of my credit. 'Tis all one
To be a witch as to be counted one.

[A Drowned Soldier.]

(From Tourneur's Atheist's Tragedy.")

Walking upon the fatal shore,
Among the slaughter'd bodies of their men,
Which the full-stomach'd sea had cast upon
The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light
Upon a face, whose favour, when it lived,
My astonish'd mind inform'd me I had seen.
He lay in his armour, as if that had been
His coffin; and the weeping sea (like one
Whose milder temper doth lament the death
Of him whom in his rage he slew) runs up
The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek;
Goes back again, and forces up the sands
To bury him; and every time it parts,
Sheds tears upon him; till at last (as if
It could no longer endure to see the man
Whom it had slain, yet loath to leave him), with
A kind of unresolv'd unwilling pace,
Winding her waves one in another (like
A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands,
For grief), ebb'd from the body, and descends;
As if it would sink down into the earth,
And hide itself for shame of such a deed.

An anonymous play, the Return from Parnassus, was acted by the students of St John's college, Cambridge, about the year 1602: it is remarkable for containing criticisms on contemporary authors, all poets. Each author is summoned up for judgment, and dismissed after a few words of commendation or

censure. Some of these poetical criticisms are finely
written, as well as curious. Of Spenser-

A sweeter swan than ever sung in Po;
A shriller nightingale than ever blest
The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome.
Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud
While he did chant his rural minstrelsy.
Attentive was full many a dainty ear:
Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue,
While sweetly of the Faery Queen he sung;
While to the water's fall he tuned her fame,
And in each bark engrav'd Eliza's name.

The following extract introduces us to Marlow, Jonson, and Shakspeare; but to the latter only as the author of the Venus' and 'Lucrece.' Ingenioso reads out the names, and Judicio pronounces judg

ment:

Ing. Christopher Marlow.

Jud. Marlow was happy in his buskin'd muse;
Alas! unhappy in his life and end.
Pity it is that wit so ill should well,
Wit lent from heaven, but vices sent from hell.
Ing. Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got,
A tragic penman for a dreary plot.—
Benjamin Jonson.

Jud. The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England.
Ing. A mere empiric, one that gets what he hath
by observation, and makes only nature privy to what
he indites; so slow an inventor, that he were better
betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying; a blood
whoreson, as confident now in making of a book, as he
was in times past in laying of a brick.-
William Shakspeare.

Jud. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape; His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life, Could but a graver subject him content, Without love's lazy foolish languishment. The author afterwards introduces Kempe and Burbage, the actors, and makes the former state, in reference to the university dramatists-Why, here's our fellow Shakspeare puts them all down; ay, and Ben Jonson too.' Posterity has confirmed this 'Return from Parnassus.'

GEORGE COOKE-THOMAS NABBES-NATHANIEL FIELD
-JOHN DAY-HENRY GLAPTHORNE-THOMAS RAN-

DOLPH-RICHARD BROME.

A lively comedy, called Green's Tu Quoque, was written by GEORGE COOKE, a contemporary of Shakspeare. THOMAS NABBES (died about 1645) was the author of Microcosmus, a masque, and of several other plays. In 'Microcosmus' is the following fine song of love:

Welcome, welcome, happy pair,
To these abodes where spicy air
Breathes perfumes, and every sense
Doth find his object's excellence;
Where's no heat, nor cold extreme,

No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam;
Where's no sun, yet never night,

Day always springing from eternal light.
Chorus. All mortal sufferings laid aside,

Here in endless bliss abide.

