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highest breach of matrimonial duty, to have made a 'Woman Killed with Kindness,' a complete anticipation of the 'Stranger.' Heywood, however, was in that respect but half a Kotzebue The view here given of country manners is truly edifying. As to the higher walk of tragedy, we see the manners and moral sentiments of kings and nobles of former times, here we have the feuds and amiable qualities of country 'squires and their relatives; and such as were the rulers, such were their subjects. The frequent quarrels and ferocious habits of private life are well exposed in the fatal rencounter between Sir Francis Acton and Sir Charles Mountford about a hawking match, in the ruin and rancorous persecution of the latter in consequence, and in the hard, unfeeling, cold-blooded treatment he receives in his distress from his own relations, and from a fellow of the name of Shafton. After reading the sketch of this last character, who is introduced as a mere ordinary personage, the representative of a class, without any preface or apology, no one can doubt the credibility of that of Sir Giles Overreach, who is professedly held up (I should think almost unjustly) as a prodigy of grasping and hardened selfishness. The influence of philosophy and prevalence of abstract reasoning, if it has done nothing for our poetry, has done, I should hope, something for our manners. The callous declaration of one of these unconscionable churls,

"This is no world in which to pity men,"

might have been taken as a motto for the good old times in general, and with a very few reservations, if Heywood has not grossly libelled them.-Heywood's plots have little of artifice or regularity of design to recommend them. He writes on carelessly, as it happens, and trusts to Nature, and a certain happy tranquillity of spirit, for gaining the favour of the audience. He is said, besides attending to his duties as an actor, to have composed regularly a sheet a day. This may account in some measure for the unembarrassed facility of his style. His own account makes the number of his writings for the stage, or those in which he had a main hand, upwards of two hundred. In fact, I do not wonder at any quantity that an author is said

to have written; for the more a man writes, the more he can write.

The same remarks will apply, with certain modifications, to other remaining works of this writer, the Royal King and Loyal Subject,' 'A Challenge for Beauty,' and 'The English Traveller.' The barb of misfortune is sheathed in the mildness of the writer's temperament, and the story jogs on very comfortably, without effort or resistance, to the euthanasia of the catastrophe. In two of these the person principally aggrieved survives, and feels himself none the worse for it. The most splendid passage in Heywood's comedies is the account of Shipwreck by Drink, in 'The English Traveller,' which was the foundation of Cowley's Latin poem, Naufragium Joculare.

The names of Middleton and Rowley, with which I shall conclude this Lecture, generally appear together as two writers who frequently combined their talents in the production of joint pieces. Middleton (judging from their separate works) was "the more potent spirit" of the two; but they were neither of them equal to some others. Rowley appears to have excelled in describing a certain amiable quietness of disposition and disinterested tone of morality, carried almost to a paradoxical excess, as in his 'Fair Quarrel,' and in the comedy of 'A Woman never Vexed,' which is written in many parts, with a pleasing simplicity and naiveté equal to the novelty of the conception. Middleton's style was not marked by any peculiar quality of his own, but was made up, in equal proportions, of the faults and excellences common to his contemporaries. In his Women beware Women,' there is a rich marrowy vein of internal sentiment, with fine occasional insight into human nature, and cool cutting irony of expression. He is lamentably deficient in the plot and denouement of the story. It is like the rough draught of a tragedy, with a number of fine things thrown in, and the best made use of first; but it tends to no fixed goal, and the interest decreases, instead of increasing as we read on, for want of previous arrangement and an eye to the whole. We have fine studies of heads, a piece of richly coloured drapery, a foot, an hand, an eye from Nature drawn, that's worth a history;" but the groups are ill disposed, nor are the figures pro

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portioned to each other or the size of the canvas. The author's power is in the subject, not over it; or he is in possession of excellent materials, which he husbands very ill. This character, though it applies more particularly to Middleton, might be applied generally to the age. Shakspeare alone seemed to stand over his work, and to do what he pleased with it. He saw to the end of what he was about, and with the same faculty of lending himself to the impulses of Nature and the impression of the moment, never forgot that he himself had a task to perform, nor the place which each figure ought to occupy in his general design. The characters of Livia, of Brancha, of Leantio and his mother, in the play of which I am speaking, are all admirably drawn. The art and malice of Livia show equal want of principle and acquaintance with the world; and the scene in which she holds the mother in suspense, while she betrays the daughter into the power of the profligate duke, is a master-piece of dramatic skill. The proneness of Brancha to tread the primrose path of pleasure, after she has made the first false step, and her sudden transition from unblemished virtue to the most abandoned vice, in which she is notably seconded by her mother-inlaw's ready submission to the temptations of wealth and power, form a true and striking picture. The first intimation of the intrigue that follows, is given in a way that is not a little remarkable for simplicity and acuteness. Brancha says,

"Did not the duke look up?

Methought he saw us.'

To which the more experienced mother answers,

"That's every one's conceit that sees a duke;
If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them,
When he, perhaps, good careful gentleman,
Never minds any, but the look he casts

Is at his own intentions, and his object
Only the public good."

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It turns out, however, that he had been looking at them, and not "at the public good." The moral of this tragedy is rendered more impressive from the manly, independent character of Leantio in the first instance, and the manner in which he dwells, in a sort of doting abstraction, on his own comforts, of being possessed

of a beautiful and faithful wife. As he approaches his own house, and already treads on the brink of perdition, he exclaims with an exuberance of satisfaction not to be restrained

"How near am I to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious,
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.
When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple

That's built on vaults where carcases lie rotting;
And so by little and little I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men's envies upon man:
A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,
As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,

And full as long; after a five days' fast

She'll be so greedy now and cling about me:

I take care how I shall be rid of her:

And here 't begins."

This dream is dissipated by the entrance of Brancha and his

Mother.

"Bran. Oh, sir, you're welcome home.
Moth. Oh, is he come? I am glad on't.
Lean. (Aside.) Is that all?

Why this is dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he's old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to 't.
Sure you're not well, Brancha! how dost, prithee?
Bran. I have been better than I am at this time.
Lean. Alas, I thought so.

Bran. Nay, I have been worse too, Than now you see me, sir.

Lean. I'm glad thou mend'st yet,

I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik'd thee in my absence?

Bran. No, certain, I have had the best content
That Florence can afford.

Lean. Thou makest the best on't:

Speak, mother, what's the cause? you must needs know.
Moth. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that's pride.
Bran. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;

I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if 'twere near the court, sir, that were much better;

'Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman

To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants.

Lean. Now I have another temper, a mere stranger

To that of yours, it seems; I should delight
To see none but yourself.

Bran. I praise not that;

Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish;
I would not have a husband of that proneness,
To kiss me before company, for a world;
Besides, 'tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,
Be it the best that ever heart affected;

Nay, wer't yourself, whose love had power you know
To bring me from my friends, I would not stand thus,
And gaze upon you always; troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind, and have no use of sight,

As look on one thing still: what's the eye's treasure,
But change of objects? You are learned, sir,

And know I speak not ill; 'tis full as virtuous

For woman's eye to look on several men,

As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one.

Lean. Now, thou com'st home to me; a kiss for that word.

Bran. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;

'Tis but a toy, we'll not so much as mind it;
Let's talk of other business, and forget it.
What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee discourse a little.

Moth. (Aside.) I'm glad he's here yet,
To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told 'em first.

Lean. Speak, what's the humour, sweet,

You make your lips so strange? This was not wont.

Bran. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife, Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,

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