NATHANIEL FIELD (who was one of the actors in Ben Jonson's 'Poetaster') began to write for the stage Weathercock, Amends for Ladies, &c. He had the about 1609 or 1610, and produced Woman is a honour of being associated with Massinger in the composition of the Fatal Dowry. JOHN DAY, in conjunction with Chettle, wrote the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, a popular comedy, and was also laneous poems. HENRY GLAPTHORNE is mentioned author of two or three other plays, and some miscel as one of the chiefest dramatic poets of the reign of Charles I.' Five of his plays are printed-Albertus Wallenstein, the Hollander, Argalus and Parthenia, Wit in a Constable, the Lady's Privilege, &c. There is a certain smoothness and prettiness of expression about Glapthorne (particularly in his Albertus'), but he is deficient in passion and energy. THOMAS RANDOLPH (1607-1634) wrote the Muses' LookingGlass, the Jealous Lovers, &c. In an anonymous play, Sweetman the Woman-hater, is the following happy simile:

6

Justice, like lightning, ever should appear To few men's ruin, but to all men's fear. RICHARD BROME, one of the best of the secondary dramatists, produced several plays, the Antipodes, the City Wit, the Court Beggar, &c. Little is known of the personal history of these authors: a few scattered dates usually make up the whole amount of their biography. The public demand for theatrical novelties called forth a succession of writers in this popular and profitable walk of literature, who seem to have discharged their ephemeral tasks, and sunk with their works into oblivion. The glory of Shakspeare has revived some of the number, like halos style and thought, is visible on the pages of most of round his name; and the rich stamp of the age, in

them.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

The reign of James produced no other tragic poet equal to PHILIP MASSINGER, an unfortunate author, whose life was spent in obscurity and poverty, and

[graphic]
[blocks in formation]

Lov. I dare not own

What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:
My fame and credit are more dear to me
Than
80 to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.

Over. You run, my lord, no hazard:
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now:

Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill,
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours.
For though I do contemn report myself
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestion'd integrity,

Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candour.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right honourable; which my lord can make her :
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovel, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the port
Your noble birth and present state require,

I do remove that burden from your shoulders,

And take it on mine own; for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,

[Compassion for Misfortune.]

(From the City Madam.')

Luke. No word, sir,

I hope, shall give offence: nor let it relish
Of flattery, though I proclaim aloud,

I glory in the bravery of your mind,
To which your wealth 's a servant. Not that riches
Is, or should be, contemn'd, it being a blessing
Deriv'd from heaven, and by your industry
Pull'd down upon you; but in this, dear sir,
You have many equals: such a man's possessions
His bags as full; a third in credit flies
Extend as far as yours; a second hath

As high in the popular voice: but the distinction
And noble difference by which you are
Divided from them, is, that you are styled
Gentle in your abundance, good in plenty;
And that you feel compassion in your bowels
Of others' miseries (I have found it, sir;
Heaven keep me thankful for't !), while they are curs'd
As rigid and inexorable.

*

*

Your affability and mildness, clothed

In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath,
Shall everywhere, though you strive to conceal it,
Be seen and wonder'd at, and in the act
With a prodigal hand rewarded. Whereas, such
As are born only for themselves, and live so,
Though prosperous in worldly understandings,
Are but like beasts of rapine, that, by odds
Of strength, usurp and tyrannise o'er others
Brought under their subjection.

Can you think, sir,

In your unquestion'd wisdom, I beseech you,
The goods of this poor man sold at an outery,
His wife turn'd out of doors, his children forc'd
To beg their bread; this gentleman's estate
By wrong extorted, can advantage you?
Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant,
For such he was esteem'd, though now decay'd,
Will raise your reputation with good men?
But you may urge (pray you, pardon me, my zeal
Makes me thus bold and vehement), in this
You satisfy your anger, and revenge

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not

[blocks in formation]

I am of a solid temper, and, like these,

Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If call'd into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breath'd out in bitterness; as, when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,

I only think what 'tis to have my daughter

Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

Lov. I admire

The toughness of your nature.

Over. "Tis for you,

My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.

1 The Lady Allworth.

Repair your loss, and there was never yet
But shame and scandal in a victory,
When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it.
Then for revenge, by great souls it was ever
Contemn'd, though offer'd; entertain'd by none
But cowards, base and abject spirits, strangers
To moral honesty, and never yet
Acquainted with religion.

Sir John. Shall I be
Talk'd out of my money?

Luke. No, sir, but intreated
To do yourself a benefit, and preserve
What you possess entire.

Sir John. How, my good brother?

Luke. By making these your beadsmen. When they eat,

Their thanks, next heaven, will be paid to your

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »