[] THE STAGE.

CHAP. I. STATE OF THE STAGE THROUGHOUT EUROPE AT THE BIRTH OF SHAKESPEAR.

THERE cannot be a clearer truth than that the ſtage knew nothing of ſuperior merit, in tragedy, from EURIPIDES, and, in comedy, from MENAN⯑DER, till SHAKESPEAR. ROME imitated but did not invent, ITALY faintly copied the Romans imi⯑tations, SPAIN ſketched but could not paint, and FRANCE traced but could not draw. ENGLAND, continually fluctuating under the influence of va⯑rious fortunes, as cuſtoms, manners, and circum⯑ſtances prevailed, adopted the ſtyle of other coun⯑tries, [6] and added to theirs no mean degree of native genius; but the efforts were merely THESPIAN and required an AESCHYLUS to perfect them.

At the birth of SHAKESPEAR, ITALY had fairly ſtruggled with ENGLAND for pre-eminence in the dramatic art for nearly fifty years; and it cannot be denied that the oppoſition was very formidable as to talents; for, during the life of LEO the tenth, which ſome of the critics have diſtinguiſhed by the pomp⯑ous title of the Italian Auguſtan Age, led on by the prelate TRISSINO, and the cardinal BIBIENA, almoſt the whole of that groop of authors who were pa⯑tronized by LAURENCE of MEDICIS, joined their united labours againſt BUCKHURST, STILL, and other authors who followed HEYWOOD; and who, by their ingenious and meritorious labours gave the Engliſh theatre the firſt lift towards regularity.

The reader by this ſtatement will at firſt ſight unequivocally decide in favour of ITALY; for when we reflect on the extraordinary merit of the great TASSO, whoſe Rinaldo has been the admi⯑ration, and his Aminta the delight of the critics; whoſe Gieruſalemme Liberata has been pronounced by many writers of taſte to be the completeſt epic poem that ever graced literature; and who, as a phi⯑loſopher, an orator, a logician, a critic, and a poet [7] has merited and obtained the warmeſt praiſe from the ſobereſt and beſt informed judges.

When we reflect on the genius and fire of the wonderful ARIOSTO, whoſe Orlando Furioſo alone has raiſed to him a monument of fame on which every admirer of luxuriant fancy and extraordinary ſtrength of mind have, in their warm and ſponta⯑neous admiration, added an ornamental laurel; in ſhort, when we conſider that theſe and various other eminent authors, whoſe abilities were indiſputably competent to carry the dramatic art into complete perfection, even at that period were not only the admiration of EUROPE, but candidates for dramatic fame, it ſhould appear even abſurd to put the En⯑gliſh ſtage in competition with the Italian.

Nothing, however, can be truer than that, upon a compariſon, the Italian drama ſunk to annihilation by the ſide of the Engliſh; for, whether theſe great authors wrote for the ſtage merely to gratify an ec⯑centric propenſity, though it is extremely difficult to conceive how a writer of great genius can feel indifferently while employed ſo eligibly, or whether they wrote extravagantly, ridiculouſly, and ab⯑ſurdly, to gratify an extravagant, a ridiculous, and an abſurd taſte; it is unequivocally certain that the Italian theatre conſiſted of nothing but the groſſeſt [8] buffoonery, and ſunk into gradual contempt, while the Engliſh theatre began at that time to grow re⯑fined, and very ſoon gave viſible ſigns of its attain⯑ing that perfection of which it was capable, and to which it was regularly haſtening.

One great reaſon for the decline of the Italian theatre was its ſhocking impiety; for it never ad⯑mitted of merely profane ſubjects, except in operas, which certainly are the only ſpecies of dramatic amuſement in that country worthy attention; and even theſe were by no means perfect in their na⯑ture till early in the preſent century, when they found a kind of SHAKESPEAR in METASTASIO.

As to SPAIN, the theatre never, even to this mo⯑ment, boaſted any thing like regularity; ſpight of the aſtoniſhingly fertile genius manifeſted in the multitudinous productions of the moſt celebrated authors of that country. In SPAIN, as in ITALY, this may be accounted for by inſtancing the horrid impiety introduced into their Autos Sacramentales ^*, [9] which in its place I have already given ſome ac⯑count of.

Small pieces, however, called Entremeſſes, or Jornados, evidently the ſirventes and tenſons of PRO⯑VENCE, and the ancient interludes of ENGLAND, were performed by a few actors, and appear to have been more like regular farces than thoſe exhibited in any other country at ſo early a period. Theſe, nevertheleſs, were ſoon on the decline, and when they were attempted again at the time of CAL⯑DERON, they were the moſt wretched traſh that can be imagined.

Theſe trifles, however, ſerved for the ground work of a better ſort of performances; for much about the time of HEYWOOD, they grew into ſome⯑thing more conſiderable, till LOPEZ de RUEDA, and NAVARA, ſhortly after the birth of SHAKES⯑PEAR, began to ſhape them into acts and give them a preciſe length. But theſe, though they were followed by CERVANTES, whoſe Don Quixotte has immortalized him, and LOPEZ de VEGA with his fifteen hundred plays, both of whom were cotem⯑porary with SHAKESPEAR, never were able, even if we add to theirs the labours of CALDERON, SOLIS, SALAZAR, MOLINA, and many others to [10] bring the Spaniſh ſtage to any thing better than the reſemblance of a crouded garden, overrun with weeds and interſperſed here and there with flowers of rare and peculiar beauty.

The German theatre, not as I have mixed it be⯑fore with the Dutch, but properly that theatre eſta⯑bliſhed in the principal cities of the empire, boaſts a very early origin, a truth which may ſerve to ſtrengthen thoſe conjectures which have been ven⯑tured concerning the antiquity of the Engliſh ſtage.

Ancient GERMANY had its bards, doubtleſs the Druids, who compoſed and ſung in honour of their heroes; and theſe are to be traced from a very early period till CHARLEMAGNE. They then began to exerciſe their profeſſion more decidedly, and were called Maſter-Langer, or Maſter-Singers. Theſe were protected by various monarchs; and, in particular, received great encouragement from OTHO the Great, and MAXIMILIAN the Firſt.

In conſequence of this diſtinguiſhed counte⯑nance, they grew more and more celebrated; and preſently MENTZ, STRASBOURG, NUREMBOURG, AUGSBOURG, and other cities boaſted their different ſocieties of maſter-ſingers, who attended at tourna⯑ments, public meetings, and other ſolemn ceremo⯑nies. [11] Not long ago the ſociety of STRASBOURG was in exiſtence and enjoyed certain revenues, eſtabliſhed many ages in favour of that company, which was compoſed of tradeſmen, ſuch as taylors, ſhoemakers, millers, &c.

Thus in theſe ſocieties of maſter-ſingers we have, not only, in the cleareſt manner, the troubadours and trouverres of PROVENCE; but in the ſociety of STRASBOURG we have the eſtabliſhment of the min⯑ſtrels of CHESTER. We find nothing, however, very celebrated in their productions, nor, till about the middle of the ſixteenth century, worth notice; at that time one HAANSSAHCS, who had by no means a deſpicable genius, wrote ſome dramatic pieces in which he performed himſelf; but they are, like the pieces of other countries, taken from ſacred hiſtory, and, therefore, cannot rank as repre⯑ſentations of common manners.

The German theatre, however, was not alſo without pieces on profane ſubjects, and the authors of theſe, joined at length by HAANSSACHS, like the Children of Sans Souci in FRANCE, and the in⯑terluders in ENGLAND, began to prepare the theatre for the reception of regular tragedies and comedies.

This event, however, did not take place ſo ſoon [12] as in ENGLAND, or in FRANCE; for the German regular theatre owes its origin to the Dutch, and the reader will remember that they had no theatre themſelves till 1584. In the year 1626, a com⯑pany of Dutch players went to HAMBOURG, and from that moment the German theatre altered its manner. The maſter-ſingers were ſoon routed, a regular company of German actors turned them into contempt and ridicule, from this company ſprung ſeveral others; and, having the example of ENGLAND, and by this time FRANCE before them, their poets wrote regular tragedies and comedies in tolerably correct verſe.

The German tragedies and comedies, however, even to this hour, are clogged with the heavineſs and gloom of the Dutch, of which they were origin⯑ally imitations. Horrible noiſes, bloody ſwords, ſpecties, flaming torches, magic hands, tombs, dun⯑geons, racks, and every other ſubject to excite terror, pervade their tragedies, one would think to divert the auditor from either ſleeping or venting his indignation at their intolerable dullneſs.

Thus the only nation that held out the ſhadow of a pretention to dramatic fame, even up to the time when SHAKESPEAR produced his firſt play, was FRANCE. There, indeed, appeared a dawn of [13] ſomething like regularity, but it was cold, tame, and obſcure; being a Greek and Roman mixture im⯑proved by ingredients taken from the Engliſh, who had been at the ſource before them.

LAZARE BAIF, and JODELLE, were the only authors of any conſideration who wrote before SHAKESPEAR; GARNIER being his ſole rival during the firſt half of his career, and HARDY during the laſt, for the great CORNEILLE did not bring out a ſingle play till nine years after the death of our immortal poet, by which time the united la⯑bours of SHAKESPEAR, JONSON, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, MASSINGER, RANDOLPH, and the other authors of that time comprizing a maſs of dra⯑matic excellence, ſuch as no age nor country has ever produced, paſſed in review before Engliſh ſpectators.

What then ſhall we ſay of the French, who in the ſame breath boaſt of having taught ENGLAND the dramatic art, and call CORNEILLE the father of the ſtage and ſucceſſor of AESCHYLUS, who in point of years might have been SHAKESPEAR's grandſon.

CHAP. II. SHAKESPEAR.

GREAT and extraordinary objects naturally attract univerſal attention; unfortunately, however, human nature is compoſed of ſuch various and complicate materials, that it is extremely difficult in any caſe to lift this attention into admiration. The ſun that cheers and invigorates us, is a perpetual object of reproach. We feign to ſink under thoſe very rays that diſpel the miſts of contagion, that ſweeten the provender for our cattle, that ripen the fruits which pamper our luxury, and that whiten the corn which compoſes our daily bread. We overlook the beauty, the majeſty, the ſplendor which ſavages, more faith⯑ful to nature, and more ignorant of refinement, make their ſubject of adoration; which to enjoy coſt us nothing but the trouble of opening our eyes, and the admiſſion of a little heart-felt gratitude. All theſe incomparable advantages, though eſſentially ma⯑terial to our very exiſtence, we take to ourſelves as [15] careleſsly and indifferently as any other common benefit of nature, without a remark, without thanks, without emotion, while we rack invention to deviſe a thouſand expenſive operations to diſcover ſpots which in the ſcale of the univerſe are perfectly im⯑material; and which, but for this reſtleſs and inſatia⯑ble curioſity, would for ever have been hidden from our obſervation.

SHAKESPEAR whoſe writings are the offspring of an intuition that mocks deſcription, that ſhames the ſchools, and that aſcertains ſublimity; whoſe knowledge of human nature was profound, pene⯑trating and infallible; whoſe morality and philoſo⯑phy confirm all that was good and wiſe in the an⯑cients; whoſe words are in our mouths, and their irreſiſtable influence in our hearts; whoſe eulogium may be felt but cannot be expreſſed, and whoſe own pen alone was equal to the compoſition of his epitaph: this SHAKESPEAR in the mouths of his fellow creatures is more known for a few inconſi⯑derable blemiſhes, ſprung from redundant fancy and indiſpenſible conformity, than for innumerable beauties, delightful as truth, and commanding as inſpiration.

Look at the various authors who by way of com⯑pliment to their own ſagacity have deigned ſo far [16] to honour biography and literature, as to point out all the blemiſhes, both as a man and as a writer, of him whoſe virtue and whoſe merit were either above their comprehenſion, or elſe their tingling envy would not allow them to praiſe. Do we hear from them a word of his poliſhed manners that made up the delight of the court of ELIZABETH; that laughed EUPHUISM from the circle, and that en⯑deared him to the friends of lord SOUTHAMPTON, and various other patrons? Not a ſyllable. They juſt allow that he was a good kind of man, well in⯑tentioned, but they never fail, by way of a draw⯑back, to tell you that he was a bungler at wool combing, that he was a notorious deer ſtealer, and that he turned out a very bad actor.

Have we any author who has had the fair diſin⯑tereſtedneſs, the noble candour, to indulge himſelf and gratify the world by any excluſive work that has inſtanced the various ways in which SHAKES⯑PEAR ſo greatly commanded all the paſſions of the ſoul; in which, with a portraiture full of imagination and faithful as nature, he drew ambition, jealouſy, tenderneſs, piety, villainy, raſhneſs, credulity, licen⯑tiouſneſs, and a hundred others with all their ſhades and gradations? Not one. We have, however, a little myriad of critics and hyper-critics who have done his memory the credit to render his works pro⯑fitable [17] to themſelves, by making holes as faſt as tinkers in his reputation which, they fancy and en⯑deavour to perſuade the world they have adroitly mended by patching them up with droſs of their own. Well did he ſay that men's perfections are written in ſand their faults in marble.

In my province, I do not conſider, if I were ever ſo inclined, that I have a right to examine the private character of any man, farther than as it may have influenced his public conduct; nor even then, unleſs it ſhould relate to his connection with the drama. If, by deduction, I can ſhew that the world has been impoſed on by a falſe character given in favour of any man's works through patronage pro⯑cured by adulation, meanneſs, and the ſawning arts of a ſycophant, it is very fair to place the public and private ſentiments of that man by the ſide of each other, and to appeal to the world, be this or any other the deſcription of his mental blemiſhes, whether, by that criterion, they have purchaſed gold or been impoſed on by tinſel.

If, on the contrary, I can produce any inſtances where meekneſs and modeſty have been borne down by rancour and envy, it will be my duty to dwell upon the virtues of him who may have had the pub⯑lic [18] misfortune and the private happineſs to poſſeſs thoſe qualities; nor can I lay a claim to impartiality, the forwardeſt requiſite of a hiſtorian, if I neglect in ſuch caſes to deduce, from the heart of the man, the merit of the poet.

SHAKESPEAR's genius was ſo brilliant, his know⯑ledge ſo wide and univerſal, his conception ſo true, and his ſentiments ſo godlike, that to meditate his character is to ſuppoſe perfection. Yes, ſay the ca⯑villers, but his writings are full of faults; and how, as a private man, will he be able to ſtand or fall upon a compariſon with them. Thus quaintneſs, in complaiſance to the time at which he wrote, temporary ſatire then, perhaps, excellent, now ob⯑ſolete, and other venial inaccuracies, for it is ex⯑tremely difficult to call them errors, which we ought not to condemn, or, if we ought, do we eaſily know how, are quoted to deface his monument of marble, and tortured into as many ſhapes as envy has ſnakes, to ornament a ſandy beap miſtaken by the ig⯑norant for the monument of his commentators.

But as I mean to allot a chapter to an exami⯑nation of thoſe gentlemen, who would have ſound it more to their honour to have excelled SHAKESPEAR by the beauty of their own writings, than to have expoſed their ignorance in cavilling at his; who [19] have ſet about to filtrate air, to elucidate light, and every one of them by a different and conſtantly an impracticable proceſs; who are like gardeners that cut ſhrubbery into the forms of birds, pyramids, vaſes, and other unnatural objects, and call all thoſe fools who love to ſee nature in her real form, I ſhall at preſent content myſelf with taking firſt a general, and afterwards a particular view of the writings of SHAKESPEAR, not like a lounger in the boxes who criticiſes upon faſhions, nor an Ariſtarchus in the pit who ſtretches one fault to hide a thouſand perfec⯑tions, but a ſpectator in the two ſhilling gallery, who goes to the play to be pleaſed^*.

[20]The writings of SHAKESPEAR take in ſo large and ſo wonderful an extent of compaſs, that, while we acknowledge that he wrote better, we are obliged to add that he wrote more than any other dramatic writer. One voluminous author writes tragedies for which he is deſervedly celebrated, that after all contain only the repreſentations of a few paſſions placed in different points of view; another, equally voluminous, writes comedies, with the ſame juſt right to celebration, in which a few follies and ab⯑ſurdities are properly ridiculed; SHAKESPEAR goes infinitely beyond all this. He takes the whole round of the paſſions, bends them into every form in which they ought deſervedly to be exhibited, expoſes them to contempt, holds them up to ridi⯑cule, commands for them admiration, conciliates pity, excites terror, and in ſhort diſplays, in his [21] faithful portraiture of them, every effect that can unlock the anxious mind, or gratify the ſuſceptible fancy; and, when ſatisfied with exploring and laying open to view the motley group of affections that characterize nature in the beings of this world, he ſtretches his comprehenſive imagination and invents a new world, inhabited with beings the offspring of his own fancy, who in their allegorical character give a refinement to virtue, an averſion to vice, and a ridicule to folly, which no actual repreſentation of them could have had the force or the beauty to convey.

Thus SHAKESPEAR, by having left nothing un⯑repreſented either as a poſitive and naked exhibi⯑tion of nature, or a deduced and figurative deſ⯑cription of her, has gone unequivocally beyond all other writers; and were there nothing elſe to ſanction his aſtoniſhing merit and extend his wide fame, he would yet indiſputably ſtand above all dramatic authors ancient and modern.

But, when we conſider that there had been no ſchool in which he might ſtudy this art, that no dra⯑matic writer ſince AESCHYLUS, whoſe ſoul ſeems as if it had tranſmigrated till it was born anew in SHAKESPEAR, had been equal to the meritoroius taſk of reſtoring the glare of MELPOMENE's dagger [22] and perfecting the poliſh on the mirror of THALIA; when we conſider that the theatre in ten years, in the hands of SHAKESPEAR, attained all that perfection which it had loſt for more than two thouſand, and boaſted additional perfection never known to it be⯑fore in the courſe of the world, it is impoſſible to contemplate the character of this great man with a degree of wonder equal to its value, which I con⯑ſider as the higheſt climax of panegyric; and yet theſe conſiderations are never afforded, and all we can learn from writers, whoſe geniuſes would be complimented by the poſſeſſion of a capacity to comprehend the genius of SHAKESPEAR, gives us no more than permiſſion to aſſert, that he was an extraordinary man, when it was admitted that he had received but an indifferent education, and that, though there were paſſages in his works of great and wonderful beauty, there were, nevertheleſs, nu⯑merous faults which never ought to be permitted.

As to the faults, I ſhall ſpeak of them more par⯑ticularly hereafter, when I think it will not be very difficult to prove that they are not ſo nu⯑merous not of ſuch magnitude as the world is taught to believe by the critics; I do not care much what they themſelves believe on the ſubject, though I hope for the ſake of common ſenſe and their own reputation, they do not believe half they aſſert; as [23] to the beauties, they are too indelibly impreſſed on the heart of every one who has heard or read them to need explanation.

But a few words as to the education of SHAKES⯑PEAR, for though I am not writing his life I have a great pride in being the hiſtorian of his mind. He received the common advantages of learning in what is called a grammar ſchool; that is to ſay, a place where a boy of any tolerable genius may learn all that the maſter is capable of teaching him in ſix months, and where boys in general ſtudy for years and at laſt know nothing.

Whether SHAKESPEAR learned little or much at this ſchool makes nothing either for or againſt my argument. I can very willingly ſuppoſe that the ſcholar was very ſoon able to teach the maſter. It was not in this grammar ſchool where he received that education which has wrought his celebrity. It was in the ſchool of nature, who condeſcended to be his inſtructreſs. The lady fell in love with him; was captivated; he was her ADONIS, her ENDY⯑MION, and both her beauty and her chaſtity yielded to the irreſiſtible impulſe; while he, with all the gal⯑lantry, yet the delicacy of an honourable lover, and a faithful knight, conſecrated his life to the ſervice [24] of his miſtreſs, pleaded her cauſe, redreſſed her wrongs, and with the trueſt conſtancy and moſt ar⯑dent gratitude, made her beauty the perpetual theme of his panegyric.

If AESCHYLUS, when, GOD knows, grammar ſchools had nothing to do with learning, but when men were called wiſe becauſe they uſed firſt ſo many words as ſerved ſimply to expreſs ſuch ideas as na⯑ture taught them, and good, becauſe their minds adopted no ideas but what tended to promote ge⯑neral morality: if AESCHYLUS, ſtudying in the ſchool of nature, repreſented the great actions and glorious atchievements of his countrymen, and felt emulouſly and meritoriouſly that by that means he ſhould render GREECE and human nature a benefit, why ſhould we deny the ſame merit to SHAKES⯑PEAR more than two thouſand years afterwards, when grammar ſchools actually flouriſhed. But it would wrong my cauſe to waſte too much anxiety about it; and nothing but a neceſſity for ſtrong and in⯑controvertible argument to cope with the opinions of men, certainly great and reputable, except in their charitable warning to the world of faults in another which are not yet, however, generally diſ⯑covered, and, after all, not of the magnitude of their own, would have induced me to dwell ſo [25] minutely on a theme that, with men of fair and candid diſcrimination, recommends itſelf and ſpeaks its own eulogium.

The general merit of SHAKESPEAR manifeſts itſelf in a thouſand various ways. Take any one of the paſſions which he has moulded at will to ſerve the general purpoſe of inſtruction and amuſe⯑ment, and ſee to what an aſtoniſhing pitch he has affected the human heart by a critical and intereſting diſplay of it.

Is the paſſion love? See how he has followed it through all its viciſſitudes. The delicate tender⯑neſs, the fond impatience, the impetuous ardour, the noble conſtancy of ROMEO and JULIET, per⯑haps, has not a parallel in language. To youthful love every thing is poſſible; and the exquiſite non⯑ſenſe that SHAKESPEAR has put into the mouth of the doating, enamoured, yet delicate JULIET, is full of poetic beauty, ſo boundleſsly, ſo extrava⯑gant, and yet ſo truly natural, that we are equally captivated with her love and her innocence.

The love of ROMEO is no leſs admirably drawn, It is impetuous, thoughtleſs, and raſh, yet manly, [26] noble, and generous; but its characteriſtic is nature, He leaps the orchard wall and braves the reſentment of JULIET's relations, out of love, yet preſently, out of this very love, he becomes a coward and puts up with an inſult from of thoſe relations; nor is he rouſed out of this apathy till called upon to revenge the death of his friend.

In the garden ſcene, ſurely nothing can be ſo beautiful as the enchanted, yet reſpectful, manner in which he liſtens to the unaffected tenderneſs, the timid honeſty, the techy impatience of JULIET. His love, profound, and awful, recedes from his tongue to his heart; her's, inconſiderate and volatile, flies from her heart to her tongue, till, at length im⯑pelled to reply to her fond confeſſion, which diſ⯑dains all hypocriſy, and derides all ſubterfuge, they join in interchanging vows, tender and affectionate on her part, manly and honourable on his.

Abſence only renders more amiable the noble and exalted minds of thoſe lovers. His deſpair at hearing the ſentence of baniſhment, his horror at the news of JULIET's death, and his ſolemn deter⯑mination to follow her; and her reſigned compli⯑ance with the friar's ſtratagem, her awful manner of executing it, and her deſtroying herſelf, after every [27] hope has failed her, are maſterly pictures of ex⯑quiſite love^*.

[28]Were I to go on inveſtigating the various ways in which SHAKESPEAR has treated this one paſſion, I ſhould greatly exceed the limits I am obliged to preſcribe for myſelf. I ſhall, therefore, for the preſent paſs by the noble and perſevering conſtancy of IMOGEN, the patient and endearing tenderneſs of DESDEMONA, the generous and enterprizing af⯑fection of ROSALIND, the ſilent and devouring paſſion of VIOLA, and all thoſe great and unex⯑ampled proofs of conſummate ſtrength of mind and profound judgment of the human heart in which SHAKESPEAR, though he may have been in one inſtance now and then equalled by a particular au⯑thor, taking his writings on the paſſion of love in their full and comprehenſive ſenſe, he has clearly excelled every author.

But let us inſtance this paſſion further, together with jealouſy and the other branches of it, as well as all thoſe different affections of the mind, which he bared to the ſight and penetrated with a critical nicety that always appealed directly to the heart, by an examination of his different works; in which, [29] that I may get into no controverſy about a matter perfectly immaterial to the reputation of SHAKES⯑PEAR, or the information of the world, I ſhall ſuppoſe his plays to have been written in that chronological order which is generally admitted to be correct; though I cannot help confeſſing that I have ſeen no authority by which I am convinced that it is ſo.

CHAP. III. SHAKESPEAR's PLAYS.

Titus Andronicus is ſaid by the regulation before alluded to to have been SHAKESPEAR's firſt play, and printed in 1611, but performed in 1589^*. All this may be poſſible, but the general accounts of it ſay [31] that it was performed in 1594, by the ſervants of lord PEMBROKE, lord DERBY, and lord ESSEX. Much has been ſaid to prove that this play was not written by our great poet; the arguments, however, to prove this are rather nugatory. RAVENSCROFT, who altered it and called it a tragedy of his own, might very naturally have had perſonal reaſons for inducing the world to think that it was not SHAKES⯑PEAR's; but his argument, that it was brought to the theatre and touched up by SHAKESPEAR, is too ridiculous, for he was at that time only an actor and could not have taken the manager upon him to this degree.

If thoſe who reject this play as SHAKESPEAR's think it inferior to the reſt of his productions, the doubt is eaſily cleared by recollecting that it was his firſt effort. There are certainly ſome things in it equal to his happieſt ſallies; and, as we know thoſe are ſuperior to the writings of any man who ever lived, the queſtion to be aſked is, and this will per⯑petually occur, if SHAKESPEAR did not write Titus Andronicus, who did?

THEOBALD, who after all is the moſt pardonable of all SHAKESPEAR's commentators, has taken this play into his edition as genuine; and, notwithſtand⯑ing this opinion of his has been luſtily combated by [32] later conjecture, that, backed by the ſtrong writings, the diſcrimination of character, and thoſe peculiar marks of genius which were worne ſo indelibly by SHAKESPEAR, and which appear, not always, but very frequently in this play, I ſhall not heſitate to believe, and therefore aſſert that it is written by that great man with whom nature, a proud diſtinction, complimented this country.

Love's Labour Loſt, performed, at leaſt we will ſo conclude, in 1591, has, as well as Titus Andro⯑nicus, been rejected as a genuine play of SHAKES⯑PEAR. The cabal againſt it, however, has not run ſo high, and, therefore, all his editors, poor SHAKES⯑PEAR, Oh that admiration and pity ſhould belong to the ſame man! have concurred right or wrong to admit it into their collections.

As Titus Andronicus was SHAKESPEAR's firſt tragedy, ſo Love's Labour Loſt was his firſt comedy, and thus the whole myſtery appears to be ſolved. Theſe plays are full of irregularities owing clearly to the inexperience of the author, the prejudices he had to combat, and the taſte he had to create. When HERCULES cleared the Augean ſtable it was very unlikely that he came out clean himſelf. Why will not men be candid? Why not ſay at once that it is not in nature to attain perfection in a moment, if at [33] all. If they would lament inſtead of condemn, and extol inſtead of commend, it would be the true cri⯑ticiſm due to SHAKESPEAR.

Love's Labour Loſt abounds with beauties. The character of BIRON, conſidered as ſo early an effort, is inimitable. The admirable brilliancy which per⯑vades the dialogue has no fault but playful redun⯑dancy, and though it has been objected to, by Dr. JOHNSON, as obſcene and vulgar, and improper to have been performed before a maiden queen, who, by the way, had been accuſtomed to liſten to much worſe obſcenity and vulgarity, for the obſcenity of SHAKESPEAR is purity compared to thoſe who wrote before him, yet this great admirer of truth and ſen⯑timent is compelled to allow that there is no play ‘"that has more evident marks of the hand of SHAKESPEAR."’

In the ſame year, SHAKESPEAR is ſaid to have produced the firſt part of Henry the Sixth, and in the following year the ſecond and third parts of the ſame play; and, as there is a continuation of the ſtory of that unhappy prince, I ſhall conſider them under one head.

SHAKESPEAR had hitherto indulged his pro⯑penſity [34] for dramatic writing by treating ſubjects with which his principles as a patriot were not con⯑cerned. He had only conſulted his feelings as a poet. If from deſign, the election was judicious; if from impulſe, nature was working in him that maturity neceſſary to atchieve the great deſigns ſhe was meditating for him, for now the time arrived when he was deſtined to prove himſelf the Engliſh AESCHYLUS; when the fancied proweſs of foreign or imaginary heroes was to yield to the actual ex⯑ploits of his own countrymen; to be handed down by him as a faithful record of all the virtues and vices of the Engliſh nation for the imitation or ab⯑horrence of poſterity.

No pen but that of SHAKESPEAR was competent to undertake this maſterly taſk. To become the dramatic hiſtorian of his own country became pe⯑culiarly his province, and there are more traits of real hiſtory at this moment remembered by the En⯑liſh through the medium of his plays than all that library of contradiction and abſurdity, which, as an ingenius author ſays, ‘"ſome have been facetiouſly pleaſed to call The Hiſtory of England."’

Theſe three plays contain moſt wonderful proofs of SHAKESPEAR's great and extraordinary genius. The characters are drawn with correct truth and [35] prodigious force. The timid HENRY led about by his turbulent queen, the bold WARWICK, the ſub⯑tle GLOUCESTER, whoſe different ambitions and the means of attaining their end exhibit a moſt com⯑manding and maſterly judgment in the manner of throwing over that paſſion the different ſhadows ne⯑ceſſary to relieve it, are ſo many confirmations of his graſping at all minds and at all motives.

The philoſophy and reſignation of HENRY is un⯑commonly admirable. The diſtinction between goodneſs and greatneſs, one the perfection of na⯑ture and an emulation of the deity; the other a mixture of artificial wants interwoven into our de⯑deſires and actions by reſtleſs and ambitious ſtrug⯑gles for ſuperiority, are exhibited maſterly and happily in the contraſt between HENRY and MAR⯑GARET, both of whom are in nature and yet both out of their ſphere. If SHAKESPEAR had written nothing but that wonderful ſoliloquy uttered by the timid HENRY, while he ſits upon the hill contem⯑plating the dreadful effects of that battle he has not the courage to witneſs, poſterity would have pointed out the page as a maſter piece of beauty and ſublimity.

But to dwell upon the ſeparate merits of theſe [36] plays would be to write a treatiſe inſtead of a hiſtory. It would require an examination into all thoſe nice points of diſcrimination in which nature taught SHAKESPEAR to develope the motives of the human heart. I ſhall content myſelf, therefore, with no⯑ticing that SHAKESPEAR having thus far ſhewn in what way the affections of the mind may be merit⯑oriouſly wrought on to ſtimulate men to good and great actions, and inſtanced theſe truths by portray⯑ing manners at home, the ſtage began to grow im⯑portant, the characters in common life as well as thoſe of kings and heroes became familiar by paſſing in review, and the conduct of mankind im⯑bibed new dignity from an attention to the leſſons of SHAKESPEAR.

Pericles was, as we are told, performed in 1592. It would be as difficult to pronounce that this play was wholly written by SHAKESPEAR as that it was not. That he had not a hand in it, or, as HEYWOOD calls it, at leaſt a main finger will hardly be aſſerted for it has thoſe marks of peculiar felicity which I cannot think any mind enjoyed in the ſame degree as that of SHAKESPEAR; but, as it is more natural that he ſhould aſſiſt the labours of another than con⯑deſcend to permit another to aſſiſt him, and, as at the time of Pericles there is not the ſame excuſe [37] of inexperience as at the time of Titus Andronicus, it is certainly ſeaſible to join with the major part of thoſe who have been ſo ſolicitous to eſtabliſh a fact, not, however, very material, and allow that the opinion that Pericles is not entirely the pro⯑duction of SHAKESPEAR has certainly probability on its ſide^*.

Loerine produced in 1593, has ſtill fewer pre⯑tentions to be conſidered as a genuine play of SHAKESPEAR than Pericles. Indeed it has ſcarcely any veſtiges by which it appears to have the ad⯑vantages of his aſſiſtance; ſome, however, there cer⯑tainly are, for in the edition of it, publiſhed in 1595, the title announces that it was ‘"overſeen and cor⯑rected by WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR,"’ and this very unaffectedly eſtabliſhes a proof that it muſt have been the production of ſome author of that [38] time who was glad enough to benefit himſelf by ſuch able aſſiſtance.

The two Gentlemen of Verona made its appear⯑ance in the ſame year. This piece diſplays a pro⯑digious variety of thoſe beauties which belonged only to SHAKESPEAR. The plot, which is taken from a novel, as far as it relates to the management of the ſcenery is certainly very intricate and almoſt inexplicable, but conſidered merely as a ſtory, it has great ſimplicity and nature. The characters are drawn with ſtrength and truth, and it is remarkable that in this play we have the firſt idea of what has been ſince called genteel comedy. The elegance, yet the contraſt in VALENTINE and PROTHEUS, is a very ſtriking picture, not only of the etiquette, but the perfidy of polite life; for PROTHEUS is more corrupted by education than nature, of which his remorſe and his contrition are proofs, while VA⯑LENTINE has a mind ſo correctly inclined to rec⯑titude that faſhion and folly cannot corrupt it.

But this is not all. The two ſervants, LAUNCE and SPEED, who are the foils of their maſters, make the whole a complete reſemblance of that ſort of play which is the foundation of almoſt all the come⯑dies of both the Spaniards and the French; and as theſe plays did not obtain with them, at leaſt in this [39] perfect form, till CALDERON, who was cotemporary with CORNEILLE, SHAKESPEAR may be ſaid to have been the founder of this ſpecies of comedy. We muſt admit at the ſame time that the germ was in the Spaniards, but his mind was the only ſoil which could expand and bring it to perfection.

The chronological order, which I purſue right or wrong in this accout of SHAKESPEAR's pro⯑ductions, even if it ſhould he deficient in veracity, has certainly the appearance of good ſenſe in its fa⯑vour, for it ſeems to lay before the reader that ſort of rotation in which a well wiſher to his reputation would deſire that he had written them. The re⯑dundant luxuriance, in which, in the wilds of SHAKESPEAR's abundant and productive imagi⯑nation, one cannot ſometimes ſee the wood for trees, begins as he goes on to be more and more got under. The underwood is better cleared out and the plants, intended to ſwell and enlarge, have more room and better air to accelerate their ap⯑proach to maturity.

The two Gentlemen of Verona abounds with poeti⯑cal beauties ſuch as we have not before been able to diſcover even in SHAKESPEAR. His towering fancy in this particular piece playfully aſcends to thoſe ſublime heights, dangerous to others but [40] always familiar to him; ſometimes hazardous, but never alarming; often trackleſs, yet always aſtoniſhing.

The Winter's Tale was performed in 1594. When the grand objection in this play is got over which is the very long period of time it embraces, and the dif⯑ferent countries it traverſes, we turn our thoughts to the numerous and inimitable beauties in contains; which, whether conſidered on the ſide of character or language, are in the beſt ſtyle of SHAKESPEAR. This play has been very judiciouſly ſeperated into two dramatic pieces; and, viewed in this advanta⯑geous light, it has very few faults of any deſcription. The ſubject of that which GARRICK brought for⯑ward as a tragedy in three acts under its original title, and in which, to do him juſtice, he ſacredly ſteered clear of mutilation, as he did alſo in his al⯑teration of Romeo and Juliet, is great, natural, and affecting.

Jealouſy, of which turbulent paſſion SHAKES⯑PEAR has ſo often evinced a moſt critical judg⯑ment, for he has always given it a different mo⯑tive and a different diſcrimination, is moſt pathe⯑tically depicted in the character of LEONTES, and gives a lively and noble opportunity of bringing forward contraſt, the life of the drama, by the [41] honourable and conſcious rectitude in the juſtifi⯑cation of HERMIONE. The loves of FLORIZEL and PERDITA, which form the other piece, are ſo ſimple, ſo paſtoral, ſo tender, and ſo delicate, that their force and their language are the deſcription of an amiable and meritorious paſſion, belonging to all ranks, and equally a bleſſing to the peaſant and the prince. In ſhort, love and its viciſſitudes mark the various merits of this admirable piece, which SHAKESPEAR, here as every where elſe, has ex⯑plored at will, and turned to advantage at pleaſure.

A Midſummer's Night's Dream came out in 1595, SHAKESPEAR, having ranged ſo far through the fields of nature, began now to feel an inclination to explore the regions of fancy; which he did to ſo good a purpoſe, that all the critics, even the moſt ſarcaſtic, have agreed, that in this wild and beautiful play, if the fairies do not ſpeak the language of common nature no one can pronounce that they do not ſpeak their own.

Every writer, equal to the taſk, compliments his country by diſplaying all the poetic fare of which his genius is capable. Here has SHAKESPEAR in one inſtance paid his country this compliment. Common tradition had fanciliarized the idea of [42] fairies, and many a ballad and poem had made them the lares of the Engliſh. His fertile and creative fancy, therefore could not, to ſhew its extent and variety, have been better employed. SPENSER had trod the ground before him, with prodigious felicity and ſterling excellence; but SHAKESPEAR, born to ſoar above all others, repreſented what his great predeceſſor only narrated.

We come now to conſider SHAKESPEAR every moment in a ſuperior light, for great and admirable as his talents have hitherto appeared, they are yet growing conſiderably into much more ſtrength and improvement.

Romeo and Juliet his next play, which was pro⯑duced alſo in 1595, is a wonderful performance; and how we can poſſibly underſtand that, ſo ſoon after his mind had been entangled in the labyrinths of enchantment, and his fancy frolicking over the imaginary beauties of Fairy land, he could calmly ſet down exquiſitely to deſcribe literal nature, will be difficult, if not impoſſible.

This play, which is founded on real hiſtory, is ſo conſtantly in the mouths of its various ſpectators and readers that to deſcribe particularly the tender⯑neſs of the lovers, the rooted animoſity of their [43] parents, the different effects of reſentment in their relations, in ſhort, the piety of the Friar, the loqua⯑city of the Nurſe, the wit of MERCUTIO, or thoſe other points that conſtitute its beauty and make up its collective merit is certainly unneceſſary; but, as every opportunity of paying a tribute of reſpect to the admirable genius of its incomparable author is with me irreſiſtable, I ſhall ſpeak of ſome things which have not probably yet been noticed.

Romeo and Juliet is beſt known by that copy of it which is generally performed, and in which GAR⯑RICK has very judiciouſly done little more than make SHAKESPEAR alter his own play, fitting the cataſtrophe to the original invention of the noveliſt. The two grand points that GARRICK, by the advice of his friends, has inſiſted on, are the expunging the idea of ROSALIND, and ROMEO's ſudden incon⯑ſtancy on the firſt impreſſion of JULIET's ſuperior beauty, and heightening the cataſtrophe, by RO⯑MEO's firſt ſwallowing the poiſon, then in the ex⯑tacy of finding JULIET ſurvive, forgetting the deſ⯑perate act he had committed, and flattering himſelf with a deluſive hope of future happineſs, and, again, the aſtoniſhment and delight of JULIET at re⯑covering her lover, all which is inſtantly damped by a diſcovery that her ſallacious hopes are to be but momentary.

[44]It muſt be confeſſed theſe alterations are more admiſſible by common auditors, than the incidents as they originally ſtood; not that they were forced or unnatural before, for violent love breeds with it inconſtancy, becauſe it is always inconſiderate, or, as JULIET ſweetly expreſſes it,

But this does not ſeem to be all that SHAKES⯑PEAR intended in ROMEO's amorous apoſtacy. He has appeared to inſiſt upon this incident to give an awful grandeur to his plot, the great drift of which is, and this has been but little conſidered, the ſolemn warning to MONTAGUE and CAPULET, by the dreadful ſacrifice of their children, and in them to all other parents, of the horrid effects of domeſtic enmity.

To bring about this great and important end, is ROMEO made inconſtant; is JULIET, who had been taught all her life to hate the MONTAGUES, made as ſuddenly to fall in love with her mortal enemy; or, as ſhe deſcribes it, her only love ſprung from her only hate. Theſe circumſtances diſcover a depth, a ſolidity of which SHAKESPEAR is oftener capable than ſuſpected. This love, ſo [45] born, he contrives with the pen of a poet and the hand of a maſter, in various ways and by various degrees, to warm and encourage, till he makes even the Friar conſent to the union of the lovers, which it was poſitively his duty not to do, from a reflection that Providence, from this fortunate event, might ſo open the eyes of the parents to the folly and in⯑juſtice of their mutual and long-exiſting animoſity, ‘"to turn their houſes rancour to pure love."’

This very cataſtrophe has even been attempted, but never with ſucceſs, for it could not be ſo im⯑preſſive nor ſo tragic. I have ſhewn in the plot of MERCIER of how much it is capable, but SHAKES⯑PEAR did not look ſo ſuperſicially. Meritorious puniſhment has been clearly with him his decided drift. Even the lovers tender, delicate, and ho⯑nourable as they are, merit puniſhment; for their conduct is thoughtleſsly a deviation from the very principles they profeſs; it is born of imprudence, and nurſed by deceit; and, in this point of view, it is better that ROMEO ſhould have been incon⯑ſtant, and JULIET at leaſt capricious.

Nay, the imprudence of the Friar, with all his wiſdom and ſagacity, is moſt admirably thrown in. Having in one inſtance, from the beſt motives in the world, done a poſitive wrong he is obliged to [46] perſiſt, ſtill comforting himſelf with the purity of his intentions. He becomes the honourable pan⯑der of the lovers, he leagues with a chattering and perfidious ſervant, whoſe honeſty he fears, and whoſe ſervility he ought to diſtruſt. Inſtead of wiſely attempting to apply a ſolid remedy, inſtead of manfully ſtepping forward and avowing the mar⯑riage of ROMEO and JULIET, at the moment ſhe is menaced with the hand of PARIS, and attempt⯑ing, through the mediation of the Prince, to bring about a reconciliation between the two families; he, timid, irreſolute, and one would almoſt think vain of his judgment in the conduct of intrigue, adviſes a deſperate and unwiſe means, not to bring about any wiſhed for end, but to procaſtinate and put off the evil day at the hazard of accumulated miſchief.

The ſum of his danger is by this time ſo aſcer⯑tained that he has cut off his own retreat. He, therefore, makes another confident in Friar JOHN, employs him to carry a letter, which miſcarrying, he ſeizes his iron crow and romantically undertakes himſelf to releaſe JULIET from the vault of her anceſtors. All this folly is he guilty of, and yet you pity and almoſt admire him from beginning to end; but remember it is impoſſible to commend him, and this is the nice diſtinction SHAKESPEAR [47] has ſo well drawn; pointing out, that in the beſt and the wiſeſt, a ſingle deviation from the path of rectitude muſt lead to remorſe and may, perhaps, to puniſhment.

As to the character of MERCUTIO, concerning which ſo much has been ſaid and written, SHAKES⯑PEAR has certainly introduced it to give freſh force to the colouring his main deſign. He repreſents this young officer as an elegant man, a complete gentleman, and an accompliſhed wit, and that the characters in the play, and the ſpectators at it, may look with additional horror at the family diſputes of the MONTAGUES and the CAPULETS, he is loſt, to one, at a time of life when his brilliant talents and engaging manners are at their height, and, therefore, ardently cheriſhed by his friends, and, to the other, at the moment he has become their delight and admiration.

In the face of DRYDEN, whoſe great talents I ſhall have hereafter plenty of opportunity to ſhew how ſincerely I reverence, I look upon this to have been SHAKESPEAR's ſole motive for killing MER⯑CUTIO ſo early in the play. It had been ſaid by the critics that SHAKESPEAR had ſo ſurpaſſed his own expectation in the character of MERCUTIO that he killed him in the third act, leſt, had be con⯑tinued [48] him, he ſhould have been killed by him; and this DRYDEN has affected to ſmile at, under an idea that he was ‘"no ſuch formidable perſon, for that he might have lived through the play and died in his bed without any danger to a poet."’

This tradition, and this declaration are equally wrong. The trait of MERCUTIO's death, in the manner we witneſs it, is, for the reaſons I have given above, a moſt affecting circumſtance, and that SHAKESPEAR could not have carried on this cha⯑racter to the end of ten plays with the ſame force and ſpirit is ridiculous to aſſert. On the other hand; that DRYDEN, who was all candour and full of judg⯑ment, ſhould think ſo indifferently of the wit of MERCUTIO, is not very eaſily underſtood, even with Dr. JOHNSON's mode of accounting for it, who ſays that, in this remark, ‘"DRYDEN was not in queſt of truth,"’ and that ‘"the ſallies of MER⯑CUTIO were beyond his reach,"’ for no man ſearched more after truth than DRYDEN, and he has given ſufficient proof in his own admirable writings that the higher the ſallies of any wit were elevated they would the more eaſily come in contact with his genius.

But to put aſide the curious queſtion of whe⯑ther or not SHAKESPEAR created a perſonage and [49] then was ſo terrified at his formidable appearance, that he watched an opportunity and gave him an unlucky blow under ROMEO's arm for fear of worſe conſequences to himſelf; that great judge of na⯑ture, who violated propriety much ſeldomer than has been generally admitted, had a motive for bringing about this premature death which does not ſeem to have been noticed.

ROMEO, having killed TIBALT, it would have been manifeſt injuſtice in the Duke not to have taken ‘"the forfeit life of ROMEO"’ had he not qualified his ſentence of baniſhment with deſcribing TIBALT's crime to have been worſe than ROMEO's. SHAKESPEAR, therefore, makes MERCUTIO the Duke's relation; ‘"who, as his blood had iſſued from MERCUTIO's wounds,"’ whoſe life ROMEO endeavoured to ſave, ſees the crime in a much more heinous light in TIBALT than in ROMEO, and, therefore, when MONTAGUE pleads for his ſon ſaying that ‘"he but took the forfeit life of TIBALT,"’ the diſcrimination of baniſhment is correctly con⯑ſiſtent. Thus in perfect conſonance to dramatic conſtruction, a ſubordinate character is diſpoſed of to give better opportunity of keeping a principal character in the fore ground; and this I believe is a rational way of accounting for this mighty circum⯑ſtance [50] which has created ſo much cavil than to ſup⯑poſe, admirable as the character of MERCUTIO is, that SHAKESPEAR was at all afraid of continuing it to the end with encreaſed warmth, had propriety warranted this neceſſity.

Before we leave Romeo and Juliet, we muſt not forget to notice the Nurſe; a ſort of character in which SHAKESPEAR took particular delight, be⯑cauſe he delighted in every thing that was natural. He has made this talkative old woman full of ſelf importance, and, therefore, ſhe is permitted to take liberties which no other deſcription of ſervants would dare to do; but having given her all the low and corrupted cunning of a thorough paced mercenary domeſtic, from her own depravity of mind and liquoriſh vanity, ſhe endeavours to ſe⯑duce that beauty and innocence which is the con⯑ſtant theme of her praiſe; and having perſuaded her into ſomething more than imprudence in her mar⯑riage with ROMEO, to avert the conſequences, ſhe does not heſitate to deviſe an infamous method of compounding the buſineſs by her marriage, never⯑theleſs, with PARIS.

Thus ſhe is poſſeſſed of cunning which is coun⯑teracted by her ignorance, thus ſhe inſinuates her⯑ſelf into the ſecrets of her young lady to gain over [51] her an inſolent aſcendancy, and thus, a ſtranger to the gratitude due to her benefactors, ſhe abuſes that indulgence, and betrays that confidence of which they themſelves ought to have known her unworthy.

There cannot be a properer leſſon to parents and children than this. Half, perhaps nine tenths of the various inſtances of family miſery happen through the improper confidence placed in ſervants; and thus SHAKESPEAR has made this nurſe, who after all may be in great meaſure excuſed on the ſcore of pampered indulgence which ſhe ignorantly takes to herſelf as her right, and implicit reliance which gives her a reprehenſible importance, an inſtru⯑ment to ſhew by what natural degrees the ſmalleſt neglect of prudence in parents may produce the moſt fatal conſequences to their children, and how a diviation of prudence in children may prove a ſource of miſery and regret to their parents.

Thus it is impoſſible to blame any thing in the conduct or conſtruction of this play. It is in vain to ſay that tragedy and comedy are unnaturally blended together, for the reverſe is the fact. The ſtory is purely domeſtic; and familiar circumſtances, how⯑ever productive in the end of diſtreſs and miſery, ought not to be treated otherwiſe than as SHAKES⯑PEAR [52] has treated them; nay, in this play particu⯑larly, he has managed the comic part with a moſt happy judgment; for, as the play advances and the intereſt it is intended to create becomes more and more important, the comic characters drop off and leave the mind at leiſure, without mixture or inter⯑ruption, to attend to the plot as it approaches to, perhaps, the moſt intereſting cataſtrophe ever repre⯑ſented to an audience; and here we have another proof of the great propriety of SHAKESPEAR's kil⯑ling MERCUTIO in the third act.

The Comedy of Errors was produced the year after Romeo and Juliet. The objections that have been made to this play are that it outrages proba⯑bility, that the miſtakes are repeated till they tire, and that the cataſtrophe is foreſeen in the firſt act.

Certainly probability is a good deal ſtretched of the idea that the Twin Maſters and the Twin Servants ſhould be ſo remarkably alike, and this is all, for it is clearly poſſible, and if the audience were only preſented with one of thoſe gemini no man could have cavilled at it, I am glad, however, that SHAKESPEAR gave us two, though not ſtrictly within the bounds of propriety, for the abundant opportunity it has given him of indulging that true vein of comic humour he poſſeſſed in ſuch an ex⯑traordinary [53] degree overcomes, liberally taken, all objection.

The miſtakes are very frequently repeated, and at length they as certainly tire, but this is more owing to the impoſſibility of properly repreſenting the play than the want of variety in its author. Could we get two Antipoluſes and two Dromios exactly alike, the audience, would be equally de⯑ceived with the characters and the equivoque would be complete.

As to the anticipation of the cataſtrophe, my objection is not ſo ſtrong to that as that the cataſtro⯑phe itſelf is a kind of vehicle, a kind of underpart, to ſet off the detached ſcenes. But I do not much in the preſent caſe mind this. I know of eminent painters who are beſt known by their ſketches. Let us, therefore, conſider The Comedy of Errors, though by the way there is a wonderful deal of fine pen⯑celling in it, as a ſketch; and let us not, becauſe every thing that comes from the hand of a great maſter cannot always be perfect, criticiſe ourſelves, in our examination of this play, out of the irreſiſta⯑ble pleaſure it conſtantly affords us both on the ſtage and in the cloſet.

If the objections of the critics to The Comedy [54] of Errors require ſo ſtrong a defence, what muſt be the critical fate of Hamlet? Which, with all its tranſcendant beauties, its prodigious ſtrength, its fa⯑ſcinating charms, its rivetting intereſt, and its extra⯑ordinary variety, has more faults than the critics have time to tell, or breath to give utterance.

Hamlet was brought out in 1596; and, when we conſider that this wonderful production, worth the reputation of twenty celebrated authors, and I ſhould not be fearful of naming them, was written, together with the four laſt plays we have received, in two years, what words can the beſt ingenuity ſupply us with equal to the deſcription of the aſto⯑niſhing talents of this incomparable writer!

I know not if the objections to this play excite moſt one's pity or one's indignation. I'll admit at once all the faults; but juſtice, truth, common ſenſe forbid, that this miſt of faults ſhould obſcure, in any liberal mind, the ſplendour they are ignorantly ſaid to hide. I'll admit the tardineſs of HAMLET, I'll admit that the Ghoſt is not revenged becauſe the inſtrument of the revenge falls in accompliſhing the death of the adulterer, and the murderer; I'll admit that the death of the unoffending OPHELIA is revolting and unneceſſary; that the amiable LAERTES, practiſing againſt the life of HAM⯑LET [55] by the treachery, is unbecoming, and even ignoble.

I will even admit with Mr. VOLTAIRE, who abuſed this play and afterwards ſtole it, that the grave diggers ought not to jeſt in the pariſh church⯑yard of the palace, as he is pleaſed to call it; that a little curioſity in POLLONIUS was not a crime of magnitude enough to deſerve death; and that the King certainly bids the cannon ſound before the in⯑vention of gunpowder. I'll admit all theſe foils that the diamond may appear more brilliant; but, when I have done ſo, will the ſoureſt critic who has malignantly enjoyed this diſcovery lay his hand on his heart, nay, would VOLTAIRE himſelf with his hundred and twenty volumes, were he alive, and ſay that he would not rather be known by the tra⯑gedy of Hamlet alone, with all its faults, than his own productions, with all their perfections.

I will not undertake to ſay, in a general ſenſe, that this is a fair way of arguing. Have the faults or perfections of other men any thing to do with this particular object of diſcuſſion? And, if I admit they exiſt, how can I who profeſs myſelf a warm admirer of SHAKESPEAR, for as to an advocate he needs none, get rid of an eſtabliſhed fact? I do not want to get rid of it. I even blazoned it here [56] to ſhew its inſignificance; to ſhew how much oftener it has been mentioned than it ought, and how greatly it has been magnified, when the other fact, one would think more worthy their attention as candid and ſound critics, of the inumerable and exquiſite beauties this faulty piece contains, obtains their ac⯑knowledgment in ſo painful and laboured a manner that every extorted confeſſion gives them a heart burn, and chokes their faint praiſe in its utterance.

Perhaps theſe gentlemen were charitable enough to notice the blemiſhes of SHAKESPEAR becauſe an enumeration of his perfections was unneceſſary. It muſt be ſo; for, otherwiſe, what a ſtain to their truth, and what a drawback on their reputation it muſt have been that, while men of competent ta⯑lents, the lawgivers of literature paſs over ſuch ex⯑cellence, it would be known, felt, and underſtood, by every other man in the kingdom, however illi⯑terate. Let us then imitate their charity, and ſup⯑poſe this to be the caſe; and then a criterion will be eſtabliſhed, rather an Iriſh one to be ſure, that that the beſt way of finding out a man's merit is to ſearch for his defects.

For my own part, I am ſo content to take things as find them; and, have ſo much pleaſure in re⯑peating over and over again what I like, that againſt [57] all preſident, I ſhall not ſcruple to revive in my mind, by an examination of Hamlet, that delight I have ſo frequently and ſo warmly enjoyed. All men agree on the value of a guinea, the beauty of a fine day, the odour of a roſe; nor does a repetition of the enjoyment reſulting from their admiration abate, for it rather encreaſes the grateful ſatisfaction. Upon this principle I ſhall undertake a very wel⯑come taſk; nor ſhall I, becauſe my guinea may be a little ſhort of weight, my day obſcured by a paſſing cloud, or my roſe armed with a few thorns, deduct from the real value of either, but fairly revel in all the pleaſures their beſt qualities are ca⯑pable of affording me.

In the conduct of Hamlet, SHAKESPEAR ſeems more to have treated a ſubject than to have con⯑ſtructed a play. Nothing can be finer, more moral, more intereſting than the general deſign, and, in the choice of it, is evinced a great mind, a ſtrong diſ⯑crimination, and a correct claſſical judgment. The ground work is that firſt of all moral obligations, ſilial piety, and the feelings belonging to that paſſion, known to all hearts, and underſtood by all ranks are rouſed by every ſituation in which the moſt fertile imagination and the moſt conſummate art could have placed them.

[58]HAMLET, finding his father prematurely cut off by the hand of death, a father dear to his family, beloved by his ſubjects, and an honour to humanity; would, in reaſon and religion, have found a conſo⯑lation, and have reconciled himſelf to this loſs, dreadful and irreparable as it was, as a natural ca⯑ſualty, and the will of that being, in whoſe hands are the lives of us all, did not a ſecret admonition warn him that all was not right; but this ſuſpicion, diffi⯑cult to be cheriſhed in a noble mind, requires ſtrong circumſtances to confirm it. His mother's wedding with his uncle, that followed ſo hard upon the death of his father, though it excites his horror, does not exhibit ſufficient proof of a crime which ſeems too abominable for belief; and this credulity on the ſide of virtue is the moſt beautiful feature in the character of HAMLET.

Under the influence of this conflict is HAMLET moſt judiciouſly introduced as the only mourner in his uncle's ſplendid court. With this grief the mo⯑ther is made unfeelingly to reproach him; hypo⯑critically repreſenting it as the breach of a religious duty which, had ſhe been ſincere, would have been a fact. HAMLET, though not perſuaded, is over⯑ruled; and in this ſtate he is left alone to examine his mind, and out of charity, if poſſible, to find a motive for the ſtrange and unnatural conduct of his mother.

[59]Though no man ever threw action into ſuch ſtrong ſituations as SHAKESPEAR, his ſoliloquys are unqueſtionably the fineſt part of his writings, and the fineſt of his ſoliloquys are the deliberations of HAMLET. Being left alone, and feeling himſelf impelled to explore the buſineſs of his father's cruel death, and his mother's ſudden and inceſtuous mar⯑riage, his mind ſinks under the impending trial, and he wiſhes for annihilation rather than to undertake the awful taſk.

He next goes into his mother's conduct, for which he cannot find either motive or excuſe. He deſ⯑cribes her fondneſs for his father, recollects that ſhe would hang on him as if deſire encreaſed by ſeeding, that ſhe followed him to the grave like NIOBE, all tears, and yet in a little month ſhe married his un⯑cle, ‘"My father's brother,"’ ſays he, ‘"but no more like my father than I to HERCULES."’ The reſult of this deliberation is that it cannot come to good; and while he is involved in a conſideration of all the dreadful conſequences, likely to be ſhowered on the heads of this wicked pair, the fitteſt mood for the poet's purpoſe, HORATIO and MARCELLUS come to inform him that they have ſeen his father's ghoſt.

[60]Nothing can be better prepared nor conducted than this ſcene. HORATIO, who wants gradually to open his awful commiſſion, begins by telling HAMLET, in anſwer to his enquiries that he came to ſee his fathers burial. The prince, big with the conſequences, replies that he ſhould rather have thought it was to ſee his mother's wedding. This introduces a comment, and, at length, an eulogium from HORATIO on HAMLET's father, on which the pious ſon is rouſed into that famous reply, ‘"He was a man, take him for all in all, I ſhall not look upon his like again."’

This is the moment for HORATIO to divulge the awful ſecret, nor can any thing be more inter⯑eſting than the remainder of this ſcene. The cautious enquiries of HAMLET, his eagerneſs, his tenderneſs for his father, making HORATIO repeat over and over again how he looked, whether he was armed, and other fond circumſtances full of duty and reſpect, are in the beſt ſtyle of dramatic manage⯑ment; till, at length, having aſcertained the fact and felt the whole force of its importance, he ex⯑claims,

and then,

[61]It now becomes a matter of buſineſs. He diſ⯑patches his friends to wait for him; his ſuſpicions when alone grow ſtronger and ſtronger; he meets the ghoſt; he is urged to revenge, the nature of his father's death is explained, and the powerful climax which this natural and gradual developement of ſo material a circumſtance was meant to attain, comes out in the expreſſion,

and ſhews that, from the moment of his father's death, his ſuſpicions, which owing to his own nobleneſs of heart he had unwillingly entertained, were in⯑fluenced by feelings which human nature could not controul.

As to the ſcene of the ghoſt, I ſhall not at preſent enquire into the propriety of introducing a ghoſt at all, nor examine the objections that have been made againſt it by the critics with Mr. VOL⯑TAIRE at their head, who, nevertheleſs, was not content with bringing forward the ghoſt of NINUS in his Semiramis, but he made him ſtalk forth at noon day, I ſhall only ſay, that for the ſake of li⯑terature, to which this character is a ſhining orna⯑ment, I am in common with many thouſands very happy that SHAKESPEAR gave us this ſample of his incomparable abilities.

[62]Taking it for granted that the ſcene between HAMLET and the ghoſt is as natural as any thing elſe, I ſhall venture a word as to its drift and ope⯑ration. When the awful novelty of his father's re⯑appearance has a little ſubſided, when faſcinating terror has given way to manly reſolution, and the ghoſt finds HAMLET ‘"apt,"’ the horrid ſtory comes out and he is told that ‘"if he has nature in him not to bear it."’ This he moſt ſolemnly vows and de⯑clares that, for the purpoſe of entertaining and practiſing revenge, he ſhall wipe away from his brain all trivial fond records.

This ſeems to be his motive, which is ſaid to be a ſhallow one, for his conduct to OPHELIA. It does not, however, deſerve ſo much reprehenſion as it has received. The buſineſs of HAMLET is to be thought mad, which diſpoſition, as he calls it, he puts on that he may the better aſk thoſe ſort of odd queſtions which, by being ſatirically thrown in may obtain for him by their ſhrewdneſs and ambiguity, ſuch anſwers as may corroborate the intelligence he has received from the ghoſt; and what can ſo ſubſtantially confirm the opinion of thoſe around him that he is mad, as outrageous behaviour to her he moſt loves, a thing generally underſtood as a cri⯑tetion of infanity.

[63]In fact, from the milkineſs of his diſpoſition, and that ſtrong ſenſe of his moral duty that every where mark his character, he pants for better proofs than thoſe he has already received through the means of a ſupernatural agent; and, when he finds that chance has thrown in his way an opportunity, through the medium of the players, of ſearching the matter to the quick, his mind is materially re⯑lieved from his fears leſt he ſhould have liſtened to a fiend who came to practice on his melancholy, and tempt him on to damn himſelf; and, to clear up this doubt, he is determined to have grounds more relative.

In his progreſs to this point, how aſtoniſhingly has the poet, in HAMLET's different ſoliloquys, in his ſcenes with POLONIUS, with ROSENCRAUS and GUILDENSTERN, and with the players, indulged himſelf in all that beauty and exquiſite variety of which he alone was capable. Is there any thing in the ancients or the moderns equal to mary things in in theſe ſcenes? Is there any thing in PLATO equal to the ſoliloquy, beginning with the words ‘"To be or not to be?"’ Is there any thing in the ſtyle of VIRGIL equal to the ſtyle of SHAKESPEAR, or in the piety of AENEAS to the piety of HAMLET?

Solid, ſober, convincing argument; ſhrewd, [64] ſenſible and keen obſervation, and noble, elevated and ſublime ſentiments, every where mark the commanding genius of this wonderful man. The deepeſt and moſt philoſophical truths are ſent home to every comprehenſion by being dreſſed in the moſt perſpicuous ſimplicity. How aſtoniſhingly written is the ſpeech beginning, ‘"Why what a piece of work is man!"’ What variety and ac⯑cuteneſs is there in the examination of real and feigned grief, in his obſervations of the actor's com⯑miſeration for HECUBA, nay, his advice to the ac⯑tors as to the manner of performing their parts, which every actor of good ſenſe has ever ſince cheriſhed as a treaſure, ſhews that his judgment and penetration embraced every thing. There is nothing ſtrained in his expreſſion, nothing that a child might not extemporaneouſly utter, yet can any thing ſo intimately touch the heart, or ſo im⯑preſſively intereſt the mind?

The play acted before the king, the cloſet ſcene between HAMLET and his mother, ſaid by ſome to be the beſt thing in SHAKESPEAR, and a va⯑riety of paſſages give abundant proof of the truth of this aſſertion, all which I could with pleaſure dwell upon were I leſs circumſcribed; as it is I ſhall con⯑tent myſelf with ſaying that, though I allow the plot gets tame after the death of POLONIUS, that the [65] mad ſcenes of OPHELIA, beautiful as they are, and her premature deſtruction, might, poetically ſpeak⯑ing, have been ſpared, LAERTES having without them ſufficient provocation to rouſe his reſentment, though I wiſh in common with others that the cataſtro⯑phe had been more happily conducted, and agree that the grave diggers are extraneous, yet the prodi⯑gious variety of characters and incidents, the warmth and ſtrength with which they are diſcriminated, the truth, the obſervation, the force, the wit, in which piety, ambition, capriciouſneſs, fidelity, vanity, offi⯑ciouſneſs are ſet up, as objects of imitation or con⯑tempt, are ſo numerous in this piece, and produced in ſuch a rapid ſucceſſion, that it is difficult to lay the finger upon a fault without the danger of ex⯑punging a beauty.

CHAP. IV. SHAKESPEAR's PLAYS CONTINUED.

King John, one of thoſe plays which have largely contributed to the general celebrity of SHAKES⯑PEAR, was produced in 1596. There is a boldneſs and a ſtrength in this tragedy which has ſerved to hand down the character of the times both faithfully and meritoriouſly, and ſhewn how greatly the dramatic hiſtorian, through the vehicle of repreſentation, has the advantage of him who merely narrates.

JOHN himſelf is portrayed in a moſt maſterly and commanding manner, and will ever remain a ſtriking leſſon to all monarchs how to ſteer between the extremes of weakneſs and wickedneſs. The ſcene with HUBERT has often been conſidered as one of the fineſt ornaments of the Engliſh language. Indeed it is difficult to ſay what part of its conduct moſt demands our admiration. The tampering with the half villain HUBERT, the dread that the crime [67] has been actually committed, and at length laying the blame upon the inſtrument, and even catching at the excuſe of having ſeen the aſſaſin in his look, are powerful ſtrokes.

The gallant, noble, and careleſs FAUCOMBRIDGE is a moſt happy portrait, and ſpeaks for itſelf as a true likeneſs of RICHARD COEUR de LION. That mixture of courage and levity, which is ſo faithfully the character of the ſoldier, no one ever knew how to depict like SHAKESPEAR; and, notwithſtanding the critics, we have here a proof that he would have found no difficulty in continuing MERCUTIO to the laſt act, who is perfectly FAUCONBRIDGE, except the roughneſs and the blunt honeſty^*.

The other characters in this play are well ſuſ⯑tained, and SHAKESPEAR merits the thanks of poſ⯑terity [68] for bringing us intimately acquainted with that weak and wicked monarch, from whoſe vice and folly, as light iſſues out of darkneſs, or a calm be⯑comes more lovely from a contemplation of the ſtorm that preceded it, originated Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights.

Richard the Second was performed in 1597. This play is ſuſpected to have been only reviſed by SHAKESPEAR. Certainly we cannot trace in it his uſual force, either as to the characters or the lan⯑guage. The probability is that it was written in a hurry, which by the way is no excuſe, and, as the circumſtances are wholly taken from the hiſtorians and chroniclers of that day, many paſſages may have been literally tranſplanted from the hiſtory to the play. This having been done, the ſubject was found ſo unproductive that the author never thought it worth his while to finiſh it; and then the utmoſt we can ſay is that SHAKESPEAR was to blame for letting a play come forward unworthy of his re⯑putation.

Alterations of this play have been frequently attempted but always without ſucceſs. One of theſe was by THEOBALD, who dedicated his piece to the earl of ORRERY, from whom he received a hundred pounds in a handſome ſnuff box. Thus moths live [69] upon books. If men can write why dont they produce books themſelves.

That SHAKESPEAR took very little pains with Richard the Second is the more probable from his having produced Richard the Third in the ſame year; a bold and moſt extraordinary production. Perhaps there never was ſo prominent a character produced as this, nor one thrown into ſuch a variety of poſitions, every one calculated to accompliſh the end of truth and juſtice, by warning the ſpectators againſt the dreadful effects of inordinate pride, and lawleſs ambition.

RICHARD maſters all hearts, and controuls all minds; working to his purpoſe the paſſions and foi⯑bles of mankind at his pleaſure. He adminiſters to the pride of BUCKINGHAM; and, not only by that means accompliſh his ends, but makes him an inſtrument in his own downfall. He ſo avails himſelf of the vanity of lady ANN that ſhe conſents to do the very thing ſhe dreads, and what ſhe knows muſt prove her deſtruction. What can be ſuch a maſter piece as this ſcene? On the very ſpot where ſhe ac⯑companies her huſband towards his grave, ſhe con⯑ſents to marry his murderer; and yet is this extra⯑ordinary change wrought in ſo artful a manner that [70] the moſt faſtidious critic will not venture to pro⯑nounce it unnatural. Well may he exclaim

In this manner, off or on the ſcene, is he through⯑out the play preſent to the imagination; till, at length, having, like the Devil he ſerves, left all thoſe to that fate to which his craft has lured them, he becomes the worſt tool in his own miſerable plot; the feeling at the fall of the reſt being pity, that at his fall execration.

Throughout theſe and other inſtances, with which this play is replete, has SHAKESPEAR moſt artfully warned his ſpectators, not only againſt vil⯑lainly itſelf but alſo the riſk and danger of conniving at it. Many of the inſtruments of RICHARD, de⯑ceived by his hypocriſy, are tempted to ſwerve from rectitude in hopes to work his converſion. Here has our poet ſhewn himſelf a maſter in his art. The beſt motive in the world is no excuſe for committing a poſitive wrong; but the play is known and re⯑peated by heart; and it is a fact notorious to every one that there is no inſtance upon record of any thing which has ſo forcibly operated with the En⯑gliſh nation to create a rooted averſion to tyranny as this very tragedy.

[71]Having noticed the production of Richard the Second, and ſo extraordinary a play as Richard the Third in the ſame year, will it not appear aſtoniſh⯑ing that it ſhould alſo produce the firſt part of Henry the Fourth; a play, be it for character, ſituation, writing, conduct, or any other dramatic requiſite, that cannot be ſufficiently extolled. It is full of beautiful and rich nature from the beginning to the end; where, except in SHAKESPEAR, have met to⯑gether ſo many characters, ſo correctly natural, ſo ſtrongly coloured, and ſo judiciouſly contraſted.

The bold, yet apprehenſive HENRY, who in plauſibly maintaining the crown he had uſurped, fan⯑cies that it totters on his head; his volatile ſon who ſeems to be the ſcourge of his father's crime, but who has native honour enough in the end to correct the le⯑vity and folly of the Prince of Wales in the dignity and honour of the King of ENGLAND and FRANCE; the noble natured HOTSPUR, meditating revenge againſt the man whom he had raiſed to a throne, and who ungratefully ſpurns thoſe offers of aſſiſtance he no longer needs, a ſerious leſſon to thoſe who even from the beſt motives ſupport a wrong cauſe; theſe, as ſtrong and warm written characters, have a high and meritorious title to admiration.

What then ſhall we ſay when we come to ſpeak [72] of FALSTAFF? the moſt inimitable character that ever was produced. Shall we any longer ſay that SHAKESPEAR could not have purſued the cha⯑racter of MERCUTIO? Let us ſtay and ſee whether that can be poſſibly be our opinion when we have followed the humourous knight through the braggart in this play, the moraliſt in the ſecond part of Henry the Fourth, the lover in the Merry Wives of Windſor, and the knave in them all. The wit of FALSTAFF, or rather the broad humour which contains ſome⯑thing better than wit, is ſo true, ſo ſtriking, ſo ir⯑reſiſtible, that the ſevereſt cynic muſt laugh and muſt approve.

The ſcrapes he lies him into, and afterwards lies himſelf out of, caſtigate the folly of lying by laughing at it to the higheſt pitch of perfection. But this humour, known ſo well by all, and ſo diffi⯑cult to be deſcribed by any, is every where electri⯑cal from the two men in buckram, onward to the deſcription of the ragged regiment, and finiſhing by the giving HOTSPUR a new wound in his thigh.

NYM, and BARDOLPH, and POINS, are alſo ad⯑mirably drawn; ſo is the HOSTESS. The inci⯑dents are perfectly probable and extremely natural and the quelling HOTSPUR's rebellion makes out, as a hiſtorical play, a very intereſting cataſtrophe.

[73] The Merchant of Venice came out the following year, and moſt claims our attention; which the more we give it the more we ſhall have cauſe for admira⯑tion, for the characters are perfectly natural, and draw [...] in a maſterly manner, the writing is full of rare beauty and exquiſite truth, and the conduct is cor⯑rect and judicious; for the virtue it protects is re⯑warded, and the rancour and revenge it expoſes are diſappointed and puniſhed.

The characters are drawn in the moſt glowing colours. The Jew is aſtoniſhingly bold and vivid. His turbulent and unſatisfied paſſions are thrown into a conflicted tumult in every way of which they are ſuſceptible, and it is difficult to ſay where they are beſt agitated; whether in the meditated revenge on ANTONIO and his crafty bargain, in the ſcene with TUBAL, chequered with alternate joy and vexation, or the trial, where his ſanguinary hopes are lifted to the higheſt climax of expectation, to be ſuddenly damped by diſappointment and diſmay.

PORTIA is moſt highly finiſhed. Generoſity, native dignity, and greatneſs of mind are every where conſiſtently ſeen in her, from the caſkets to the deciſion againſt SHYLOCK; and theſe qualities are brought forward through the medium of unaf⯑fected [74] ſprightlineſs, neat wit, and captivating elo⯑quence. The other characters all rank reſpectably; but the judgment of the author is particularly con⯑ſpicuous in their gradually declining in conſequence, the better to bring forward PORTIA and the Jew.

The writing of this play is full of beauty and ſweetneſs, wit and humour, ſtrength and force. The caſket ſcene is charmingly written; ſo is the trial ſcene, in which the celebrated eulogium on mercy is ſo admirably introduced, ſtamping by a ſingle trait, as it happens ſo very frequently in SHAKES⯑PEAR, the fame of a poet. Nor can we conceive any think ſweeter than the garden ſcene of LORENZO and JESSICA, in which the charms of muſic are ſo eloquently deſcribed; another ſtanding quotation.

The words uttered by the Jew are throughout the whole play aſtoniſhingly appropriate. It is one of thoſe many inſtances in SHAKESPEAR where every auditor, even of the meaneſt intellectual in⯑telligence, becomes a correct critic and decides at once, that the character brought before him could not have ſaid any more, nor any thing elſe.

The comic part conſiſts of that playfulneſs in which SHAKESPEAR delighted to wanton, and re⯑lieves the intereſt at intervals throughout the piece, [75] from the ſprightly GRATIANO to the trifling GOB⯑BOS; and thus the language is a natural and eaſy ſucceſſion of every thing that can intereſt, pleaſe, and divert.

As to the conduct of the Merchant of VENICE, we are willing not to look at it too critically, be⯑cauſe if we did we ſhould loſe much of our plea⯑ſure. The cruelty of the Jew is a bold, and for the ſake of humanity let us hope an unnatural cir⯑cumſtance, but it is ſurely poſſible; I don't argue particularly in a Jew, for we are actually told, how far truly I do not pretend to ſay, that it really hap⯑pened in a chriſtian; but, true or falſe, natural or unnatural, if we agree to admit it, there is an end to objection.

It has alſo been complained of that time and place are violated, and that the proper moment for the cataſtrophe is at the end of the trial, and this laſt objection has ſome weight; but the conduct of this piece has one perfection which, perhaps, never was ſo happily wrought before nor ſince, I mean the union of the two ſtories; blended ſo conſiſt⯑ently and brought about ſo na [...]ly, that the trifling [...] committed againſt time and place is much more than atoned for by this moſt judicious attention [76] to action. The unity SHAKESPEAR ſeldom violated, which is infinitely more material than both the others put together.

Though I could every where dwell on the in⯑eſtimable value of SHAKESPEAR's writings; yet as his pieces like thoſe of every other author are of courſe unequal, it gives me pleaſure to examine more minutely ſuch as are in the higheſt eſtimation, though any candidate for dramatic fame might be content to ſubſiſt his reputation on the gleanings.

As All's Well that End's Well was one of three, ſome ſay four, plays, of which the Merchant of Venice was the firſt that came out in the ſame year; it is not wonderful that it cannot rank with that admirable production. This, however, is in great meaſure owing to its unfortunate plot; the anſwer to which is, that SHAKESPEAR out to have choſen a better. There are, however, moſt charming paſſa⯑ges in this play, and ſome ſtrong and highly wrought circumſtances. The character of PAROLLES, which ſeems to have ſupplied the hint for BOBADIL, is in our delightful poet's beſt ſtyle of humour; and from the mouth of HELEN we hear many of thoſe beautiful and faſcinating paſſages which, in him, ſpring from a ſource inexhauſtible.

[77] Sir John Oldcaſtle is certainly not worthy to be ranked among the works of SHAKESPEAR, and it is with great propriety that it has been generally re⯑jected. It has, however, evident marks in places of ſtrong and ſimilar genius, which might have ariſen from his having improved it; but even then they appear to be the ſhadow of his writing rather than the writing itſelf.

This ſeems to be ſtrongly confirmed by his bring⯑ing out in the ſame year The Second Part of Henry the Fourth; a play replete with wonderful writing. In this reſpect the character of FALSTAFF is even improved; for, though he is full of rich and lux⯑urious humour in the former part of this ſubject, his obſervations here have a pointed and deep ſubtilty which ſeems to have been improved by keener and maturer obſervation. In ſhort, he is a thief in the firſt part, and a ſwindler in the ſecond. Characters that require very different qualifications, though they are the ſame in principle.

The ſituations alſo that he is thrown into are ſtronger and richer. The ſcene with DOLL TEAR⯑SHEET is highly wrought, ſo is that with SHALLOW and SILENCE, from his dry examination of the re⯑cruits, onward to his art in borrowing the thouſand [78] pounds, and at laſt his exſtacy at receiving from PISLOL the news of the king's death.

All the companions of FALSTAFF are alſo greatly heightened in this play, which is every where warm with incidents of the happieſt invention, and full of characters both intereſting and entertain⯑ing; ſhewing not more the fertility than the judgment with which SHAKESPEAR's aſtoniſhing mind was fraught, and through which he delineated the features of human nature at pleaſure.

In the following year came out Henry the Fifth, another wonderful production; but, indeed, every thing is wonderful in SHAKESPEAR. To recom⯑pence the auditor for the loſs of FALSTAFF, the author has introduced FLUELLEN, whoſe mixture of pride, quaintneſs, and courage, it is impoſſible not to reſpect, and laugh at. PISTOL is in this play a firſt rate part, and indeed all the characters and incidents in the comic part are in the trueſt vein of pleaſantry.

The volatile Prince, who has ripened into the prudent King, is a character of the moſt brilliant caſt. He is every where great, noble and admira⯑ble. Cautious, yet reſolved, before the fight; mo⯑deſt [79] and unaſſuming after it; ever the ſoldier, the man, and the philoſopher^*. Much has been ſaid of the lines put into the mouth of the chorus, and in particular that they are unneceſſary; and one face⯑tious gentleman has ſaid they prove that SHAKES⯑PEAR new nothing of the ancient chorus. The an⯑ſwer to the firſt is, that theſe lines are ſome of thoſe unneceſſary good things which every man of taſte will rejoice that SHAKESPEAR thought proper to write, and to the other that he varied from the an⯑cient chorus to improve upon it, for how could he be ignorant of what they inſiſt he attempted to imitate.

The Puritan, produced in 1600, ſtands exactly upon the ſame ground as Sir John Oldcaſtle, and whatever hand SHAKESPEAR might have had in it, as it is far from a bad play, he very probably left it unfiniſhed from his impatience to work at the two admirable productions that followed.

Much Ado about Nothing came out in the ſame [80] year. This play is ſo witty, ſo playful, ſo abundant in ſtrong writing, and rich humour, that it has always attracted univerſal applauſe. The beauties it contains are innumerable, they are a cluſter, and are ſet ſo thick that they ſcarcely afford one another relief, and yet the beſt critic would find it difficult to ſay which of them ought to be diſplaced.

BENEDICK and BEATRICE, have created the leading characters in fifty comedies, and yet have never been excelled, not even by CONGREVE. Their friendly ſparring conſiſts of that extempora⯑neous repartee, which is better than wit, becauſe it is not ſtudied, and better than humour becauſe it is not groſs. In ſhort what was genuine in SHAKES⯑PEAR by others has only been imitated, and there is one circumſtance relative to theſe characters which boaſts conſiderable pre-eminence, becauſe all this wit, while its imitations have been introduced in general only to add a livelineſs to the ſcene, is here the very pith and marrow of the plot, for it is the vehicle through which BENEDICK and BEA⯑TRICE, who had ſeparately ſworn to live ſingle, are actually made to fall in love with each other.

The critics, however, who cannot help nibbling, have endeavoured to repreſent this wit are too licen⯑tious [81] in BENEDICK, and too light in BEATRICE. In their ſqueamiſh conſcientiouſneſs, however, they forget that when the rein is thrown over the neck of wit it will be playful; but, ſo it be not vicious, its curvettings ought to be pardoned. In the pre⯑ſent caſe ſo little is there of vice in the pleaſantries of BENEDICK and BEATRICE, that they exhibit as exalted a picture of every quality that can conſti⯑tute honour, generoſity, and the noble nature of love and friendſhip, as, perhaps, the records of literature can furniſh.

There is not ſimply converſation in theſe cha⯑racters, there is action; the beſt action: that which is intended to ſerve truth and recommend morality. BEATRICE's friendſhip to her couſin, and BENE⯑DICK's challenging CLAUDIO, are among the grand⯑eſt and nobleſt incidents the dramatic art has to boaſt of. The circumſtance of laying the ſame trap both for BENEDICK and BEATRICE has been cenſured with ſome colour of truth, but it is materially varied, and after all not worth a ſingle cavil.

All the circumſtances of the plot have relation to one another. Even DOGBERRY and his watch, whoſe natural humour ariſes from an affectation of uſing phraſes he does not underſtand, which has [82] been played upon by ſo many authors from that time to this, are abſolutely neceſſary in the con⯑ſtruction of the piece; for without them DON JOHN's plot could not have been defeated. In ſhort this comedy diſplays a fund of beauty which has never failed to give unceaſing delight to all ranks of auditors; and if it has faults, ſo has nature, to whom SHAKESPEAR was ſo faithful, and in whom the notable critics, if they took it in their heads, would undertake to diſcover as many imperfections as they have affected to find in her favourite.

As You Like It, produced in the ſame year, differs at all points, except general merit, from Much ado about Nothing. It is as full of wit, of beauty, of ſweetneſs, and of moral, but the ſtyle of the characters, the conveyance of the matter, and the ſcene of action are the difference, and ſerve to ſhew that SHAKESPEAR could create intereſt, with equal facility, in a court or a foreſt.

As You Like It boaſts one unrivalled merit, for it is a model for dramatic paſtorals, and in vain do we place by the ſide of it the beſt productions of TASSO and GUARINI. This gives the wit, with all its brilliancy, a melancholy and grave air; for it does not conſiſt of ſallies in conſequence of re⯑flections in manners that actually paſs before you, [83] but rather of moralizing on thoſe which have paſſed, and from which you are diſtant both as to time and place.

To the reputation of an author, therefore, I know not if this ſpecies of writing be not the truer advantage. There appears to be more mind and more effort in producing it, not, however, in SHAKESPEAR, for his writings ſeem every where to have produced themſelves, the ſenſible and ſtrong obſervation in the ſweet prattle of ROSALIND, the beauty and good ſenſe in the reflexions of JAQUES, and the dry humour and true honeſty in the faithful TOUCHSTONE, could not have been ſhewn to ad⯑vantage in any other ſituations.

How many paſſages in this play are known by heart and conſidered of that memorable deſcription that I have had ſuch frequent occaſion to notice. Quotations from the mouths of ROSALIND, and TOUCHSTONE, are in the recollection of every one, and that celebrated ſpeech, known by the name of Shakeſpear's Seven Ages, has been, time out of mind, bawled by men, and liſped by children.

As to the plot of the play, it has by ſome been conſidered as romantic, but this certainly conſtitutes [84] its eſſence; for without it we ſhould loſe the heroic friendſhip of CAELIA, and the blunt fidelity of TOUSHSTONE; beſides, if the characters are thrown into extraordinary ſituations, it has not ariſen from choice but compulſion, and, therefore, they do not enjoy fanciful pleaſure abſurdly choſen by themſelves, they make the beſt of their unfortu⯑nate ſituations, and endeavour to turn that trouble that has been forced upon them into pleaſure.

In this light, nothing can be more intereſting nor affecting than the plot of As You Like It. The very circumſtance of the ladies ſo ſuddenly giving away their hearts, which doctor JOHNSON does not ſeem to approve, is by no means for ſuch a plot improper. They want protectors. Beſides there is a parity in the fortunes of ORLANDO and ROSALIND, that begets a very natural ſympathy, and renders the in⯑cident beautiful and affecting. I will agree, how⯑ever, with the doctor that it would have been a moſt admirable advantage to literature if SHAKES⯑PEAR had taken an opportunity of exerting his ex⯑traordinary powers by writing a ſcene between the Hermit and the Uſurper.

The next play we ſhall have to examine will be The Merry Wives of Windſor, which came out in 1601. This piece, take it as fair unadulterated na⯑ture, [85] conſiſting exactly of the very materials which conſtitute the beſt ſpecies of true comedy, muſt be ſo pronounced at leaſt equal to any thing in the Engliſh language. Such a variety of characters, all true unexaggerated nature, without quaintneſs, with⯑out affectation, ſpeaking in the manner and to the very letter of real life, every one as neceſſary to the plot as the various compartments of a building, juſt in proportion, eſſential in utility, never better united together.

The plot is natural, ſimple, and intereſting; and, though an epiſode grows out of it which begets much perplexity and true legitimate equivoque, no⯑thing from firſt to laſt can be more perſpicuous. Jealouſy has never been ſo ſtrongly depicted, nor ſo happily expoſed to ridicule. The very blind⯑neſs of FORD in being gulled out of his money and his ſenſes by FALSTAFF, is in the happieſt ex⯑treme of true comedy; and though we have ſeen complaints that the ſituations of the ſcenes might be tranſpoſed, and that the play might have been ended almoſt at any part of it, yet it is impoſſible to ſay that this could have been done with effect, becauſe the repetition of the ſuppoſed provocation is the very paroxyſm in which the fever finds a cure for itſelf; for otherwiſe, in SHAKESPEAR's own [86] words in another place, it would but ‘"ſkin and film the ulcerous part."’

We have alſo been told of FORD's abſurdity in conſidering FALSTAFF as an object of jealouſy; but who that knows the blindneſs of that paſſion will not conſider this as the cunning of the ſcene. Mrs. FORD's ground is ſecure. She places a con⯑fidence in a valuable and approving friend, and the more looſely her conduct appears to her huſband the ſtronger is ſure to be his remorſe when he finds an amiable wiſe has condeſcended to go ſuch lengths to cure him of his ungrateful ſuſpicions.

As to the epiſode, in which all the ſubordinate characters are concerned, it is ſtrongly interwoven with all the main deſign and the incidents that grow out of it are truly pleaſant and at the ſame time hold out a wholeſome moral.

As to the characters, the moſt prominent of courſe is FALSTAFF; though there is no ſaying for the utility in their ſituations to which to give the preference. FALSTAFF is moſt happily hit, even in the difficult light in which he is placed. We are told that queen ELIZABETH commanded SHAKES⯑PEAR to make FAISTAFF in love. It has been [87] well obſerved by doctor JOHNSON that ‘"a man does not with great facility write to the ideas of another, and that love was not in FALSTAFF's na⯑ture."’ SHAKESPEAR has, however, from his groſs vanity, from his avarice, from his cunning, conjured up ſomething much better than love in FALSTAFF, for he has made him fancy Mrs. FORD in love with him, which is truer comedy. This, his abuſe of what he fancies confidence in her, and his adminiſ⯑tering to the pleaſure of FORD under the name of BROOK, employ all the paſſions proper to FAL⯑STAFF, and at laſt make him the groſſeſt dupe in his own plot.

This is the very eſſence of comedy; and, as it ſerves to throw FALSTAFF into all thoſe ſituations which call forth his peculiar humour, may be conſidered in a moſt felicitous light. Who can reſiſt the deſcription of his being ſouſed in the THAMES. His reading the letter, and various other circumſtances. His luſcious ideas, his voluptuous mind, his ſenſual paſſions are all diſplayed in the higheſt colouring, which ſhews in a moſt extra⯑ordinary manner the wonderful reſources that were to be met with in the genius of SHAKESPEAR.

FORD is a jealous character diſtinctly different [88] from any other in SHAKESPEAR, OTHELLO is pro⯑voked to by a villain, and from the conſciouſneſs of his own unworthineſs, IACHIMO from abſence and fictitious teſtimony, TROILUS from a con⯑viction that his wife was a wanton, and the reſt from other motives; but FORD is jealous through pride and from a belief that a moſt unworthy object is preferred to him. This, as there is nothing ſo mean as jealouſy, though nothing ſo much to be pitied, puts him upon ſhifts which make him almoſt as contemptible as his rivial; and, under the tricks played him by the merry wives, as they are called, perfectly laudable; whereas, were there not this ſtrong provocation, Mr. FORD's conduct would be reprehenſible, if not unpardonable. In ſhort, SHAKESPEAR knew that this was the only ſpecies of jealouſy that could poſſibly be laughed at, and, therefore, with that knowledge of human nature that has every where diſtinguiſhed him, he has made it the ground work of ſo entertaining and laudable a plot, that no portrait of jealouſy has ſince been drawn but this comedy has ſitten for ſome of the features.

I could with great pleaſure go over the partilar merits of the other characters, they are ſo various, and ſo admirable; but it would only be deſcribing [89] what every body knows, both in their own forms and in the imitations of them that have pervaded ſo many other productions^*, I ſhall, therefore, apologize for every word I have written on the ſubject of this admirable play, becauſe every word, in truth, in reaſon, in public opinion, and in notoriety, is to⯑tally unneceſſary; ſo well does the heart know how to deſpiſe criticiſm where the auditor has only to hear and admire.

Henry the Eighth was alſo performed in 1601, and gives us another proof that there was nothing too mighty for the graſp of our poet's genius. This is the laſt of SHAKESPEAR's hiſtorical plays, and is evidently written in compliment to queen ELIZA⯑BETH. I cannot be of doctor JOHNSON's opinion [90] that the genius of SHAKESPEAR in this play comes in and goes out with KATHERINE, and that every other part may be eaſily conceived and eaſily writ⯑ten. The ſpecimen of the true and intereſting pa⯑thetic which SHAKESPEAR has given us in the cha⯑racter of KATHERINE is peculiarly admirable, and among the beſt efforts of his inimitable talents; but are WOLSEY and HENRY only common characters? Or are they what they have been univerſally al⯑lowed, ſtrong, powerful, and dramatic. Does BUCKINGHAM go for nothing? And are ſuch exquiſite lines as he utters when he is led to execu⯑tion eaſily conceived? I wiſh they were, if for no other reaſon than that we might comprehend that ſecret of writing with which nature entruſted our delicious poet. But the lines, which in another place the doctor has applied to DRYDEN, ‘"that in a pointed ſentence more regard is commonly had to the words than the thought,"’ ſeem to hit him here particularly hard; but, as I mean hereafter to examine this gentleman as one of the critics of SHAKESPEAR, I ſhall content myſelf at preſent with ſaying that the world and doctor JOHNSON are of different opinions.

Cromwell is one of thoſe plays rejected as SHAKESPEAR's, and certainly with great reaſon, for it has upon the whole leſs of thoſe marks of his [91] genius and judgment than any of thoſe pieces that have been merely attributed to him. That he had ſome concern in it, however, cannot be doubted. The foot of HERCULES can belong only to HER⯑CULES^*.

Troilus and Creſſida, the laſt play SHAKESPEAR produced in the reign of ELIZABETH, came out in 1602. A great deal has been ſaid to prove that this was written after CHAPMAN produced his Verſion of HOMER, a fact by no means, however, ſub⯑ſtantiated, or, indeed, if it were, would it materially alter the queſtion, for SHAKESPEAR and CHAP⯑MAN were not exactly of equal merit^†.

SHAKESPEAR muſt ſome how certainly have read the hiſtory of the Trojan War, perhaps, from CAXTON, and became intimately acquainted with [92] the various qualities of the Grecian generals, for he has drawn their characters with full as much beauty and truth as HOMER, and one is apt to think that he only read the hiſtory and knew nothing of HOMER's particular manner of treating it; for, though the characters are the ſame, and may be known through the portraiture of both authors as likeneſſes, there is a dignity and a ſublimity in the manner of their ex⯑preſſing their ſentiments in this play, beyond any thing of that nature in the Iliad, and is ſo much better at any rate than a tranſlation, that without greciſms the characters are critically Greeks, a diſcrimination that SHAKESPEAR underſtood better than any au⯑thor that ever lived.

As to the other merits of this play, they are va⯑rious, but they are irregular and haſtily put together. CRESSIDA and PANDARUS are characters vio⯑lently drawn, but they beget that ſovereign and in⯑effable deteſtation of vice which it is the pecu⯑liar duty of the dramatic poet to excite. The bru⯑tality of THERSITES is well thrown in to mortify the wanton CRESSIDA, and the conduct in ISOI⯑LUS's detection of her falſehood and wickedneſs is maſterly.

With this play I ſhall at preſent take leave of SHAKESPEAR to look after his cotemporaries; la⯑menting [93] my inability to do him juſtice except in my feelings and my wiſhes, yet grateful for an op⯑portunity of expatiating on a theme which affords me the pleaſure of paying a tribute of reſpect, and admiration, to great, and extraordinary talents.

CHAP. V. JONSON.

IN the liſt of thoſe dramatic poets who were cele⯑brated in the reigns of ELIZABETH and JAMES the Firſt, JONSON claims immediate rank after SHAKESPEAR; and it is but fair to ſay that the ſtrong ſenſe and ſober regularity of his writings were of infinite conſequence to thoſe other authors of that time, whoſe pens, unlike the pen of SHAKES⯑PEAR, which never ventured in vain, required a maſterly criterion for their regulation, ſuch as JON⯑SON knew how to ſet up.

Of this uſe was this ſchoolmaſter in literature, whoſe pupils very often would have run riot had he not held up the rod of criticiſm perpetually in terrorem. Not that JONSON did not know nature as well as erudition, for we have many ſtriking proofs in his dramatic writings that he did; but it was awk⯑ward [95] nature, dry nature, ſententious nature, nature in ſtilts and trammels; and, though faithful to truth as truth is to perfection, the proper proportion of amuſement and inſtruction was miſtaken, and the force of improvement was unſounded in that taſte⯑leſs, and often nauſeous vehicle, through which it was meant to be conveyed.

It might be invidious to place JONSON by the ſide of SHAKESPEAR, becauſe the loſs to him in the compariſon would be infinite. It is indiſpenſi⯑ble, however, to notice, becauſe it is a hiſtorical fact that he had the experience of nine years, during which time SHAKESPEAR was licking the ſtage into form, before he brought forward a ſingle piece; and, this premiſed, whatever the world in general may think of the matter, SHAKESPEAR muſt have been the preceptor of JONSON.

We are told, indeed, that SHAKESPEAR foſtered him and his works, and with ſome difficulty ſo wrought his iron that at laſt it became maleable and aſſumed ſomething like form; and we are alſo told that he was very ungrateful in return for this kind⯑neſs; which circumſtance, if true, carries with it a proof of that remark which may invariably be ven⯑tured, that genius is naturally allied to liberality, and pedantry to envy.

[96]Indeed the whole life of JONSON ſeems to have been a ſeries of pride, meanneſs, ſourneſs, inſolence, and diſcontent^*. Turbulence threw him into the army, reſtleſſneſs made him quit the army for the ſtage, brutality hurried him to take away the life of a fellow creature, and capriciouſneſs induced him to change his religion, all which circumſtances are mentioned, however, here only to corroborate what has been before aſſerted that the different features in the mind of the man often operate upon the la⯑bours of the writer.

JONSON was educated at Weſtminſter ſchool under the celebrated CAMDEN; but the narrow ideas of his father-in-law, who was a bricklayer, and who ſaw no further uſe for inſtruction than the level and the ſquare, induced him to take JONSON from that learning, which he is ſaid to have imbibed with great avidity, to teach him his own trade that he thought would build him a more ſolid fortune than the trade of poetry. The young gentleman, how⯑ever, who had more taſte for building caſtles in the [97] air than houſes upon terra firma, treated this in⯑tended kindneſs with great contempt, and, leaving his family, went into the army in FLANDERS.

The ſtudy of literature was more congenial to the feelings of JONSON than the ſtudy of military tactics. He, therefore, took an early opportunity of leaving the army and repaired to CAMBRIDGE, where it ſhould appear that he made no great ſtay, owing to the narrowneſs of his finances, for we ſoon find him an actor at the Curtain Theatre, Shore⯑ditch. Here, following the ſteps of SHAKESPEAR, he tried his hand at writing plays, in which occupa⯑tion, however, he appears, for a time, to have been unſucceſsful. At length he wrote Every Man in his Humour, a comedy beyond doubt of much ſter⯑ling excellence, and from that time his reputation began to be eſtabliſhed.

JONSON was perpetually ſquabbling with all mankind, and among the reſt with SHAKESPEAR; who, in his own words, might have replied with perfect indifference, ‘"Till thou can'ſt rail the ſeal from off the bond."’ Theſe, probably, might have been his ſentiments, for we do not find that he condeſcended to notice a ſlander that was born of ingratitude, and nurſed by envy. JONSON did [98] not every where, however, fare ſo well; for ſome of his malice drew on him a quarrel which finiſhed by his killing a man in a duel, for which he was im⯑priſoned; but he procured his releaſe by changing his religion; and thus he exhibited that picture which, whatever merit it might have had, was not even in the leaſt degree like true genius, for it was wiſdom dreſſed like folly, knowledge hid by vanity, and talents obliterated by arrogance; preſenting at once a mind, powerful, mean, offenſive, overbearing, and accommodating.

The different pieces which JONSON produced amount to about fifty-three in number, beſides one or two which are attributed to him; but among theſe are only two tragedies, and ten comedies, the reſt being either maſques, or comic ſatires, or elſe ſketches written to ſerve ſome temporary purpoſe, and this ſtatement alone may ſerve to ſhew how completely the works of JONSON kick the beam when poiſed againſt thoſe of SHAKESPEAR.

Yet was his merit great and extenſive, and he ſhall be allowed it to the letter, for it is not in his want of ſufficient talents, for one man, that we diſ⯑cover the diſparity; it is in his rival's poſſeſſing the talents of twenty men.

[99]As to tragedy, JONSON is abſolutely an Engliſh SENECA, but a much better writer. Sejanus has great virile ſtrength, and ſound ſterling merit; but it is heavy, dull, and declamatory, and leſt any ſchool boy ſhould be miſtaken as to its origin, the author has been honeſt enough to ſhew in what way he has quoted the ancients, even to ſetting down all his authorities; ſo that the fall of Sejanus, whatever it may be as a prompt-book, cannot be denied the merit of an excellent ſchool-book.

The ſame faults pervade Catiline. The ſcenes are long, the ſpeeches are full of declamation, the action is retarded, and the audience muſt ſleep. Nevertheleſs it is full of all that merit which cor⯑rect regularity and ſound erudition can give it; but ſtilts are uneaſy things, and the mind has no more objection to ſhake off weight than the ſhoul⯑ders^*; and it is upon this account that, though every man who has a taſte for literature will find in theſe ſcenes much pleaſure on reflection, yet to read them a firſt time is an effort, a ſecond a taſk, and a third impoſſible^†.

[100]Some of the comedies of JONSON, however, have diſtinguiſhed merit. Every Man in his Humour is admirably conſtructed, well managed, and full of thoſe characters which are the propereſt objects of comedy. I will not invidiouſly ſay that the out⯑line of many of the parts may eaſily be traced. The Braggart. The Jealous Man. The Simpleton. and The Plain Dealer, are fair and obvious game, and one poet has as great a right to purſue them as an⯑other. It muſt be confeſſed that KITELY and BOBOADIL in this play are maſterly characters, and the means taken to cure the folly of the one and and puniſh the cowardice of the other are well purſued.

The ſubordinate characters through a very na⯑tural epiſode in which they are themſelves con⯑cerned contribute to bring about the cataſtrophe, in which neceſſary buſineſs the proteus BRAINWORM is very active. This rounds the conduct ſo art⯑fully that no perſonage, even to COB and TIB, [101] is foiſted in, but all contribute very poetically to aid the double plot.

Theſe are the merits of this play, to which, in⯑deed. may be added the adroit manner in which JONSON has fitted a foreign ſubject to the Engliſh ſtage. for the original plot is Italian, which may very eaſily be diſcerned by the conduct of the intriguing BRAINWORM. As it is managed however here, no⯑thing can be more vernacular than the humour, the manners, and the intrigue, and yet, with all theſe ad⯑vantages, it has been with the utmoſt difficulty that this play has been able to keep ground; nor would it ever have held a reputable ſituation on the ſtage had it not occaſionally revived through a union of uncommon talents.

The reaſon of this is obvious. Perfect wit and chaſte humour, as they are called, may be natural but they cannot be general, and nothing but what is general can univerſally pleaſe. The public do not want an author to write a play as if every ſentence obnoxious to criticiſm was a wound in his repu⯑tation; they would rather that he greatly ſucceeded in places even though he ſometimes relaxed; and why? Becauſe this is human nature, of which a a play ought to be the faithful repreſentative; and it is on this account that the hard, dry, though na⯑tural [102] humour of JONSON, and the refined and po⯑liſhed wit of CONGREVE, though they beget parti⯑cular admiration, never attract general applauſe.

Every Man in his Humour is a chimerical in⯑ſtance of JONSON's eccentricity as a playwright. It has in it ſome admirable writing, and the cha⯑racters are well drawn, but it is conveyed to the audience through the medium of a grex, or ſet of ſuppoſed auditors, who ſit on the ſtage and explain what if it were properly written ought to explain itſelf. By this means the perſonages ſmack off the old moralities and become paſſions rather than cha⯑racters; and thus JONSON, inſtead of bringing the ſtage forward has rather endeavoured to throw it behind hand, and given one proof among many that, though he has much merit of every deſcription, yet it conſiſts rather of diſtracted and ſeparate parts, than a ſober and harmonious whole.

As Sejanus and theſe two comedies were all the dramatic pieces, except ſome of his maſques, that JONSON produced before the reign of JAMES the firſt, by which time SHAKESPEAR had brought out twenty-four regular plays, I ſhall defer any farther mention of this author till I have brought his co⯑temporaries up to that period and a general account of the ſtage itſelf and every regulation concerning it.

CHAP. VI. CHAPMAN, THOMAS HEYWOOD, MARLOE, AND OTHERS.

CHAPMAN in his way was a moſt extraordinary character. I ſhall not in relation to this author or any other exhibit any particular anxiety as to the town where he firſt drew his breath, the college that boaſted the honour of his education, or any other of thoſe adventitious circumſtances which by ſome biographers are conſidered as of much greater moment than whether they credited the place of their birth, or the ſeminary where they were edu⯑cated.

CHAPMAN, whoever were his anceſtors, or wherever he was born, was a great credit to litera⯑ture, as far as correct claſſical knowledge can ren⯑der an author celebrated. He was born ſeven years before SHAKESPEAR; and began, as a ſcholar, to be in full reputation very early in life. His firſt [104] play, however, did not make its appearance till the very year JONSON brought out Every Man in his Humour; therefore I can only notice in this place that, which was called The Blind Beggar of Alex⯑andria, and another produced the following year, under the title of The Humerores Day's Mirth, as the third dramatic effort of this author did not make its appearance till two years after the death of ELIZABETH.

I ſhall, however, before I ſpeak of his plays, claim a right to mention CHAPMAN generally as an author; and it is not becauſe I have in another place inſiſted that he is greatly inferior to SHAKES⯑PEAR, for indeed who is not? That I am to afford him only a niggardly portion of praiſe; for he was a formidable rival to JONSON, who took him by the hand as a friend, the more ſecurely to do him every poſſible kind of injury^*.

[105]CHAPMAN was certainly both a correct and an ele⯑gant ſcholar. His manners we [...]e poliſhed, he enjoyed the countenance and protection of the great, and was the intimate friend of men of the moſt finiſhed wit and ingenuity of that time. His plays have con⯑ſiderable merit, and ſome of his other works are by no means a draw back on his fame; but his beſt efforts are his tranſlations, particularly thoſe from HOMER, which were a great help at that period to erudition.

The two comedies, that regularly fall under our notice in this place, are the moſt indifferent of this authors works; being neither divided into acts, nor having any regular d [...]amatic conſtruction. The ut⯑moſt therefore, that can be ſaid of them is that they bore marks of genius and nature in the writing, and gave expectation of better productions which were to follow.

THOMAS HEYWOOD who has been already menti⯑oned, and who like, his cotemporaries. HARDY in France, and LOPEZ de VEGA in Spain, ſeems to have derived all his merit from the number inſtead of the quality of his dramatic works, demands ſome men⯑tion here, though no more than two of his plays, at [106] leaſt that we know of, appeared during the life of ELIZABETH.

This man, by ſome of the biographers, has been greatly extolled as a writer without any great appearance, however, of either truth or juſtice; for the prodigious quantity he wrote, for which he ran⯑ſacked the ancients without mercy, whatever might have been his real merit had he taken time to cor⯑rect and poliſh his works, rendered it impoſſible for him to turn any thing out of hand likely to ſecure him a ſolid reputation; and thus we have a liſt of twenty-four pieces, out of two hundred and twenty which he himſelf ſays he either wrote or was con⯑cerned in, little more known at this moment than by their titles.

HEYWOOD was certainly a good claſſical ſcholar, and as an actor he was pretty celebrated. Indeed the purſuing this occupation, and his being perpe⯑tually in company, for we are ridiculouſly told that he wrote his plays upon the backs of tavern bills, muſt have left him but little opportunity to complete the difficult taſk of writing plays, eſpecially ſuch an immenſe number as are attributed to him.

MARLOE who brought out his firſt play in 1590, [107] probably for the reaſons before given, the very year when SHAKESPEAR alſo produced his firſt piece, was celebrated as an actor and well eſteemed as a writer. HEYWOOD calls him the beſt of poets, not recollecting, perhaps, that SHAKESPEAR was in exiſtence. He deſervedly, however, poſſeſſed con⯑ſiderable reputation; and, with all the ponderous merit of JONSON's tragedy writing, I ſhould rather think the efforts of MARLOE, either in themſelves or the aſſiſtance they have afforded to others will have a longer and a better claim to the approbation of the public than thoſe of the theatrical lawgiver.

MARLOE wrote no comedy, and his two trage⯑dies of Tamberlane the Great, and his Edward the Second, are all that properly came before us here. The latter, however, did not make its appearance till 1598, during which lapſe, as SHAKESPEAR brought out ſeven hiſtorical plays, he clearly made it his ſtudy to derive every poſſible advantage from ſo advantageous a circumſtance, and it muſt be confeſſed that Edward the Second is by no means a bad play. The ſubject is well choſen, and the piece diſplays the troubleſome events of that mo⯑narch's reign, particularly the fall of GAVESTON in very lively colours.

MARLOE would very probably have enſured to [108] himſelf a much greater degree of reputation had he not been led away by GEORGE PEELE and that ſe [...] already ſpoken of, who gave into all manner of licentiouſneſs, and were little better than atheiſts. The weakneſs of MARLOE's mind made him a prey to the folly and wickedneſs of theſe abominable doctrines; and in his pro [...]gate moments, he wrote ſeveral tracts, the manifeſt drift of which was to prove our SAVIOUR an impoſtor, and to ſhew that the ſcriptures were full of idle ſtories, and that re⯑ligion was only policy and prieſt craft.

Th [...]ſe paroxyſms of folly have prevailed on certain reſtleſs individuals in all ages, and have con⯑ſtlly excited ſome curioſity from their novelty, and as conſtantly dwindled into juſt contempt and e [...]ec [...]ation. It ſeems to have proceeded in MAR⯑LOE from fits of drunken phrenzy; for, in one of theſe he attempted to kill a footman whom he ſuſ⯑pected of having been too kindly received by one of his dulcineas, when the man in ſelf defence di⯑ve [...]ed the direction of the weapon; which, enter⯑ing into MARLOES head, killed him upon the ſpot.

This ſudden death was conſidered as a judgment from Heaven for his impiety, and thoſe who had before the weakneſs to admire his writings, going to the oppoſite extreme, now abhorred him and blamed themſelves for then wickedneſs and credulity.

[109]MARSTON, who wrote two plays during the reign of ELIZABETH, was conſidered as an eminent poet. His particular merit was the purity and ele⯑gance of his ſtyle, in which he carefully ſhunned all kind of ribaldry, groſſneſs and obſcenity; ſo much ſo, ſays an author, that ‘"whatſoever even in the ſpring of his years he preſented upon the private and public theatre, in his autumn and declining age he needed not to be aſhamed of."’

He had, however, more merit than this which would be pretty evident, had we not the teſtimony of his writings, from the boiling envy it excited in JONSON; who, peaceable as MARSTON was, drew on himſelf, by his repeatedly provoking conduct, a large ſhare of that poet's literary caſtigation. They were a long time friends, and MARSTON dedicated his play of the Malcontent to JONSON in warm and handſome terms. Envious, however, of his riſing ſame, as we have ſeen in the caſe of CHAPMAN, and which was the caſe indeed with moſt of his co⯑temporaries, JONSON ſoon forfeited all pretenſions to friendſhip, and violently broke through every tie of honour and gratitude; holding up the man who loaded him with carreſſes to contempt and ridicule.

MARSTON provoked to the utermoſt retorted upon JONSON; and, in his epiſtle prefixed to his [110] tragedy of Sophoniſba, moſt ſucceſsfully ridiculed the pedantic [...]oppery in his works, and detected thoſe thefts from the ancients with which he had ſtuffed Sejanus and Catiline. MARSTON produced eight plays, which are now, indeed, but little known, but ſome of them have ſerved as the ground work for the writings of ſucceeding authors.

DECKER, another poet, for a time in friendſhip with JONSON, and afterwards moſt ſeverely ſa⯑tirized by that drawcancer in literature, produced two plays before the reign of JAMES. What was the particular cauſe of the quarrel cannot now be known, but it is univerſally agreed that JONSON's envy and rancour, not being able to bear a rival near the throne, was its origin. We may collect a very faithful idea of it from the diſpute between POPE and CIBBER; which, having originated in ran⯑cour on the ſide of POPE, every ſtroke he aimed at his adverſary recoiled upon himſelf.

In JONSON's Poetaſter, the Dunciad of that time, DECKER, under the title of CRISPINUS, is moſt ſeverely handled. This literary hawk, however, ſo very fond of annoying ſmall birds, had better, in this inſtance, have ſoared on without having at⯑tempted to pounce upon DECKER; for, as it hap⯑pens with other hawks, that the very ſparrows, who [111] are afraid of them on the ground, attack them ſuc⯑ceſsfully in the open air; ſo the light and agile DECKER, pegged away at the clumſy and unweildy JONSON, to ſo good a purpoſe, that he not only made his feathers fly but he galled him all over.

This he effected by writing a play called the Sa⯑tyromaſtix; or the untruſſing the humerous Poet. Here, under the name of young HORACE, he has made JONSON the hero of the piece. The public were charmed with the circumſtance, and the play did wonders. Nay this was the foundation of DECKER's reputation, whoſe writings were certainly not of the firſt rate kind, yet, after his pride had been rouſed by the favourable turn this controverſy took, he made up by aſſiduity what he wanted in talents, and, having become a good judge of dra⯑matic effect, he enjoyed a conſiderable degree of reputable ſucceſs.

Old Fortunatus, which, perhaps, originally rouſed the hornet JONSON, for, extravagant as the ſtory is the piece has great merit, and Satyromaſtix are all the plays of this author that come under our no⯑tice here. He wrote ſingle eight others, ſeveral in conjunction with WEBSTER, DAY, and other poets, and three or four beſides are attributed to him.

[112]To MIDDLETON very little more has been at⯑tributed but that he wrote in conjunction at times with JONSON, FLETCHER, MASSINGER, and others; and this has been quoted as a proof that he could not be deſtitute of merit. A better proof, however, are his own plays, ſome of which are now in print, and well known; among theſe are A Mad World my Maſters, The Mayor of Queenborough, &c. and they rank his reputation about upon a par with DECKER's.

From the production of SHAKESPEAR's firſt play to the death of queen ELIZABETH, who, it ſhould be mentioned tranſlated one of the tragedies of EURIPIDES, few known authors, except thoſe here enumerated, wrote for the ſtage. EEDES is ſaid to have written ſeveral plays but we know not even their titles. We are told that he wrote them in his youth, that they were moſtly tragedies, and that, becoming in maturer years, a grave divine, a pre⯑bendary and chaplain to the queen, he ſtuck alto⯑gether to the duties of his profeſſion, and, perhaps, upon this account he would not ſuffer his plays to be publiſhed.

YARRINGTON wrote one play, ſo did PORTER, ſo did BRANDON, and BERNARD tranſlated the co⯑medies [113] of TERENCE. Beſides theſe there were about thirty plays written by anonymous authors, ſo that during a period of fourteen years more than ſeventy plays were produced, only forty of them legitimately owned, and, out of thoſe forty, twenty-five were certainly from the pen of SHAKESPEAR, and four others were attributed to him.

It will be ſeen by this what complete poſſeſſion he had of the ſtage during the latter end of ELIZA⯑BETH's reign, and that in the ſhort period of four⯑teen years he brought it to a degree of perfection, beyond which it has not ſince gone, nor can it ever go. I ſhall now, by a review of the playhouſes and and actors, ſhew the prodigious diſadvantages under which all this arduous taſk was attempted, and in ſpight of which it was ſo completely accompliſhed.

CHAP VI. PLAY HOUSES AND ACTORS.

WE have already ſeen that noblemen retained players in their ſervice, and that no others were regu⯑larly tolerated, but that even this was not ſufficient to reſtrain their licentiouſneſs, and, therefore, in 1589, the year in which SHAKESPEAR is ſaid to have pro⯑duced his firſt play, a circumſtance on this very ac⯑count highly improbable, players were altogether ſilenced till further notice.

Whether the influence of SHAKESPEAR revoked this mandate very ſuddenly or not, it will be diffi⯑cult to ſay. It is certain, however, that his firſt play reduced the theatrical ſtate to ſuch order that playhouſes began from that moment to multiply, and we find that, during the life time of this extraordinary man, no fewer than ſeventeen were known; among theſe were St. Paul's ſinging ſchool, the Globe on the Bankſide, Southwark, the Swan, the Hope, both alſo in Southwark, the Fortune, between White Croſs [115] Street and Golden Lane, the Red Bull in St. John's Street, the Croſs Keys in Grace Church Street, the Tuns, the Theatre, the Curtain, the Nurſery in Bar⯑bican, the Playhouſe in Blackfriars, the Playhouſe in Whitefriars, the Playhouſe in Saliſbury Court, the Cock Pit, and the Phoenix.

We have here only ſixteen. It is inſiſted upon, however, that there was another, a matter, however, of no great moment, nor ought we to underſtand that, though all theſe were built during the life time of SHAKESPEAR, they were, therefore, built on his account, for the Fortune, the Theatre, and the Cur⯑tain, were erected between 1570 and 1580; the Fortune, according to ſeveral writers, being the firſt regular Engliſh theatre, though it is much more pro⯑bable to ſuppoſe it was the Theatre, from its name, which ſeems to ſuppoſe that it was the only theatre.

The term regular theatre uſed here is vague enough, for theatres could not be called regular till they had ſcenes, an advantage none of [...]heſe [...]aſted; though there cannot be a doubt but they had at times ſome ſort of decorations, for theſe, even at the time of the Myſteries, are particularly deſcribed to us, and as to the Maſques, which were performed at public weddings, and at court, there is no doubt [116] but the firſt architects and painters were employed to decorate them.

It is, however, certain that matted walls, or ta⯑peſtry at beſt, were all the decorations then of the theatre, and theſe the audience were to fancy gar⯑dens, towns, palaces, or whatever elſe the poet might think proper; beſides which the performances were by day light, another draw-back on ſtage effect, the neceſſary deception of which was, of courſe, by this circumſtance materially injured.

But the grand diſadvantage, which muſt have been a conſiderable check to the genius of SHAKES⯑PEAR, was that women's characters were performed by men. It is evident that from this circumſtance he kept many of his female characters in the back ground, and even the performance of thoſe which, from their conſequence in the piece, were obliged to be prominent, muſt have been neceſſarily inferior to what they would have been had they been repre⯑ſented by women.

It will be ſaid that this objection holds good as to other authors as well as to SHAKESPEAR, and this is true; but, when in juſtice we are obliged to allow his great ſuperiority in point of merit, it will [117] operate on that very account in a much ſtronger degree to his diſadvantage than any other.

The public were certainly glad enough to take things as they found them, and the rage muſt have been very high indeed at that time for dramatic en⯑tertainments when ſo many theatres, ſo ill furniſhed with every requiſite but good plays, could find means to exiſt.

As to actors, they muſt have been numerous in⯑deed, and, upon conſideration, we cannot help credit⯑ing they were performers of merit; for, as they, as well as the authors, muſt have found their diſadvan⯑tages in rafters for ornamented ceilings, plaſtered walls for woods, rocks, and palaces, and ſometimes neither ceilings nor walls at all, for in the Inn-yards they performed in the open air; there muſt certainly have been a great deal of the true Roſcian ſtuff about the Engliſh actors at that time, for the leſs they had to help them out, the more they had to deſcribe.

This merit will be the more eaſily allowed when we recollect that the Engliſh authors, like the Gre⯑cian, were alſo actors; and that SHAKESPEAR, JON⯑SON, MARSTON, and MARLOE, enforced the effect of their writings by perſonating thoſe characters [118] they delineated. We know not their exact merits upon the ſtage, and we have been told, by way of detraction, that SHAKESPEAR never attained a higher rank than the performance of the Ghoſt in his own Hamlet, and this may be a very good argument with thoſe who eſtimate parts by their length▪ I have ſeen GARRICK perform the Ghoſt in Hamlet, and I ſhould not think it an unfair argument to ſup⯑poſe had GARRICK's merit preponderated on the ſide of his writing, which poſterity may know, in⯑ſtead of his acting which it cannot, that this very circumſtance would be cited to prove the Engliſh ROSCIUS a very mediocre actor; ſo careful are we before we allow men too much merit.

This conſideration does not weigh a feather in the argument. I cannot ſay that SHAKESPEAR was a capital actor, nor can any one demonſtrate to me that he was a bad one. His leſſon to the prayers in Hamlet ſhews pretty clearly that he knew what acting was; and it is not very likely that be would be either ſo ignorant or ſo vain as unconſciouſly to write in this leſſon a ſatire againſt himſelf. At any [...] it is impoſſible but that the aſſiſtance of the writers them⯑ſelves muſt have added material weight to the cele⯑brity of their pieces; and really one cannot but be charmed, even in the acting of the preſent day, ad⯑mirable as it is ſuppoſed to be, when one ſees now [119] and then a gleam of ſenſe labouring to make its way through a ‘"congregation of vapours,"’ by means of which film authors are miſrepreſented, nature tor⯑tured into every ſhape but her own, and eaſe and ſimplicity diſtorted into affectation and caricature.

It will not be eaſily credited, as theſe authors were alſo actors, that the profeſſion of a dramatic performer was not in great eſtimation at that time; nay, it is not clear to me but that it was then in much greater repute than it is now, or ever will be again; and the reaſon is there was more gratitude in the treatment they received, and a higher admiration of men that the public conſidered in poſſeſſion of talents ſuperior to their own.

On this account, as it has often happened in other countries, men of the firſt abilities, and in the higheſt ſituations, did not diſdain to become actors; for no tolerated profeſſion is diſgra [...]ful unleſs the mem⯑bers themſelves diſgrace it. Thoſe of this deſcrip⯑tion who had talents themſelves, readily embraced it, thoſe who had not readily encouraged talents in others. Sir THOMAS MORE did not diſdain to turn actor, ſo little did he fear that the diſrepute of the profeſſion could injure the morality of the man; and TARLETON, who was really a licentious cha⯑racter, was, nevertheleſs, on account of his merit [120] admired, and even honoured, till his profligacy ſhut him out of that ſociety exactly as it muſt have done out of any other.

There is another reaſon why the actors of that time muſt have been deſervedly celebrated. Good write⯑ing requires good acting; and when have we wit⯑neſſed ſuch good writing as that of SHAKESPEAR? In him we have come to the perfection of the art. Have we had any thing ſince that demands the exertion neceſſary for the performance of RICHARD, LEAR, HAMLET, OTHELLO, MACBETH, and many other parts that the reader will point out to me? Do not nineteen out of twenty actors chuſe a character for their firſt appearance from SHAKESPEAR? Why? Becauſe the merit of the author aſſiſts the reputation of the actor, and thus we are obliged to go back to the matter of that time before we can ſhew what the exertions of actors at that time required.

We are told by various writers, decidedly, and without reſerve, that acting has gradually declined from the time of SHAKESPEAR, and that the art is loſt. BURBAGE, who was the original RICHARD the third, LOWIN the firſt HAMLET, and HENRY the eighth, and KEMPE, who was inimitable in the Clowns, are poſitively ſaid to have as much ſurpaſſed [121] HART, LACY, MOHUN, SHATTERAL, and CLUN, who ſucceeded, as they did BETTERTON, and that ſet.

If this be true, which, however, it is extremely difficult to vouch, the merit of an actor muſt have been ſuppoſed to conſiſt at that time of all the force and power neceſſary to be aſſumed, in order to give effect to the repreſentation of great characters, un⯑aſſiſted by thoſe decorations which now frequently attract the public without acting at all; and this admitted, it was the acting of ROSCIUS, of AESOP, of thoſe Mimes, of whoſe action alone we are told ſuch prodigious things.

In this caſe the Engliſh ſtage poſſeſſed the beſt merit of the Grecian. and the beſt merit of the Ro⯑man; for it was ſupported by actors of both ſorts. SHAKESPEAR and the other authors gave to acting a Grecian poliſh, following the ſteps of AESCHYLUS, and BURBAGE, LOWIN, and the reſt, made it a profeſſion ſingly, and emulated the Roman per⯑fection of ROSCIUS and AESOP.

Beſides theſe, as ſo many theatres exiſted at that time, the number of actors muſt have been im⯑menſe; but, as a minute enquiry into this would lead [122] us only into conjecture, for, though a lamentable, one it is a certain fact that poſterity cares but little for that merit which does not ſubſtantiate itſelf, I ſhall leave this ſubject till it can be better elucidated by a deſcription of thoſe plays and their repreſentation which to an aſtoniſhing number did great credit to the reign of JAMES the firſt during the life of SHAKESPEAR.

CHAP. VIII. STATE OF LITERATURE AT THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH.

As it always happens that, while improvement in any one ſtudy is going forward, a ſenſible ſympathy is felt in all the collateral parts, ſo it will be found in the preſent inſtance that, while SHAKESPEAR was improving the ſtage, the relative arts were every where verging nearer to perfection.

Poetry, painting, and muſic, in the reign of ELIZABETH, began as if by general conſent to throw off barbariſm; and, though their various merits manifeſted themſelves in different parts of EUROPE, the general effect was electric; and while the Muſes ſeparately choſe reſidences, the influence of all was diffuſed from people to people.

ITALY, however, was the IDA. There the arts which had been foſtered under the auſpices of LEO the tenth, now began to gain decided pre-eminence. [124] Painting, however, which had reached to a ſublime height, and muſic which had acquired poliſh and refinement, ſeemed to keep their ground firmer than the ſtand made by literature; which, after the won⯑derful TASSO, and the charming GUARINI, yielded to the influence of the ſplendid talents and great genius poſſeſſed by poets of other nations.

The Spaniards, with CERVANTES at their head, began to grow very conſpicuous in literature. MAL⯑HERBE about this time taught the French how to write poetry, MAMBRUN gave their language every poliſh that it could require from critical and gram⯑matical excellence, and theſe poets, MALHERBE in particular, ſtampt a regulation and a criterion which overcame all the gothic barbariſm into which French erudition had been plunged, and refined it into that elegance and neat point for which it has been ſince ſo juſtly celebrated.

Engliſh erudition, at no time calculated for that which is light and ſuperficial, but always for that which is ſolid and true, had imbibed nothing more of Italian flight, of French point, of Spaniſh ſarcaſm than ſerved the purpoſe of enforcing the neceſſary end to which the argument in queſtion tended. Ima⯑gery it had wide and comprehenſive as the imagi⯑nations that produced it, but the flowers were not [125] born to decay, but to illuſtrate truth and picture na⯑ture by the beauty of their colouring, and the ſweet⯑neſs of their odour.

Should any one doubt this, let him range with SPENCER's Fairy Queen through all the wilds of fancy, the labyrinths of allegory, and the mazes of enchantment; and, as each new ſlight of imagination ſurprizes him into wonder and aſtoniſhment, let it alſo convince him into virtue and truth.

There would be no more difficulty by a review of the Shepherd's Calender to pronounce SPENCER a ſuperior paſtoral poet to GUARINI, or any other writer back to THEOCRITUS, than to prove SHAKES⯑PEAR ſuperior to any other dramatic author. Paſtoral poetry has but one character; and, whether we re⯑ſort to VIRGIL, to MAMBRUN, his imitator, or on⯑ward to any or all of thoſe various penners of ſelf evident truths who have written of hills and dales and fondly fancied themſelves poets, the objects muſt be obvious, ſimple, and natural, and thoſe who have been ſo fortunate, or rather ingenious to blend intereſt, inculcate moral, and afford pleaſure, with⯑out inſipidity, dullneſs, or puerility, a charge in which many eminent paſtoral poets are unfortunately in⯑volved, are certainly the beſt writers of this deſ⯑cription, and, therefore, I ſhall not heſitate to pro⯑nounce [126] SPENCER's Shepherd's Calender, and SHAKES⯑PEAR's As You Like It, the beſt ſpecimens, in their different characters, of this ſpecies of writing^*.

[127]We have ſeen, under the auſpices of BUCK⯑HURST, [128] BERNERS, ſir THOMAS MORE, and others, onward to ſir PHILIP SIDNEY, what ſtrenuous efforts were made to encourage literature in all its branches. Divinity had its advocate in HALES, who was a ſound moraliſt, and a good poet; who was loved and followed in his life time, and whoſe works were publiſhed, after his death, under the title of Golden Remains of Mr. John Hales. KING, whoſe pulpit orations were of that ſenſible and con⯑vincing kind that graced the doctrine they recom⯑mended, was alſo a very populous churchman. King JAMES uſed to call him ‘"the Prince of Preachers,"’ and lord COKE is ſaid to have been ſo charmed with his oratory, that he both declared him the beſt ſpeaker he ever heard, and made his manner the model of his own imitation.

HALL, who was a very accompliſhed poet as well as a learned and ſenſible divine, ſerved not only the cauſe of the church but literature in ge⯑neral; for, while his writings, under the title of Meditations, improved the mind, enlarged the un⯑derſtanding, inculcated the duties of religion, and deſcribed the beauty of virtue, proving that mo⯑deſty, meekneſs, and piety, which he practiſed, his Satires, which are full of admirable point, enlivened the imagination, and expoſed the deformity of vice, to the deriſion and contempt in which he himſelf held it.

[129]OVERALL, who is ſaid to have been the beſt ſcholaſtic divine this country ever produced, was a moſt ſtrenuous and ſucceſsful champion for this great cauſe; and, that he might prove his utility as a citizen as well as a ſcholar, he has earneſtly at⯑tempted, in his Convocation book, to ſhew that our duty to temporal government ſprings out of our duty to ſpiritual government; a poſition that a divine has ſurely a right to maintain, for an union between ſo⯑cial and religious obligation is certainly the moſt laudable thing that can be generally recommended, becauſe, out of the ſpirit of that opinion iſſues the beſt conſequences attendant on ſociety.

Many other learned and elegant writers treated this great theme, at that period, with the becoming dignity and profound knowledge it demanded; and their abilities were properly called into action at this particular moment, when ſo many bigots and ca⯑ſuiſts joined to decry the Proteſtant religion that had been ſo nobly though ſo recently eſtabliſhed. The diſciples of BONNOR and MARY had yet their advocates, and the embers of thoſe fires, ſo alarming to goodneſs and ſo ſhocking to humanity, that had been kindled in Smithfield, ſeemed now and then to emit a faint warning that without circumſpection the flames might again revive.

[130]As a government eſtabliſhed on the firm baſis of a mild and tolerant religion, ſeemed beſt calculated for a rational and moderate people, which the En⯑gliſh in this reign became, the protection of pro⯑perty of courſe began to be more equitably re⯑gulated. Many extraordinary men lent their aſſiſt⯑ance to complete a work ſo eſſentially neceſſary to the benefit of ſociety, and many difficulties were got over, and much obſcurity cleared up in the old laws, as well as many admirable amendments introduced in the new.

COWELL, born the ſame year with SHAKESPEAR, whoſe ſtudy was not confined to the eccleſiaſtical laws, which branch he particularly profeſſed, very meritoriouſly attempted at a ſimplification of them all; which, when we conſider that the laws are in⯑explicable at this day, muſt have been a pretty arduous taſk. He wrote a book called The In⯑terpreter, wherein he pointed out the ſignification of all law terms that had been uſed or authorized pre⯑vious to that time; and he wrote a book of Inſtitutes in the manner of JUSTINIAN, which was conſidered as a work of great merit.

Sir JOHN DAVIES was another law luminary of conſiderable celebrity, who wrote ſound arguments on juriſprudence, and good poetry; two purſuits that [131] have ſeldom united in one man. His oratory ſeems to have been of that clear convincing ſort for which lord MANSFIELD was ſo properly admired, and, indeed, the chief juſticeſhip of the King's Bench would have been the appropriate vehicle for the exerciſe of his talents, but unfortunately ſoon after his appoint⯑ment to that high ſtation he died ſuddenly.

Lord COKE, whoſe great name ſtands ſo high in eſtimation for law learning, enlightened the reign of ELIZABETH. He was ſo indefatigable in the pur⯑ſuit of his labours, which were eminent and merit⯑orious, it might be ſaid of him as of CAESAR, that he thought nothing done while there was any thing left to do. ‘"His learned and laborious works on the laws,"’ ſays a writer, ‘"will be admired by judi⯑cious poſterity while Fame has a trumpet or any breath to blow therein."’ His labours, however various and extraordinary as they were, in no way fell ſhort of the variety and ſingularity of his for⯑tunes, which were an alternate rotation of power and diſgrace; not ſo much in the reign of ELIZABETH, whom he calls the fountain of juſtice and the life of the law, but afterwards when JAMES came to the throne, who uſed to ſay, ſo well did COKE manage to repair ill fortune, that ‘"he always fell on his legs like a cat."’

[132]Other great men, whoſe eminent abilities added luſtre to the laws of their country, in this reign, might with great propriety be here enumerated. Their merit, indeed, wants no other criterion to prove it than its being able to keep a reſpectable ſtand at the time when BACON dignified human nature.

This wonderful character, whoſe eulogium every body has attempted and nobody has been competent to effect, ſeems to have been born to give a preciſe and accurate diſtinction to the high office of Lord Chancellor. His expanded ideas, his penetrating judgment, and his critical know⯑ledge of cauſes and effects, gave him an innate and fixed comprehenſion of general equity, his compe⯑tency to diſcern the errors he cancelled or corrected in queſtions of philoſophy, and all thoſe other ſub⯑jects which his great genius ſo univerſally embraced, taught him with the ſame accuracy to determine between deciſion and redreſs; that difficult diſ⯑tinction which cannot be made but by a ſound head, and an upright heart.

In my province I can only ſpeak generally of BACON; otherwiſe I ſhould have unfeigned plea⯑ſure in paying my feeble tribute of admiration due [133] to the talents of ſo exalted a genius. Fortunately the world would anticipate every ſyllable, were it ever ſo true or ever ſo ſtrong, that I could poſſibly write on this great ſubject. His works, that grace the libraries of the learned, will be the beſt teſt of his high reputation which are allowed, by the literati of all EUROPE, to the everlaſting honour of this nation, to have ſtampt him the firſt and moſt extraordinary univerſal genius the world has pro⯑duced.

Hiſtory, that mirror of the lives and actions of good and bad men, ſet up as the object of imitation or deteſtation of the wiſe and virtuous, was as induſ⯑triouſly and as learnedly treated as divinity, or law, during the reign of ELIZABETH. SPEED, with great judgment and unwearied application, detected the errors of his predeceſſors, and expoſed the fu⯑tile and fanciful conjectures of GEOFREY, of MON⯑MOUTH, and WILLIAM, of MALMSBURY, in a moſt ſenſible and happy manner. His opinions alſo concerning other hiſtorians are given with no leſs good ſenſe than deference; and, for the ma⯑terials he was able to collect, and conſidering the uncertainty of events of which at that time nothing but a very imperfect account could be obtained, his Chronicles of England contain a fund of infor⯑mation, [134] which, from circumſtances, and on com⯑pariſon, bear ſtrong reſemblance to authenticity.

STOW has done more than SPEED. He took up hiſtory in a very intereſting way; for, beſides his Chronicles of England, which traverſe a large field, his Survey of London has rendered his hiſtorical in⯑telligence more intereſting by confining the ſubject to its proper ſcene of action. His reſearches into antiquity have turned out very valuable materials for other authors to work upon, and yet thoſe au⯑thors have had ſo little candour, or gratitude, that I have ſeen the works of ſome of them who, inſtead of allowing the merit of thoſe they were glad to imitate, have only deplored, that the antiquary STOW, and the hiſtorian SPEED, were both taylors,

DANIEL, poet laureat to queen ELIZABETH, was the firſt who began to give hiſtory a proper poliſh as well as a neceſſary perſpicuity. DANIEL had a good deal of the poet in him, and the actions of the great and good are beſt delivered from a poetic mind. His relations of facts are brief and pointed, and his obſervations, both political and moral, inform and entertain.

But theſe, however, as well as others had boaſted [135] a preceptor in hiſtory of wonderful talents and en⯑dowments; a man whoſe clearneſs, force, and na⯑tural elegance, had long given luſtre to erudition. This will be acknowledged what I ſay that I mean BUCHANAN, that mixture of SALLUST and LIVY, who united brevity and perſpicuity with grace and politeneſs, and whom DANIEL ſeems to have copied on this account.

BUCHANAN was much honoured in other coun⯑tries as well as in SCOTLAND, where he was born; and even MELVIL, his cotemporary and rival, who eſpouſed oppoſite opinions, who was the firm and faithful adherent of MARY Queen of Scots, which miſguided woman, had not her weakneſs led her to liſten to the advice of leſs able and leſs honourable counſellors, might have eſcaped all her misfortunes, was not averſe to do every juſtice to the fame and talents of BUCHANAN.

Added to all the other admirable qualities poſ⯑ſeſſed by BUCHANAN, he was celebrated for the charms of his converſation, in which he ſeems to have emulated the Greeks. for his obſervations were ſhort, nervous, and pointed; full of truth, know⯑ledge, and experience; and might, had they been collected, have made a complete ſtring of apo⯑thegms. [136] His ſimplicity, however, and deference led him into an attention to others more artful than himſelf, who impoſed upon his credulity, eſpecially in religious matters.

By this means, though his fidelity remained un⯑ſhaken, he relied at laſt in his writings too much on the opinions of others; and, theſe having been ad⯑vanced too frequently to injure his reputation, he ſub⯑ſcribed to the diminution of his own conſequence, little ſuſpecting he was the dupe of an impoſition which he himſelf would have diſdained to practiſe.

This and his popularity, lowered him deſervedly in the judgment of the learned, for he grew careleſs and adopted any vulgar opinion ſo it ſerved to pro⯑cure him temporary admiration. Shewing that, dif⯑ficult as it is to attain fame, 'tis much more difficult to preſerve it. The moſt unfriendly, however, of his flatterers, who poiſoned the chalice of praiſe they held up to him for his refreſhment, and the moſt inveterate of his more honeſt, becauſe more open enemies, have never, either by refined inſinua⯑tion, or envious aſſertion, been able to withhold from him the impartial award of poſterity which has confirmed him a firm philoſopher, an elegant hiſ⯑torian, a perfect moraliſt, and a good man.

[137]But, if thoſe already mentioned beget our warmeſt praiſe, and demand the admiration of poſterity, what ſhall we ſay when we conſider that this age alſo boaſted the advantage of HOOKER's incomparable merit; that exquiſite improver of the Engliſh language, of whom Pope CLEMENT the eighth ſaid, ‘"this man, indeed, deſerves the praiſe of an author. His books will get reverence by age; for there is in them ſuch ſeeds of eternity, that they will continue till the laſt fire ſhall de⯑vour all learning."’

Again, commanded by juſtice and truth, we can⯑not paſs by ſir WALTER RALEIGH; that great man, no leſs extraordinary for his eminent talents, than his unmeritted misfortunes; who, in proportion as he enlightened and inſtructed the world, experienced its ingratitude. He defeated the Spaniſh Armada, diſcovered a new country, and, as a warrior and a ſtateſman, did his nation the moſt ſingular and im⯑portant ſervices, and in return was ſtript of his pre⯑ferment, loaded with ignominy, and condemned to die as a traitor.

The delight of his life being the good of his fellow creatures, he employed his time in the tower, where, after being reprieved, which was a ſufficient [136] [...] [137] [...] [138] indication of his innocence, he was many years con⯑fined, in exploring the deepeſt receſſes of literature. All ſubjects were alike to him, epiſtles, poetry, war, navigation, geography, politics, philoſophy, and hiſtory, came with new luſtre from his deſcriptive pen.

At length, his philanthropic and meritorious ſer⯑vices having been felt and acknowledged, and the times demanding a more active exerciſe of ſuch brilliant talents, he was called again into action; when, with the benignity and forgetfulneſs of injury only native in a great mind, he loſt his anger in his patriotiſm, and ruſhed to ſuccour his country. He atchieved wonders, aſſiſted by his ſon, who had the melancholy glory of loſing his life like another MARCUS, ſighting gallantly by the ſide of his father.

But the more brilliant his career, the more the ſun of his glory engendered the venom of malignity. Were the circumſtance not upon record it would not be believed; that a nation ſo full of ſplendid reputation, ſo celebrated for impartial juſtice, ſhould ſo deface the monuments of its fame as to ſacrifice the hero who reared them. Sir WALTER RA⯑REIGH, being complained of to a weak king by an inſidious foe, was given up to injuſtice for having [139] ſerved his country; and, when nothing could touch his life upon this unworthy accuſation, that the meaſure of his injuries might be full, and the ſlan⯑derous and envious might be glutted and gratified, he was beheaded for that former ſuppoſed crime, of which his innocence had been honourably ma⯑nifeſted by a full pardon, and which pardon had been confirmed and ratified by an important and digni⯑fied command in the ſervice of his country^*.

I cannot wind up my account of hiſtorians at this period without mentioning the celebrated CAMDEN, who we may remember was preceptor to JONSON, and who ſeems to have ſlogged into him all that learning and ill nature for which he was ſo remarkable. Britannia is deſervedly a work of great reputation. The origin, manners, and laws of the ancient Britons are there well deſcribed and ſenſibly commented on.

This Engliſh Pauſanius, as he has been called, [140] took unwearied pains to celebrate all that was worthy, valiant, and great in the annals of his coun⯑try; and, at the ſame time that he excited emulation in young minds, he formed them for great under⯑takings; for he was maſter of Weſtminſter ſchool, whence have iſſued ſo many divines, lawyers, war⯑riors, and ſtateſmen. His opinions were proudly looked up to, and his learning, his judgment, his univerſal knowledge, and the diſcharge of his pro⯑feſſional duties, procured him the protection of his ſovereign, the aſſociation of the great, and the ad⯑miration of the literati, who dignified him by the appellation of the great CAMDEN.

Going on I might inſtance GEORGE CAREW, earl of TOTNESS, who wrote the Hiſtory of the Wars in Ireland, beſides collecting ſeveral Chronologies, Letters, Charters, and Monuments, in four large manuſcript volumes, which are ſtill in the Bodleian Library at OXFORD, and Sir GEORGE CAREW, bro⯑ther to lord TOTNESS, who was employed on em⯑baſſies from ENGLAND to the courts of POLAND and FRANCE, whence he collected many hiſtorical particulars which he introduced into a work ad⯑dreſſed to JAMES the firſt, though written and pub⯑liſhed originally in the reign of ELIZABETH, called A Relation of the State of France, with the Characters [141] of Henry the Fourth, and the principal Perſons of that Court.

But, to wave all thoſe branches of literature, for inſtance philoſophy, in which, beſide thoſe mentioned and many others, ADAMSON conſpicuouſly ſhone; who was to the philoſophers of FRANCE what NEWTON was afterwards to DESCARTES. He eſ⯑caped the maſſacre of PARIS, on the Feaſt of St. BARTHOLOMEW, by miracle, having been con⯑cealed in a houſe, the maſter of which was thrown into the ſtreet and daſhed to pieces for having ſhel⯑tered the Proteſtants. ADAMSON was archbiſhop of St. ANDREWS, and a great promoter of the works of LINDSAY, with whom he was joined in an im⯑portant commiſſion, ſo that the enmity among the churchmen, that LINDSAY drew down on him by his ſatirical writings, was in no reſpect imputable to or convived at by ADAMSON.

Putting by phyſic, rhetoric, the mathematics, and all the relative literary ſtudies, I ſhall finiſh this ſubject by briefly touching on poetry of which, ſpeaking generally of the ſubject, I know not if SPENCER was not king. At any rate he felt him⯑ſelf a monarch; but being no more than poetically ſo, and, therefore, not able literally to command any ſubjects, he was determined figuratively to reign over more than all the monarchs of the earth. Thus [142] whole legions of fairies, goblins, and monſters ap⯑peared and diſappeared at a ſtroke of that poetic ſcep⯑tre his pen. Palaces, temples, and enchanted caſtles were built in the compaſs of a diſtich; and, to make the empire large enough for its inhabitants, the whole regions of fancy were choſen for his ſcenes of action. Theſe with great felicity, he wrought to the wiſeſt and beſt of purpoſes; and in the rewards and puniſhments of his different ſubjects, according to their virtues and vices, he has given a ſyſtem of morality that will ever be an ornament to poſterity. This moralily is particularly advantageous by being conveyed in a ſtile of the moſt brilliant fancy and moſt perfect truth.

His genius has been the admiration of all thoſe who can feel and diſcriminate; and what defects may be found in him were attributable only to the early times he wrote in; all that barbariſm having not yet been cleared away in which they were found by his predeceſſor CHAUCER, in whoſe ſteps he trod; but being poſſeſſed of more exalted abilities, he ſhewed the great diſtinction of genius by improving upon mind, rather than manner; for SPENCER manifeſted all the great ſoul of CHAUCER, without deigning ſervilely to confine himſelf to the contracted and narrow limits to which that great man had ſub⯑mitted: though, perhaps, more from neceſſity than inclination.

[143]The fortunes of SPENCER were truly poetical; they reſembled an April day, and were alternately chequered by clouds and ſunſhine. It is true he wore a laurel crown, but it was ſo barren, that it did not bear, for a conſiderable time, a ſingle leaf; and when his affairs mended, it was more owing to the ſolicitations of thoſe individuals to whom he he was deſervedly dear, than to his own perſonal merit.

Queen ELIZABETH, who accorded him his withering laurel, at length, by many ſolicitations, accorded him alſo what enabled him for a time to live comfortably. Of this, however, this king was diſpoſſeſſed, and died in all the grief of low fortune and diſappointment. He has left, however, queen who ſo ſweetly ſings his departed merits, that the miſts of prejudice being now removed, his ſame will live when thoſe who have ſince attempted to endanger it, by vexations cavilling, are for⯑gotten.

SHAKESPEAR's talents having been almoſt wholly confined to dramatic poetry, it will be unneceſſary to inſiſt on them in this digreſſive part of the work, their influence claiming full notice in its body. of which they compoſe the vitals. JONSON alſo and the reſt of the dramatic writers, for reaſons ſome⯑thing [144] akin to theſe, need not be mentioned; and it would be repetition to ſpeak of DANIEL, RALEIGH, SIDNEY, or FAIRFAX. I ſhall, therefore, content myſelf with winding up the ſubject of literature in general by remarking, that, taking it in all points of view, I do not ſay the annals of the world cannot produce an era in which exiſted ſo much collective merit, but I think it out of doubt that no other age can boaſt three ſuch men as BACON, SHAKESPEAR, and SPENCER.

CHAP. IX. PAINTING.

THIS art which is ſaid to have ariſen among the Egyptians, and which, as in almoſt every other in⯑ſtance, the Greeks carried to perfection, was known later in ENGLAND to any extent or degree of ex⯑cellence than in any other civilized country.

It is doub [...]ful whether we can with any propriety pin our faith on the accounts of the very ancient painters. If we were to take implicitly what we are told to believe we ſhould place APELLES, and XEUXES, by the ſide of CORRIGIO RAPHAEL, and REYNOLDS^*, but this is impoſſible. The very [146] colours could have flatly contradicted ſo abſurd a belief; beſides, as painting is the very art which can never attain complete perfection, nature being ini⯑mitable, it cannot poſſibly be, that in the barbarous age in which ALEXANDER maſſacred ſo many peace⯑able ſtrangers, whoſe territories he laid in ruins, and whoſe comfort he deſtroyed, to gratify a frantic and uſeleſs ambition, that painting, which is a ſober, ſtu⯑dious art, and which can only thrive in civilized ſoil, could have attained any perfection, in ſpight of the ſtory of the birds and the curtain, or the famous ſay⯑ing that there were two ALEXANDERS one invinci⯑ble, ſprung from the loins of PHILIP, and the other inimitable produced from the pencil of APELLES.

This cannot be better confirmed than by what actually happened in ITALY; where, previous to the incurſions of the barbarians, painting flouriſhed to, perhaps, a higher degree of reputation than [147] poetry. In the latter times of the republic, and under the firſt emperors, ROME had conſiderable maſters; but, when the barbarians, with almoſt as much ferocity as ALEXANDER and his army, in⯑undated ITALY, painting, ſo far from boaſting a ſingle APELLES, ſhrunk into nothing and was re⯑duced to its primitive elements.

In the age of JULIUS the ſecond, and LEO the tenth, it began again to revive, and this revolution has given riſe to the diſtinction of ancient and mo⯑dern painting; the firſt comprehending the Greek and Roman painters, and the other that ſet who formed themſelves into ſchools, and from whom alone, to ſay the truth, we have a right to date the perfection of this art. So that the uſual mode of expreſſing ourſelves, according to this, is a perver⯑ſion of the original meaning; for we conſider the painters who began to flouriſh under LEO the tenth as the ancients, which is in point of fact perfectly right; for, however, the art might before have been exerciſed to the admiration of thoſe who were not civilized enough to judge of ſo elegant a ſtudy, and, however, it might have branced into partial ſtreams in GREECE and ROME, there was no ſource, no fountain head till it collected itſelf in ITALY.

CIMABUE in the thirteenth century with infinite [148] diligence collected the materials of painting, the very idea of which had then ſhrunk into obſcurity; and the difficulty with which he obtained a very ſlight knowledge of what the art had been in GREECE is quite enough to ſhew, that what we pretend to know of it at preſent is built upon a ſhallow foundation indeed.

Some Florentines ſeconded the labours of CI⯑MABUE, and to ſo good a purpoſe, that, though rude in the profeſſion themſelves, they knew ſo well the elements of it that their ſcholars ſoon became celebrated; the perfection of painting therefore, may be dated from the latter part of the fifteenth century, at which time ANDREA PEROCCHIO was the maſter of LEONARDA de VINCI, PIETRO PE⯑RUGINO of RAPHAEL URBIN, and GHIRLANDAIO of MICHAEL ANGELO.

Soon after this, as all the world knows, paint⯑ing took ſuch ſtrides towards perfection; that, owing to the ſchools theſe great men eſtabliſhed, ANGELO having ſet up his at FLORENCE, RAPHAEL at ROME, and VINCI at MILAN, it was carried to a pitch of excellence from which connoiſeurs inſiſt it has ever ſince been on the decline.

Certainly the talents of LEONARDA de VINCI, [149] whoſe ſtudy was to diffuſe that merit he ſo eminently poſſeſſed, who was the painter's preceptor, and the favourite of kings, by this time had made their rightful impreſſion. MICHAEL ANGELO, who was conſidered as the greateſt deſigner that ever exiſted, and acknowledged to know anatomy more perfectly than any man in the world, who ſought perfection in ſolitude, and of whom it was ſaid that painting was jealous and required the whole man to herſelf, by this time had added wonder to curioſity.

It is extraordinary that this great man was equally remarkable in painting, ſculpture and architecture, and beſides was a good poet. His ſtatues, though few, were, however, admirable. His paintings were nu⯑merous, and are ſo well known that it would be an inſult to his memory, and the taſte of the conoſcenti, to deſcribe their beauties, and his fame as an archi⯑tect will remain while there is any veſtage of St. PETER's at ROME^*, St. JOHN's at FLORENCE, the Capitol, the Farneſe Palace, or his own houſe.

[150]RAPHAEL who deſerves, perhaps, even ſtronger praiſe than his great cotemporaries had alſo to the other various perfections of painting added the graces. He has been ſtyled the Prince of Painters and the divine RAPHAEL.

Du FRESNOY ſays, ſpeaking of this wonderful man that ‘"he ſurpaſſed all modern painters,"’ ſtill adhering to the old diſtinction of making the Greeks the ancients, ‘"becauſe he poſſeſſed more of the excellent parts of painting than any other; and it is believed that he equalled the ancients, ex⯑cepting that he deſigned not naked bodies with ſo much learning as MICHAEL ANGELO; but his guſto of deſign is purer, and much better. He painted with not ſo good, ſo full, and ſo graceful a manner, as CORREGIO; nor has he any thing of the contraſt of the lights and ſhadows, or ſo ſtrong and free a colouring, as TITIAN; but he had without compariſon a better diſpoſition in his pieces, than either TITIAN, CORREGIO, MICHAEL ANGELO, or all the reſt of the ſuc⯑ceeding painters to our days. His choice of atti⯑tudes of heads, of ornaments, the ſuitableneſs of his drapery, his manner of deſigning, his varieties, his contraſts, his expreſſions, were beautiful in per⯑fection; but above all, he poſſeſſed the graces in ſo advantageous a manner, that he has never ſince been equalled by any other."’

[151]The ſchool of theſe three great maſters con⯑firmed the reign of painting ſo completely, that it could not but be diffuſed for ever through the world; for excluſive of the great number of pupils they turned out, thoſe ſchools at length grew into a ſyſtematic eſtabliſhment under the CARACCI; who, added to their own reſpective merits, have rendered their names illuſtrious by complimenting the world with ſuch painters as GUIDO, DOMENECHINO, and LANFRANCO; thus continuing the ſtudy of painting in its moſt finiſhed and perfect ſtyle almoſt up to the preſent time.

The influence of this art by this time was felt in remoter countries. ALBERT DURER, began to aſtoniſh GERMANY, HOLBENS, or HOLBEIN, SWITZERLAND, and LUCAS, HOLLAND. FRANCE, and FLANDERS had their painters, and ENGLAND felt a reflected glow from this warmth that diffuſed itſelf through the Continent, which kindled ſoon into a fire under the influence of ſir THOMAS MORE, who introduced HOLBEIN to HENRY the eighth^*.

[152]After the arrival of HOLBEIN, painting began to be better known in ENGLAND; and during the reign of ELIZABETH the names and productions of HEMSKIRK, who ſtudied at ROME, and modelled himſelf upon the Italian ſchool, and who, though not very deſervedly, was called the RAPHAEL of HOLLAND and BREUGEL, whoſe drawings are ſaid to be ſo correct that they cannot be copied, began to be known.

ELSHEIMER whoſe pictures are generlly ſmall landſcapes, hiſtories, or candlelight pieces with figures, and which are ſo remarkable for the pro⯑digious labours and pains he beſtowed upon them that they are ſo highly eſteemed as only to be found in the cabinets of princes, was alſo a name that found its way into the court of ELIZABETH.

But OTHO VENIUS the maſter of RUBENS brought the taſte of the Engliſh for painting much forwarder than it has been before. He ſtudied at [153] ROME particularly under ZUCHERO, and afterwards returned to ANTWERP, where he ornamented the principal churches with his paintings. He had many tempting offers both from FRANCE and EN⯑GLAND to leave his native country, but could never be prevailed upon; they were, therefore, obliged to be content with his pictures, which it may be eaſily conceived, as they formed RUBENS, were admirable objects of imitation for the painters of a country, in which the art was yet in its infancy as to its na⯑tive artiſts.

That it was known, however, and that very uni⯑verſally, cannot be doubted; for we are generally given to underſtand that no leſs than fifteen thouſand Flemiſh artiſts of different deſcriptions were ſettled in LONDON at the death of HENRY the eighth; and as at the head of the painters we have ſeen HOL⯑BEIN the principal ſupport at that time of the Flemiſh ſchool, it is impoſſible but the art of paint⯑ing muſt have been greatly admired, and of courſe imitated.

This importation of Flemiſh artiſts continued throughout the whole reign of ELIZABETH; and by this means, at ſecond hand, the Engliſh had the ſatisfaction of becoming acquainted with the works [154] of GUIDO, TITIAN, JULIO ROMANO, and COR⯑REGIO; and, as many noblemen and ambaſſadors had alſo imported pictures from ITALY, neither RAPHAEL nor his cotemporaries were altogether unknown in ENGLAND.

CHAP X. MUSIC.

HAVING already taking up the ſubject of GUIDO ARETINE, with a view to ſhew that his diſcoveries were the improvement, not the invention of muſic, I ſhall now ſpeak of that theme, on which I always dwell with ſo much pleaſure, by watching its pro⯑greſs onward from that period to the death of of ELIZABETH^*.

[156]I have ſhewn already that muſic is very ancient in this country; but, that there may be no conteſt as to what it was any where before ARETINE, or in what manner its influence was conveyed to the heart, I ſhall now only take it up from his time, and keep to this ſpot, except any alluſions ſhould be neceſſary to throw a light on the ſubject.

Chriſtianity introduced muſic into ENGLAND. ‘"In tracing the progreſs of choral muſic in this country,"’ ſays BEDE, ‘"it is worthy of remark that as it was firſt eſtabliſhed in the cathedral of CANTERAURY, when the firſt of the Roman ſingers ſettled on the converſion of the Engliſh to chriſtianity, ſo that choir for a ſeries of years pro⯑duced a ſucceſſion of men diſtinguiſhed for their excellence in it. Among theſe, THEODORE the archbiſhop, and ADRIAN the abott, his friend and coadjutor, are particularly noted."’

Thus muſic gained onward to WILLIAM the Conqueror, for this original eſtabliſhment of muſic at CANTERBURY was in the eighth century. In the [157] reign of that monarch lived a man named OSBERN, though BALE places him a century backwarder, to whom is attributed as much as to ARETINE, nay, this author ſays that ARETINE was only his fol⯑lower. This man was much favoured by LAN⯑FRANC biſhop of CANTERBURY, and is ſpoken of as one profoundly ſkilled in the ſcience of muſic. He left behind him a treatiſe which has thrown many new lights on harmony; but it is ſo crude, in⯑digeſted, and abſtruſe, that, like many other things on that ſubject, it were better that it had never been written.

There can be no doubt, however, that, except the native and wild melodies which were the cha⯑racteric of the national muſic here as they were every where elſe, that what was called muſic ſcien⯑tifically was little more than the gregorian chant, ſo often mentioned, and which certainly made up the eſſence of the recitative of LULLY.

St. BERNARD, who lived in the twelfth cen⯑tury, has endeavoured to ſimplify this ſpecies of muſic, and, as he calls it, ‘"correct the folly of thoſe who depart from the rules of melody."’ He complains, as any man of taſte would do who lives at this day, of the foppery and irregularity of teachers, who promulgate abſurdity and conſecrate error. [158] ‘"But,"’ ſays he, ‘"they ſay it is done by a kind of muſical licence. What ſort of licence is this, which, walking in the region of diſſimilitude, in⯑troduces confuſion and uncertainty, the mother of preſumption and the refuge of error? I ſay what is this liberty which joins oppoſites and goes beyond natural land marks; and which, as it im⯑poſes an inelegance on the compoſition, offers an inſult to nature."’

This man who knew and felt that nothing ſe⯑conds devotion like muſic, did not wiſh that the prieſts ſhould introduce ſchiſms for the ears any more than for mind. Indeed his labours were in⯑defatigable to root out impoſition in both; neither, however, ſucceeded to his wiſh, though in both he wrought ſome reform, but impoſition is the eſſence of profeſſors of ſciences as well as of religion; and while by deception money may be got little con⯑ſcience will be made of paſſing off fallacy for truth, and art for nature.

Muſic was in the thirteenth century ſo favourite a topic that it employed the pens of many eminent authors. WALTER MONK, of EVESHAM, a man as well of lively wit as of ſincere devotion, for theſe qualities are certainly not incompatible, wrote a ſen⯑ſible work which he called Of the Speculation of [159] Muſic. The celebrated ROGER BACON, who was complimented on account of his extaaordinary ta⯑lents with the title of Magician, under a general be⯑lief that his tranſcendant abilities muſt have been ſupernatural, and whoſe brazen head has ſo often infuſed terror into the minds of the ignorant, that he might leave no ſcience untreated, wrote a work which he called De Valore Muſices.

SIMON TAILLER, a dominican, and a Scotch⯑man, JOHANNES PEDIASIMUS, and ſeveral others, were alſo at this period muſical writers; but it would be trivial to notice more than that it was a part of the clerical duty to know the principles of harmony, and this clearly proves in what manner the Clerks who exhibited at Clerkenwell came to be qualified to repreſent the Myſteries, which con⯑ſiſted of ſinging as well as dialogue.

But this is not all. Muſic was not only known to the laity, but taught them by the churchmen, who very ſenſibly and properly ſoftened the more ri⯑gorous duties of religious worſhip by permitting in⯑nocent relaxations of this kind, eſpecially among the youthful part of both ſexes, who very naturally and laudably indulged in that vivacity which ſoftened their labour and taught them to know content.

[160]Thus ſuch ſongs and ballads as ſuited their ſitua⯑tions and talents, in ENGLAND as in every other country, became the delight and the ſolace of the wretched, the luxury of the indolent, and the re⯑laxation of the thrifty; all which, were proof ne⯑ceſſary, might be traced back to very remote times but we have no time nor occaſion for the ſearch.

To ſhew, however, that nothing could be more common and familiar than muſic, it made up the delight of the people in the fourteenth century. The carpenter's wife in CHAUCER's Miller's Tale is courted to the muſic of the ſautrie, by her lover NI⯑CHOLAS the ſcholar of OXFORD. Her other lover, ABSOLON the pariſh clerk, ſings to his geterne, and his ribible. All this has been remarked by an in⯑genious author who ſays ‘"if ſo many arts were ne⯑ceſſary to win the heart of a carpenter's wife, what muſical accompliſhments muſt be requiſite to gain the affections of females in higher life."’

CAMDEN ſpeaks of the muſic of theſe times, and notices that the poetry, which was evidently comic, and which he calls ‘"bobbing rhimes,"’ though they were levelled at the vices of the clergy, were written by clergymen. He tells us of WAL⯑TER de MASSES, and ſays that, though in the reign [161] of HENRY the ſecond, he filled all ENGLAND with his meriments, he was archdeacon of OXFORD; ſo that poets of all deſcriptions very ſenſibly contri⯑buted to the public amuſement by courting the beſt poſſible aſſiſtance their writings could profit by.

In the fifteenth century theſe ditties were multi⯑plied into a prodigious number; CHAUCER's bal⯑lads, of which he compoſed many, were in great vogue, as were alſo thoſe of LYDGATE, and other writers. JOHN SHIRLEY, in the year 1440, made a large collection of theſe which were publiſhed under the title of ‘"A Boke cleped the abſtracte brevyaire, compyled of diverſe ballades, roundels, virilays, tragedyes, envoys, complaints, moralityes, ſtoryes practyſed, and eke devyſed and ymagined, as it ſheweth here following, collected by JOHN SHIRLEY."’

It is imagined that the tunes of theſe ſongs are all loſt, but I cannot be induced to believe it, and I ſhould not wonder on the contrary, if many of them were familiar to us at this moment. Who knows the origin Derry Down, Oh Ponder Well, and many others, which will never be forgot. We know that in ſome of the madrigals, which were compoſed in this and the following century, the [162] Italian ſchool, in its higheſt proſperity, never pro⯑duced any thing, either for melody or harmony, more beautiful.

The earlieſt authority it is acknowledged that we have of a poſitive tune, and the name of its compoſer, is to a ſong of CHAUCER beginning, ‘"I have a lady."’ It was compoſed by CORNYSH in the reign of HENRY the eighth, but this weighs nothing with me. When I conſider that one of the ſweeteſt combinations of melody and harmony that ever adorned the ſweeteſt of all ſtudies was com⯑poſed as nearly as poſſible to that very time, I cannot be awake and believe that muſic, even in that reign, was not in the higheſt perfection, or at leaſt that there were not compoſers that unconſciouſly excelled the productions of ITALY; for it is impoſſible to deny that it is a higher compliment to the reputation of a compoſer to be known by ‘"How merrily we live,"’ the glee that I allude to, than by the moſt abſtruſe church compoſition that ever was com⯑poſed.

It is not therefore, certain, becauſe we know of no tunes written down and handed forward that we are not in poſſeſſion of them. There cannot be a doubt but nurſes and other common people have learned them of one another from time immemorial; [163] and, by the ſame token, when the beautiful melodies which are now our favourites, ſhall be ſung familiarily and with pleaſure two hundred years hence by all thoſe who have hearts and ears, it will be little conjectured that they owe the de⯑light they receive to PURCELL, ARNE, and BOYCE.

According to this, I don't care for what is trea⯑ſured up, I care for what is univerſally known; and my reaſon particularly is, that what is treaſured up is ſcientific, and what is univerſally known is na⯑tural, one is ingenuity, and the other genius, one art, and the other nature; and thus, upon the ſame principle that oral tradition has done much more for hiſtory than record, ſo memory muſt infallibly have done more for muſic than notation, and if I am aſked, having no chronicled proof of this aſſer⯑tion, how I can maintain it, I ſhall anſwer that the fact is as unerring as any orher fixed criterion in na⯑ture; and that, though I did not ſee the ſun ſhine two hundred years ago, I can with ſafety inſiſt that his beams were as radiant, and his career as glorious as at this moment.

At the ſame time I do not blame the diligence of thoſe who have taken pains to aſcertain what veſtiges there are of ancient muſic in this country, and one of my reaſons is, that in ſo doing, they may [162] [...] [163] [...] [164] fall in the way of materials that might ſhame the muſic of any other country, I have given one ſtrong inſtance of this, and ſhall by and by produce other inſtances. In the mean time, that I may not get too forward, I ſhall make ſome remarks on muſic in the fourteenth century.

It has been well noticed, by an ingenious and elegant writer, that nothing has given ſo complete an inſight into the character of muſic, at this remote period, as the writings of BOCCACE and CHAUCER. The Ten Tales of BOCCACE contained in his De⯑cameron, are not only entirely dramatic, but of that particular ſpecies that might be immediately formed into operas; ſo are the Canterbury Tales of CHAU⯑CER. The materials are perfectly adapted for muſic; and, to ſhew how nearly poetry and muſic are allied, and in their nature bear the ſame locality, the ſub⯑jects BOCCACE has choſen are elegant and refined, ſuch would beſt ſuit Italian muſic, at that time re⯑gular and ſcientific, and thoſe of CHAUCER com⯑mon and natural, ſuch as ſuited the plain ſimplicity of Engliſh muſic, in which laſt character, by the bye, is ſometimes contained a ſublimity beyond ſcience.

After a plague at FLORENCE, BOCCACE makes ſeven ladies, of noble birth and honourable princi⯑ples, propoſe to retire to a diſtance for fear of in⯑fection, [165] and to deplore the misfortunes of the times; but, leſt they ſhould too rigidly indulge their me⯑lancholy they determine to invite three gentlemen, alſo of birth and honour, to accomprny them. The ſcheme is put into execution; their little retreat be⯑comes a perfect paradiſe; and, among other things, to beguile the time, they each relate a ſtory.

But this is not all, we are told that this company ſung, danced, and played upon various inſtruments; and we are given to underſtand that they introduced the ſtory of Palamon and Arcite, which we may re⯑member ſo delighted queen ELIZARETH, and other novels, and that they even called in their ſervants to perſonate the clowns and under parts, who ac⯑companied themſelves with the bagpipe, while others played the lute and the viol; hence we have clearly the origin of the Italian opera.

CHAUCER, who went for ſimplicity as BOCCACE did for elegance, choſe a more common and more homely vehicle. He ſuppoſes twenty-nine perſons of both ſexes, of as different employments and cha⯑racters as the moſt fertile imagination could ſug⯑geſt, together with himſelf, making in all thirty, who ſet out from the Tabarde Inn in the Borough^*, on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of St. THOMAS [166] a BECKET, at CANTERBURY. Among theſe are a ſquire, his ſon, and his ſervant; a prioreſs, a nun, a monk, a merchant, a clerk of OXFORD, a ſerjeant at law, a haberdaſher, a carpenter, a wea⯑ver, a dyer, a cook, a ploughman, a miller, and other characters equally well contraſted.

Each of theſe characters is to tell two tales in the way to CANTERBURY, and two on their return. They caſt lots who ſhall begin and the firſt lot falls on the knight, who tells the ſtory of Palamon and Arcite, from which EDWARDS took his play which has been already noticed^*.

[167]In thoſe tales, not only the muſic of thoſe times is particularly deſcribed, but the names of the in⯑ſtruments are enumerated on which the performers were accuſtomed to play. The lure the rote, the fiddle, the ſautrie, the bagpipe, the getron, the ri⯑bible, the citole, and the flute, were inſtruments in common uſe^*, and from many lines in the prologues [168] to the different ſtories we learn by what ſort of per⯑ſons theſe inſtruments were played upon. The pro⯑logue to the ſquire's tale ſays,

So that we find the ſon of a knight educated in a manner ſuitable to his birth, was able to write, dance, portray, and make verſes, nay, and to add muſic to his verſes, if the term to make ſongs may be ſo underſtood and ſo of the reſt^†. But many other inſtruments were uſed at that time as may be ſeen by the following liſt of performers who at⯑tended EDWARD the third, five trompettes, one cyteler, five pipers, one tabrete, one mabre, two clarions, one fedeller, three waightes.

[169]This will be ſufficient to ſhew that muſic, in its na⯑tive ſimplicity, and therefore in its trueſt beauty was known and admired in the fourteenth century, and that in proportion as poetry became familiar it of courſe called for the aſſiſtance of this its auxiliary; thus there can be no doubt but we ſhould at this moment be able to aſcertain the very airs ſung in common from EDWARD the third to HENRY the eighth, many of which I have no doubt we know, but are unconſcious of their dates, were it not that notation was rendered obſolete by the re⯑formation; which, as it deſtroyed every veſtige of the manuſcriptural church muſic at the diſſolution of the monaſtaries, ſo of courſe it had no more mercy upon the laical.

Indeed many other reaſons concurred to render ancient notation uſeleſs. Printing, though it had gone a very extenſive length towards embelliſhing literature, had not yet extended to muſic. Every character uſed for the purpoſe of rendering ſound upon paper had been borrowed from the Roman ritual, and circulated in manuſcript. Types now ſet the matter to rights; and, as every inventor is fond of illuſtrating his diſcoveries as amply and variouſly as poſſible, what wonder of notation ſhould [168] [...] [169] [...] [170] be conveyed with encreaſing elegance, till, at laſt, it arrived to the form in which we now ſee it.

On this account thoſe compoſitions, for which Engliſh compoſers have been ſo celebrated, and particularly their madrigals, were not made known till early in the ſixteenth century; that is to ſay, in ſuch a form as to be tranſmitted on to us, for that they were common and in high eſtimation is in⯑dubitable, but being written in odd parts, without bars, and with ligatures, it is impoſſible for us to fix on them ſo preciſe a character as to form any judg⯑ment of the melodies or the relation the parts have to each other.

In this caſe, though we muſt implicitly give credit to that genius and that knowledge which were as completely known in that early period in ENGLAND as every where elſe, yet no certainty as to their particular operation can attach to our aſ⯑ſertions till HENRY the eighth; who, by deſtroying the convents and with them the books and manu⯑ſcripts found there, obliged muſic to ſhift for itſelf; which, being a child of nature, acquired ſtrength and beauty from that emancipation.

We ſhall be led, however, by this means to ſome [171] certainty as to compoſers in the fifteenth century; for not only the madrigals that were invented after the new notation were at that time printed, but many of the old ones were made to aſſume this more per⯑fect form, and, therefore, are preſerved even to this day. ‘"Sumer is Icumen,’ a celebrated madrigal for ſix voices, the manuſcript of which is now in the Britiſh Muſeum, was compoſed about 1460. SKEL⯑TON, in the reign of HENRY the ſeventh, wrote ſongs, which were compoſed in parts by CORNISH, and many others might be mentioned.

FRANCHINUS, who wrote a work which was printed at MILAN, gives ſome of the firſt examples for the improvement of muſical notation, but theſe characters were cut out in blocks; the Germans, however, improved upon this practiſe, and that art ſeems to have arrived to ſomething like perfection about the year 1500, ſo that this improvement ſeemed ready for the uſe it was put to afterwards in ENGLAND; but it came to no perfection till about 1560, when a very induſtrious man, of the name of JOHN DAY, publiſhed the Church Service in four and three parts. His labours were a good deal ac⯑celerated by STERHOLD and HOPKINS; who, in addition to the novelty of introducing their New Verſion of the Pſalms, brought forth the Cantiones of TALLIS and BIRD, two names of ſufficient con⯑ſequence [172] to ſhew the reputation of muſic at that time, their Anthems at this moment being held very highly in eſteem, as to their ingenuity, ad⯑mitted among the common cathedral ſtock, and as well known as the works of any other church compoſers^*.

This DAY moſt induſtriouſly and laudably, to⯑gether with another printer of the name of VAU⯑TROLLIER, brought to public view whatever could be found of value, and, therefore, I ſhould not wonder, though the fact cannot be aſcertained, that many of the madrigals, aſcribed to the com⯑poſers [173] of that time, are in fact of a much earlier date.

DAY and VAUTROLLIER were ſucceeded by THOMAS ESTE; who, for ſome reaſon or other, changed his name to SNODHAM. BIRD and MOR⯑LEY were afterwards granted a patent as ſole and excluſive printers of muſic. This patent was aſ⯑ſigned to others; but printed muſic came to no per⯑fection, except merely as to the form of the notes, till it was ſtampt and engraved^*.

Gathering aſſiſtance from printing, writers on muſic were now better enabled to exemplify their arguments, and in conſequence we became more familiar with them and their works. Muſicians took their degrees at the univerſities, and their merit was known, and decided. German and Italian pro⯑ductions ſpread over EUROPE, and it became then a poſitive and fixed point, as it has ever ſince re⯑mained, that ITALY was the ſchool for vocal muſic, and Germany the ſchool for inſtrumental muſic.

[174]ENGLAND, in addition to its own native melodies; which, like the minds of its inhabitants, facinate by their open and unaffected manner of appealing to the heart, adopted whatever might ſerve to aſſiſt muſic from foreign aid; and it has ever been a rule with all real muſical judges, that the vocal muſic of this country has received advantage from the Italian ſchool, and the inſtrumental from the German, and that whenever the contrary has been attempted, which has happened but too often, to the creation of ſchiſms and controverſies out of number, taſte has been vi⯑tiated, and nature and the heart have been ſacrificed at the ſhrine of affectation and caprice.

The works of ARON, RAMIS, AGRICOLA, and other German writers, have dived into all the perplexity of harmony. AGRICOLA, in particular, ſo loſt himſelf in his own labyrinth, that, in the re⯑publication of his famous work, called Muſica In⯑ſtrumentales, he confeſſes to a friend that the firſt edition was ſo difficult to be underſtood, that few could read it to any advantage, and yet this author is ſaid to have written for young beginners. He would not, however, have apologized to his friend if he had lived in theſe times; for the practice ſtill prevails, and young beginners are ſet down to ſtudy what nobody can underſtand without any apo⯑logy [175] at all; but the beſt part of the ſtory is that this abſtruſe treatiſe, publiſhed for the uſe of young be⯑ginners, which the author confeſſes that few could underſtand, is written in verſe. It is a pity, while he was about it, but he had ſet it to muſic, and ſo joined impoſſible precept with impracticable example.

The Italians, who were celebrated in the ſix⯑teenth century, have left behind them ſeveral works of conſiderable reputation. ZARLINO, PALES⯑TRINA, MARENZIO, NANINO, and ANERIO are among this number; and, to ſhew that the faſcinating power of muſic can level all diſtinctions, the Prince DI VENOSA was muſical rival and compe⯑titor to SETHUS CALVISIUS, the ſon of a peaſant. SALINAS and MORALES, though both Spaniards, as they knew nothing but what they imbibed from the Italian ſchool, ought, properly ſpeaking, to be claſſed with the Italian writers.

ZARLINO, who was born in 1540, was intended by his parents for ſome learned profeſſion, and by nature for any ſtudy of which the human mind is capable; but muſic bounded his ambition. He was maeſtro di capella of St. MARK's Church, and com⯑poſed ſeveral celebrated things, and in particular the rejoicings at VENICE upon the defeat of the Turks at LEPANTO.

[176]By having poſſeſſed much good ſenſe and treaſured up a fund of general knowledge, ZAR⯑LINO feit himſelf more competent to ſpeak on the ſubject of muſic than any writer of his time, and this is clearly proved by what he has given to the world, for he has entered into no pityful contro⯑verſies but gone at large into his theme. He at once traces muſic back to the Greeks, and from the Greeks to nature its original parent; and thus, while he ſhews as much competency to argue as BOETIUS, and all the other Latin and Italian writers, he adds arguments of his own to ſhew that the dig⯑nity of muſic is derived from its ſimplicity.

GALILEI the pupil ſo ZARLINO, ſet himſelf up againſt his maſter, calling him the corrupter of muſic, and ZARLINO anſwered GALILEI in a ſtrain of cool irony, in which he calls him his loving diſciple. The queſtion in diſpute was concerning the diviſion of tones, which it would be both improper and un⯑neceſſary to explain here. The eſſence of the ar⯑gument was that ZARLINO was an advocate for nature and his pupil for art and it is remarkable that the partizans on each ſide have ſettled the queſtion in favour of muſic and ZARLINO, one by the ſtrength and the other by the weakneſs of their ar⯑guments, the firſt of which has obtained to this day, and the latter long ſunk into oblivion.

[177]SALINAS, whoſe ſoul was muſic, wrote very warmly on his favourite theme. The misfortune is that muſic is ſo extenſive an expreſſion that you may apply it to any thing; and thus, by ſtretching the qualities it really poſſeſſes, its admirers, out of zeal, attempt to fit them to what they cannot embrace; thus, at length, they quit muſic for proportion, and at laſt, proportion for calculation, ſo that ſound, with⯑out which there cannot be muſic, is put out of the queſtion, and the argument becomes a mere wrangle upon paper.

SALINAS was blind, and he gives this as the reaſon for devoting himſelf to muſic. His own words are, ‘"From my very infancy I devoted myſelf to to the ſtudy of muſic; for, as I had ſucked in blindneſs from the infected milk of my nurſe, and there remaining not the leaſt hope that I ſhould ever recover my ſight, my parents could think of no employment ſo proper for me as that which was now ſuitable to my ſituation, as the learning neceſſary for it might be acquired by the ſenſe of hearing, that other beſt ſervant of a ſoul endued with reaſon."’

PALESTRINA took a likely career to become a good muſician, not for ſcholars, but for the world; [178] for he ſtudied under a ſinger in the pontifical chapel, who eſtabliſhed a ſchool for vocal muſic, and thus having originally imbibed melody, he made it the ground work of all his ſtudies.

‘"This great genius,"’ ſays an Italian author, ‘"guided by a peculiar faculty, the gift of GOD, adopted a ſtyle of harmony ſo elegant, ſo noble, ſo learned, ſo eaſy, and ſo pleaſing, both to the connoiſeur and the ignorant, that in a maſs, com⯑compoſed on purpoſe, ſung before Pope MAR⯑CELLUS CERVINUS, and the ſacred college of cardinals, he made that pontiff alter the intention he had of enforcing the bull of JOHN the twenty-ſecond, which aboliſhed entirely church muſic, under the penalty of excommunication. This ingenious man, by his aſtoniſhing ſkill, and the di⯑vine melody of that maſs, was appointed by PAUL the fourth, perpetual compoſer and director in the pontifical chapel; a dignity which has been vacant ever ſince his death. This maſs was now and ever will be performed as long as there is a world in the ſacred temples at ROME, and at all other places where they have been ſo fortu⯑nate as to procure the compoſitions of ſuch a wonderful genius, whoſe works breathe divine harmony, and enable us to ſing in a ſtyle ſo truly ſublime the praiſes of our maker."’

[179]PALESTRINA no doubt carried into better ef⯑fect the idea of ZARLINO, taking ſimplicity and nature for his guide; and I think there can be but little doubt that from this period the Italian and German ſchools adopted the ſtudies which have ſince ſeparately diſtinguiſhed them, PALESTRINA having in his works cured the Italians of obſtruſeneſs by expoſing the corrupt errors of the Germans, who having little genius ſubſtituted art for nature, and they, conſcious of their inability, having quietly ac⯑quieſced in the deciſion, and contented themſelves with phlegmatic harmonies, ſquared and calculated, diveſted of melody, and, therefore, like a body without a ſoul, while rich melody and the ſimple and dignified harmony that naturally belongs to it marked the productions of the Italians.

NANINO, was a fellow ſtudent of PALESTRI⯑NA. They between them eſtabliſhed a ſchool for the ſtudy of muſic, which was frequented by many eminent profeſſors, and particularly by a younger brother of NANINO, who diſtinguiſhed himſelf as a wonderful genius, NANINO, the elder, publiſhed ſome very fine madrigals.

ANERIO, a diſciple of NANINO, was the imme⯑diate ſucceſſor of PALESTRINA as compoſer to the pontifical chapel, the office of director having died [180] with its excluſive poſſeſſor. His profeſſional cha⯑racter ſtood very high, and he as well as VELETTRI, PONTIO, VECCHI, and others, produced many mu⯑ſical compoſitions of great celebrity.

But of all the Italian compoſers in the ſixteenth century, MARENZIO is moſt generally known to us, many of whoſe madrigals were adapted to Engliſh words, and publiſhed by THOMAS WATSON in 1589, in a work called Muſica Tranſalpina; among theſe are ‘"Farewell cruel and unkind,"’ ‘"What doth my pretty darling,"’ ‘"Sweet ſinging AMA⯑RYLLIS,"’ and ‘"I muſt depart all hapleſs."’ With MARENZIO I ſhall finiſh this ſummary account of the Italian and German ſchools, although there are are more than ninety other names behind of much celebrity.

It is remarkable, that except ITALY, GERMANY, FLANDERS, and ENGLAND, muſic had made no conſiderable progreſs in the ſixteenth century. SPAIN had produced only MORALES and SALINAS, and theſe were fairly of the Italian ſchool, and in FRANCE we hear of De PREZ, MOUTON, CRE⯑QUILLON, and CLAUDE, but nothing is known of them worthy of being recorded.

In ENGLAND, TYE, BIRD, BULL, and DOW⯑LAND, [181] were long in ſuch high eſtimation that it has been contended they were equal to the beſt muſi⯑cians of any country. MARBECK, however, was the earlieſt of the Engliſh compoſers of any conſi⯑derable eminence; who, after having narrowly eſ⯑caped the ſtake for hereſy, or according to FOX, after having actually ſuffered, he became indeſati⯑gable to reform muſic with religion. Indeed the cathedral muſical ſervice of the Church of England was originally framed by MARBECK, and the notes of the preces, ſuffrages, and reſponſes, as they are at this day, were of his compoſition.

TYE was brought up in the Chapel Royal, and muſical preceptor to the children of HENRY the eighth. He was a man of learning; and, after taking the degree of Doctor in Muſic at CAM⯑BRIDGE, was incorporated a member of the Uni⯑verſity of OXFORD. He was afterwards organiſt to the Chapel Royal of ELIZABETH, and was the firſt who compoſed anthems.

This was occaſioned by a kind of accident. He ſet the Acts of the Apoſtles to muſic; but, the ſub⯑ject being principally narrative and relation, it clearly had nothing to do with muſic, and, therefore, did not ſucceed. Correcting his error, he then turned his thoughts to ſuch words in ſcripture as [182] might anſwer his purpoſe; and, recollecting that the Pſalms of DAVID are full of that thankſgiving, and that ebullition of the heart which muſic is ſo parti⯑cularly calculated to expreſs, he made ſome eſſays in this way, which were not only received with great encomiums by their hearers, but they have ſerved ever ſince as a model for the imitation of compoſers in that ſtyle.

WOOD, ſpeaking of TYE, ſays his muſic was an⯑tiquated and of very little value; but BOYCE, with the true liberality of a real genius, refutes this calumny in the beſt poſſible way by publiſhing one of his anthems, ‘"I will exalt thee,"’ which for melody, harmony, expreſſion, contrivance, and general effect, is a perfect model of church compoſition.

TALLIS followed TYE. He compoſed wholly for the church; indeed he has been called the fa⯑ther of the cathedral ſtyle, and conſidered by ſome as a better compoſer than PALESTRINA; who, as we have ſeen, was his cotemporary. This, however, muſt not be allowed. No man could be more original than TALLIS, as we are told; but this is not the proper expreſſion, unleſs originality may be defined an improvement on the labours of others, for TALLIS built his muſic upon the foundation of [183] the old Engliſh cathedral compoſers, and the Ger⯑mans, all of whom he excelled; but this cannot be conſidered as that ſort of originality which PALES⯑TRINA's biographer properly calls the gift of GOD; and thus it is that while TALLIS was loſt in the an⯑cient modes, deſignated by EUCLID and PTOLEMY, which are now exploded, PALESTRINA was inſpired with the melody of nature which will laſt for ever.

BIRD, in the earlier part of his life wholly com⯑poſed church muſic; but, when madrigals became to be ſo greatly in vogue that no perſon was eſteemed faſhionable who could not take a part in them at ſight^*, he conformed to the taſte of the times. To confirm this the firſt of his publi⯑cations was called, ‘"Pſalms, Songs, and Sonets of Sadneſs and Piety,"’ and his laſt, ‘"Songs and Sonets, ſome ſolemne, others joyful, formed to the Life of the Words."’

[184]Beſides madrigals and merry ſonnets, BIRD ſeems to have been the firſt who compoſed leſſons for the virginals, which conſiſted of nothing more than variations on well known country dances; ſo that the modern practice of compoſers who adopt the melodies of others becauſe they have no invention themſelves, have done nothing new in palming this ſecond hand ware upon their ſcholars.

It was meritorious enough, however, in BIRD, for his buſineſs at that early time was to bring ſimple melodies into faſhion, and thus we ſee ladies of quality patronizing familiar muſic, till by and by it grew ſo ſimplified that many of thoſe beautiful airs which we now admire in the Beggars Opera, fixed the criterion of the Engliſh taſte.

In a collection of theſe leſſons, which were de⯑dicated to lady NEVILLE, and compoſed for her uſe, and which we are told, though produced at that early period, are very difficult to execute, he has rung the changes on ‘"St. Leger,"’ or as it is com⯑monly called, ‘"Sellenger's Round,"’ ‘"Have with you to Walſingham,"’ ‘"The World runs on Wheels,"’ ‘Packington Pound,"’ and ſome others; all which together with his two celebrated ma⯑drigals, ‘"La Verginella e Simile un Roſa,"’ and ‘"This ſweet and merry month of May,"’ ſhew that [185] BIRD muſt have done a great deal towards poliſhing the general taſte for muſic.

After all, however, church muſic and works of the learned caſt were principally the favourite ſtudy of BIRD; though, except in a few inſtances, poſterity will have more obligations to him for his lighter compoſitions, notwithſtanding many learned opinions to the contrary. His ſervice which, with a diligence honourable to himſelf and his profeſſion, was pre⯑ſerved by BOYCE, and ſome other compoſitions are greatly creditable to this compoſer.

But the production that has eſtabliſhed the re⯑putation of BIRD, I hope, upon a right foundation, is the famous Canon, ‘"Non nobis Domine."’ The Italians poſitively ſay that it is the compoſition of PALESTRINA; it is allowed on all hands that it has been long depoſited in the Vatican Library, and thoſe who argue on this ſide of the queſtion main⯑tain their poſition by ſaying that the ſubject was wrought into a concerto and publiſhed at AMSTER⯑DAM by CARLO RICCIOTTI, with a note mention⯑ing that the fugue is taken from a Canon of PALES⯑TRINA. Now, unfortunately, this concerto is extant and the fugue is worked from Non nobis Domine; and, if the general ideas of an ingenious man may [186] be adduced as evidence in his favour, the compo⯑ſition of PALESTRINA beginning ‘"Sicut cervus deſiderat,"’ and the canon in queſtion ſeem to have emanated from the ſame mind.

On the ſide of BIRD it is argued that HILTON has poſitively publiſhed this canon as his, and Dr. PEPUSCH, whoſe reſearches certainly were very di⯑ligent and uſeful, has aſcribed it to him in a very unqualified manner, and beſides this, collateral proof has been brought that it was the natural bent of BIRD's diſpoſition, and that, though he did now and then make variations upon country dances to oblige lady NEVILLE, church muſic and compoſitions of the more ſerious kind were his beſt delight, and what he was moſt qualified for. They are, how⯑ever, obliged to allow that it was never publiſhed in any of his works; which, as it is ſo admirable a compoſition is not only unfortunate but rather ex⯑traordinary, and thus it remains a moot point whe⯑ther BIRD or PALESTRINA was the compoſer of Non nobis Domine.

I ſhall next mention FERABOSCO; who, though of Italian parents, was born in ENGLAND. MOR⯑LEY ſpeaks very highly of his merit and ſays that he and BIRD had many friendly trials of ſkill in muſic. In two inſtances FERABOSCO bore away the palm, [187] one of theſe begins with the words, ‘"The nightin⯑gale ſo pleaſant and ſo gay,"’ and the other, ‘"I ſaw my lady weeping."’

Indeed Engliſh muſic has many obligations to this man, his ſon, and another of his family. Many of our beſt melodies which PEPUSH ſo judiciouſly ſelected for the Beggars Opera are ſuppoſed to have ariſen from that ſource, and thoſe in the minuet ſtyle in particular have ſo ſimple and pure an ele⯑gance, that as long as there is a world, as PALES⯑TRINA's panegyriſt ſays, that world will be delighted with them.

BLITHEMAN, whom STOW in his ſurvey not only has thought it worth his while to mention by name, but of whom he has printed the epitaph at length, was alſo celebrated at this time, but more as a teacher than a compoſer. The whiteſt feather, however, in his wing was his being preceptor to Dr. BULL, whoſe chriſtian name, by the bye, was JOHN, He was a celebrated muſician admitted firſt as Bachelor of Muſic at OXFORD, afterwards as Doc⯑tor at CAMBRIDGE, and, at length, appointed or⯑ganiſt of the Queen's Chapel.

BULL was the firſt Greſham profeſſor of muſic; being, however, as his chriſtian name beſpeaks him [188] a plain Engliſhman, he was unable to read his lec⯑tures in Latin. The queen, therefore, gave him an eſpecial permiſſion to deliver them in Engliſh, for which ſhe has been ridiculed under an abſurd idea that if he did not know Latin he could not know muſic.

JOHN, ſtill like a true Engliſhman, travelled for improvement; and, having heard of a famous mu⯑ſician at St. OMER's, he placed himſelf under him as a novice, but he ſoon found, as is generally the truth in ſuch caſes, that he knew more than his maſter. Among other proofs of this, the muſician ſhewed him a ſong that he had compoſed in forty parts, telling him at the ſame time that he would defy all the world to produce any perſon capable of adding another part to his compoſition. BULL de⯑ſired to be left alone and to be indulged for a ſhort time with pen and ink, and in leſs than three hours added forty parts more to this ſong, upon which the Frenchman ſwore in a great extacy that he muſt be either the Devil or JOHN BULL.

Whether the muſician had heard of the ſtory of ERASMUS and Sir THOMAS MORE, or whether as it has happened in many other caſes he felt the influ⯑ence of JOHN BULL's ſuperiority, has not exactly been aſcertained, but the hiſtorian inſiſts that, though [189] a prieſt, upon BULL's making himſelf known, he actually fell down and adored him.

DOWLAND, of whom SHAKESPEAR ſpeaks in one of his poems, was a good compoſer, and a fa⯑mous player on the lute. He was a great traveller, and his paſſion being muſic, he brought back the taſte of other countries into this, and thus added ſome variety to the lighter compoſitions which were then the delight of all ſocieties.

PETER PHILIPS who becauſe he ſtudied abroad italianized his name into PIETRO PHILIPPI, was conſidered as an admirable muſician. He certainly improved the Engliſh taſte by ſending over airs from ITALY. Indeed ENGLAND was greatly obliged to theſe ramblers, for by importing now and then a little of the Italian taſte they better guarded their countrymen againſt the incurſions of the Germans, whoſe arithmetical muſic ſometimes gained ground, to the corruption of that truth and nature which in this country was at that time really felt and underſtood.

MORLEY, who was a pupil of BIRD, wrote a treatiſe on muſic through which we get a good deal at the profeſſors and admirers of that art, and their abilities and taſte. It is written dialogue-wiſe; and [190] in the courſe of the converſations between the in⯑terlocutors, many particulars occur relative to the times, which clearly ſhew the merit of muſic and the eſtimation it was then held in.

MORLEY intends this treatiſe for reproof as well as inſtruction; for, knowing the inconvenience of ſtudying ſcientifically as it is called, how much it bewilders the imagination, and makes that a toil which only ought to be a pleaſure, he warns his ſcholars againſt venturing too far. ‘"What would you learn?"’ Says the maſter. The ſcholar ſays he has heard a friend of his who is the beſt deſcanter in the world, and begs he may be taught deſcant. The maſter anſwers that it will require time and pa⯑tience, that the word is hardly defined, and, in ſhort, does what he can to diſſuade him from it, but to no purpoſe; deſcant was the foppery of muſic then, juſt as cadence and the falcetto are now, and nothing will ſatisfy the ſcholar but deſcant.

What occaſioned this treatiſe was the madrigal, which was held in ſuch eſtimation that it was a reproach, as we have ſeen before, not to know how to take a part in it. Cards, and games of chance, were at that time totally unknown; and, without reproach to the preſent day, muſic was certainly a very inoffenſive ſubſtitute at leaſt. Thus innu⯑merable [191] collections of theſe madrigals were given to the world by their reſpective authors, and this emulation, in the very way that was likely to make muſic generally known and admired, fixed its reputation.

MORLEY is very properly ſevere on all thoſe innovators who, conſcious of their own ignorance, endeavour to prevent the true and natural operation of muſic. ‘"Thus they go on,"’ ſays he, giving true definitions and falſe examples; the example ſtill ‘"importing the contrary to that which was ſaid in the definition. But this is the world; every one will take upon him to write and teach others, none having more need of teaching than himſelf."’ He finiſhes his treatiſe with an account of thirty-nine different compoſers, who had flouriſhed before and at the time of the reformation.

After theſe which I have mentioned, followed other muſicians of eminence. BATHE wrote a trea⯑tiſe in which he did good towards the meaſurement of muſic. WEEKES and MUNDY compoſed man⯑drigals which are yet known. FARNABY was a compoſer of ſome credit, and MILTON, the father of our celebrated epic poet, was from nature a mu⯑ſician. There are many things extant of his com⯑poſition; among the reſt the celebrated pſalm tune [192] called ‘"The York,"’ the melody of which is ſo well known that ‘"half the nurſes in the kingdom,"’ ſays an author, ‘"have conſtantly uſed it as a lullaby, and the chimes of many country churches have played it from time immemorial."’

BATESON, WYLBIE, BENNET, FARMER, and about thirteen others, alſo compoſed and publiſhed madrigals, at the head of which ſet ought to be placed ORLANDO GIBBONS, and MICHAEL ESTE, whoſe particular merits may be reſorted to by a peruſal of ſeveral collections of madrigals, and in particular ‘"The Triumphs of Oriana,"’ which was publiſhed in 1601.

CHAP. XI. SCOTCH AND IRISH MUSIC.

HAVING ſo far digreſſed to ſpeak of Engliſh muſic, I ſhall, I hope, be pardoned if I take this opportu⯑nity of ſaying ſomething on the ſubject of Scotch and Iriſh muſic, in which I ſhall take up, as briefly as poſſible, ſome of theſe arguments which have been held out with a view to aſcertain their origin, and add the beſt conjectures I have been able myſelf to form on the ſubject.

The common opinion as to the muſic of SCOT⯑LAND is that it was brought over from ITALY by RIZZIO. This cannot be altogether true, and yet I can ſee nothing to convince me that it is alto⯑gether falſe. Thoſe who write in favour of this ar⯑gument ſay that RIZZIO, being retained in the ſer⯑vice of the unfortunate MARY as a muſician, and finding the muſic of the country capable of improve⯑ment he ſet himſelf down to give it poliſh and re⯑finement, [194] keeping ſtill in view, as far as he could, without trenching on the rules of art, that imme⯑thodical and crude melody which he found in the country.

Againſt this it has been urged that the authority for the above aſſertion reſts merely on tradition, and that there is much written proof to refute it; that Sir JAMES MELVIL, who knew RIZZIO per⯑ſonally, ſays he was nothing more than a merry fel⯑low and a good muſician; that he was drawn in ſometimes to ſing with the valets of the queen, and on that account, when her French ſecretary retired to FRANCE, RIZZIO was appointed ſecretary in his place.

MELVIL is obliged to allow however that RIZZIO engroſſed the favour of the queen, that he was ſuſ⯑pected of being a penſioner to the Pope, and that by the part he took in all public tranſactions he gave riſe to the troubles of SCOTLAND, and preci⯑pitated the ruin of his miſtreſs.

BUCHANAN confirms all this, and indeed goes more at large into the ſubject; and, from theſe premiſes it is inferred that the ambitious and intriguing ſpirit of RIZZIO left him neither inclination nor opportunity for ſtudy, and, therefore, that it was very unlikely [195] he ſhould attempt a reformation or improvement of the Scotch muſic, eſpecially as he had only two years to perform the taſk in.

To anſwer theſe arguments, as far as they have gone, it muſt be confeſſed there is nothing yet ad⯑vanced to ſhew that RIZZIO did not improve the muſic of SCOTLAND. If MELVIL, who ſpeaking of his ſuperficial character, finds him only a merry fellow and a good muſician is obliged to allow that he had this intriguing ſpirit, that he was a penſioner of the Pope, and that he, in great meaſure, occa⯑ſioned the troubles of SCOTLAND, is it very un⯑likely that his command over the queen aroſe from the opportunities he had of adminiſtering to her plea⯑ſures, one of which was muſic? BUCHANAN ſays, that he became abſorbed in the intrigues of the court, and roſe to the higheſt degree of favour and confidence, in the management of which power he behaved with ſuch arrogance and contempt, as to render himſelf odious to all about him.

During all this time, however, we do not find that he quitted his favourite lure, which little agreed with favour, confidence, and power. He was ſtill a ſinger of madrigals and Scotch ſongs, and he was even at this employment when he was dragged from the queen and aſſaſinated.

[196]But to go further with this examination. It is inſiſted on that the origin of the Scotch melodies are to be derived from a higher ſource than RIZZIO without having recourſe to the Italians at all. I ſhall tread this ground a little, though I fancy we ſhall not find it very firm for the firſt poſition in which we ſhall be obliged to ſtand will be rather awkward, and what's worſe dangerous.

We are told to believe an Italian writer who roundly aſſerts that ſome of the fineſt vocal muſic this country can boaſt of owes its merit, in a great meaſure to its affinity with that of Scotland. He might have added, and vice verſa, becauſe none but exotic beauties are ever tranſplanted. This argu⯑ment is ſuſtained by a relation that JOHN, the arch⯑chanter from ROME, ſettled among the Northum⯑brians, and the propenſity of that people to muſic, whoſe ſequeſtered ſituation, and the little intercourſe they muſt be ſuppoſed to have held with the ad⯑jacent countries, will account for a ſtyle of muſic perfectly original, and which might, in proceſs of time, extend itſelf to the neighbouring kingdom.

Thus an Italian archchanter, who never in his life had heard a note of Scotch muſic, comes midway be⯑tween ENGLAND and SCOTLAND, delights the ſe⯑queſtered inhabitants with a new kind of muſic he [197] had brought with him, Italian of courſe, and we are deſired from this very clear account, given alſo by an Italian, to believe that not only the muſic he taught was natively Scotch, but that it ſpread itſelf into ENGLAND, and improved the muſic there.

The real fact is evident and ſtares us in the face. This archchanter to whom both nations are very much obliged, perfect in the principles of ZAR⯑LINO and PALESTRINO. improved both the native melodies of the Engliſh and the Scotch, which ſufficiently required it, and which could not take a brighter poliſh than from the Italian ſchool.

A higher and more rational authority makes JAMES STUART, the firſt of his name, and the hun⯑dred and ſecond in the liſt of the kings of SCOT⯑LAND, author and compoſer of Scotch ſongs. BUCHANAN ſays that he was ſkilled in muſic more than was neceſſary or fitting for a king, for there was no inſtrument on which he could not play ſo well as to contend with the greateſt maſters of the art in thoſe days.

That JAMES was a poet is univerſally agreed; and, among many other authorities, ALESSANDRO TASSONI has this paſſage in a work of his upon various ſubjects. ‘"We may reckon among the [198] modern muſicians JAMES, king of SCOTLAND, who not only compoſed ſacred poems ſet to muſic, but alſo of himſelf invented a new melancholy and plaintive kind of muſic different from all other; in which he has been imitated by CARLO GESUALDO, prince of VENOSA, who in theſe our times has improved muſic with new and ad⯑mirable compoſitions."’

Now here is fairly a reciprocal intercourſe be⯑tween the Scotch and the Italian muſic, even back to the middle of the fifteenth century, when this poliſhed king could not be unknown to the family of ME⯑DICIS, or they to him. What does all this ſay, but that muſic, as well as every other ſtudy is originally vernacular every where but, like intelligence of every kind, it acquires perfection by intercourſe.

JAMES did not invent Scotch muſic, nor did the archchanter, nor did RIZZIO, that is to ſay, the muſic which we at this moment call Scotch. The original muſic in SCOTLAND has been ſimply but practically defined by every maſter who has, by way of a trick, taught his ſcholar to hop over the ſharps and the ſlats of a harpſichord. The accidental wildneſs with which this experiment impreſſes you I have no doubt gives a tolerably correct idea of the ſtate of the Scotch muſic as it was found by JAMES; [199] who, having natural taſte, and an intercourſe with courts, refined it in ſome degree. After him comes JOHN, the archchanter, who rubs off a few more of the hardneſſes, and, at length, RIZZIO, who was an Italian muſician, and the ſon of an Italian muſician, and he adds a new foreign poliſh in compliment to a queen who loved every thing that was foreign, and who was at that moment intriguing with foreign courts.

Thus I come to my firſt poſition, that the aſ⯑ſertion of RIZZIO's have brought what is called Scotch muſic from Italy is not altogether true, nor altogether falſe. The tunes which are beſt acknow⯑ledged and moſt admired are clearly a mixture of Scotch and Italian. Have ‘"Tweed Side,"’ or ‘"Laſs of Patie's Mill,"’ any thing in them of ſkipping from ſharps to flats? Nothing at all. They are ſimple, beautiful, flowing melodies that, though grounded on the Scotch character, are treated in the Italian ſtyle, which has benefited muſic all over the world, and will be ever the regulation for elegance in the hands of compoſers, but of thoſe alone, who know to make uſe of Italian principles and not deſtroy the native character of muſic in their own country.

As to the Iriſh muſic, there is no doubt but its [100] native wildneſs has been in the ſame manner cor⯑rected by the introduction of Italian improvement, which it ſeems to receive in even a more congenial manner than the Scotch. ‘"Lango Lee,"’ and ‘"The Dargle,"’ are, as melodies, perhaps, equal to any thing in the world, but no one will aſſert that any thing ſo beautifully perfect, ſo ſatisfactory to the mind, can poſſibly be natively Iriſh, crude and indigeſted; yet the Iriſh character is ſo evident that without it all the true beauty of the air would be loſt.

It would be extremely eaſy to ſhew, by inſtancing a number of airs, how the Engliſh and Scotch ſtyle have been mixed together, the Scotch and Iriſh, the Iriſh and the Engliſh, and ſometimes all three, and with the ſame facility might it be made evident that the Italian ſtyle has pervaded them all, but the attempt has hardly ever been undertaken by any man of real genius.

Thus having, by way of illuſtrating my primary ſubject, a treſpaſs for which I hope I ſhall be par⯑doned, ſhewn the ſtate of the arts in ENGLAND at the death of ELIZABETH; when ſcience, com⯑merce, and legiſlation, were at their higheſt pitch of grandeur, when divinity borrowed luſtre from toleration, when law underwent regulation, when [201] hiſtory adopted perſpicuity, when poetry was the reſult of genius, when philoſophy acquired ſubli⯑mity, when painting fled to ENGLAND as to an aſylum, and muſic humbly tendered its mite to make up this weight of perfection; in ſhort, when ſuch men as BACON, SHAKESPEAR, SPENCER, COKE, and RALEIGH, dignified their country; I ſhall next proceed to ſhew how far this accumu⯑lation of extraordinary talents ſerved for an ex⯑ample to dramatic writers in the ſucceeding reign.

CHAP. I. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

HAVING ſeen how completely SHAKESPEAR ſoared above all competition while he had only JONSON, CHAPMAN, MARLOE, MARSTON, and the reſt to encounter in the reign of ELIZABETH, let us ſee how well he kept his ground, when in addition to theſe, he had to cope with BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, MASSINGER, and other authors, who were candidates for dramatic fame during thirteen years of the reign of JAMES the firſt, at the end of which time the world had the misfortune to loſe our incomparable bard; a calamity which would have been irreparable had not poſterity lain its proud claim to his wonderful productions.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, with many fair pretenſions to theatrical reputation, never could [204] fix a foundation ſolid enough to eſtabliſh that ſort of fame which commands legitimate ſuffiage upon the ſpot, and challenges the award of poſterity. They were rather amateurs than writers, rather gen⯑tlemen than profeſſors; yet has the ſtage many ob⯑ligations to them which ſhall be faithfully enu⯑merated.

BEAUMONT, who was well born and educated, was certainly a man of great talents and ſound judgment; which, however, would have been more manifeſt in his works had not his career been all ſpeed without reſt. He died in 1615, a year be⯑fore the world loſt SHAKESPEAR, at which time he had not attained his thirtieth year, and yet between 1607 and that time, a ſpace of only eight years, he was concerned, as we are told, with FLETCHER in fifty-three plays.

FLETCHER was alſo well born and educated. He was ten years older than BEAUMONT, and lived ten years longer, but he does not ſeem to have written any thing material either before or after his literary connection with that gentleman; for, in all we know of the works of theſe partners in fame, only a ſingle piece was written by each, that by BEAUMONT was called The Maſque of Grays Inn, and that by FLETCHER, The Faithfull Shepherdeſs.

[205]The ſhare each took in their joint labours has been pretty well aſcertained. BEAUMONT, who though the youngeſt man had the ſoundeſt judgment, formed and digeſted the plots, wrote the more in⯑tereſting and ſerious parts, and pruned the lux⯑uriancies, of which there ſeems to have been ſuffi⯑cient need, for even at this moment when a revival of one of their plays is attempted it is obliged to be cut, even to mutilation^*.

Taken as dramatic productions, the works of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER can only be conſidered as having a partial claim to reputation. They have ſtrong particular merit, but, taking them altogether, there is ſcarcely a play but is extravagant, wild, and ill managed. Moſt of the plots are Spaniſh, and ſeems as if they thought that when they had lopped off part of the luxuriance of Lopez de Vega, they had done enough, whereas they ſhould not have left [206] a twig, but have let the new ſhoots have gained their ſtrength by ſpringing at once from the ſtock.

This, however, was not the caſe. FLETCHER not only added to the extravagance of the Spaniard wild and excentric wit of his own, but perpetually tinctured it with obſcenity, and the operation has been, that, whenever the manners at any period ſince that time have been looſe and profligate, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER have been the reigning favourites, witneſs the eſtimation in which they were held in the reign of CHARLES the ſecond, when, an indelible diſgrace to that monarch and his court, they obtained even to the excluſion of SHAKES⯑PEAR. But let us take a curſory review of their works.

The Woman Hater, a comedy which appeared in 1607, is a play of ſome merit, it is ſtrange that two writers ſhould ſtart with a piece the principal cha⯑racter in which, if it is not, ought to be out of na⯑ture. BEAUMONT is ſuppoſed to have been almoſt wholly the author of this production. It was pretty ſucceſsful, both when it came out and afterwards when it was revived by ſir WILLIAM DAVENANT.

The Knight of the burning Peſtle, a ſtrange play which has ſome beauties and a thouſand defects, [207] was produced in 1611. Its grand fault is, that, like JONSON Every Man out of his Humour, it was con⯑veyed to the audience through the medium of a grex. This play was revived after the reſtoration with a new prologue ſpoken by NEL GWYN, at which time licentiouſneſs was a ſtrong recommen⯑dation to public favour, but it had never any ma⯑terial ſucceſs.

Cupid's Revenge, a tragedy, performed by the Children of the Revels, contained ſome very good poetry, but the plot and machinery were ſo ab⯑ſurd and ridiculous that it had but very indifferent ſucceſs.

The Scornful Lady, a comedy brought out in 1616, is a production of ſome merit, and has more regularity than is generally found in the plays of theſe authors. There is ſomething, however, very inartificial in the management of the plot, and parti⯑cularly the converſion of MORECRAFT the uſurer, which is certainly forced and unnatural.

King and no King, a tragedy, performed in 1619, has been variouſly criticiſed. RYMER has handled it very ſeverely, for which, taking it altogether as a play, he had but too much reaſon. DRYDEN has been, however, leſs harſh; and, indeed the general [208] objections againſt the plays of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, being the extraneous matter and hu⯑mour introduced into their plots, and the licentiouſ⯑neſs of their wit, which DRYDEN, was obliged a good deal to conform to, might occaſion him to be as merciful as poſſible, and to ſeperate the moraliſt from the critic, leſt in caſtigating them he ſhould whip himſelf; while RYMER, who was bound by no ſuch conſideration, reprobated what was unworthy without heſitation.

The Maid's Tragedy, produced in 1622. Its ſucceſs both then and ſince has been reputable. It has, however, ſo much of that extravagance and ir⯑regularity for which theſe authors are remarkable, that it has been a ſtranger to the ſtage for many years.

Thierry and Theodoret, performed in 1621. This is one of theſe hetrogeneous compoſitions of which there are too many in the works of theſe authors. It has ten blemiſhes for one beauty, and upon the whole is poorly conſtructed, and but indifferently written.

Philaſter. This tragedy came out in 1622, and added conſiderably to the reputation of theſe au⯑thors. Indeed it has always been juſtly eſteemed [209] a work of conſiderable merit, and by many has been thought the beſt in all the catalogue of their works. On this account it has been revived, with alterations by the bye, at various periods. DRYDEN wrote a prologue when it was performed wholly by women at Lincoln Inn Fields, and SETTLE re-wrote the two laſt acts and brought it out in 1695. But the beſt opportunity Philaſter had for fame and ſucceſs was when COLMAN altered it to bring forward POWELL and Mrs. YATES, the particulars of which we ſhall hereafter go into. With all theſe advantages, how⯑ever, Philaſter, from its own merit, has never been able to keep the ſtage for reaſons of a piece with all the reſt, becauſe it is full of beauties and defects, becauſe there is not one regular ſimple grand in⯑tereſt excited, and becauſe it is ingeniouſly made up of pieces inſtead of being one general whole.

The two Noble Kinſmen. This play is ſaid to have been written by SHAKESPEAR and FLETCHER, a circumſtance which the editor of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER ſeems to be greatly concerned about, probably out of tenderneſs for the reputation of FLETCHER, but he need not have made himſelf in the ſmalleſt degree uneaſy, for the play itſelf ſuffi⯑ciently proves that SHAKESPEAR had no hand in it. [210] Indeed there is not much reputation to be claimed by any body, for the ſtory is CHAUCER's Knights Tale, which we have ſeen already treated by ED⯑WARDS to the great delight of queen ELIZABETH. There is ſomething, however, gaudy and fine in it; and, like moſt of the works of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, it reſembles a parterre appearing ſo full of colours that form, and ſymetry are not once thought of. This play is ſaid to have been originally produced in 1634, an incongruity that is not very eaſily reconcileable, becauſe BEAU⯑MONT died in 1615, and FLETCHER in 1625, and yet it is as difficult to believe that the plays pro⯑duced by theſe aſſociates were performed during the life time of BEAUMONT, or even of FLETCHER, being fifty-three in number, and the term for the performance of them being only eight years in the firſt inſtance, and but eighteen in the laſt. I ſhall ſet down the dates, however, according to the beſt authorities, and theſe I take to be when they were firſt publiſhed, not when they were firſt performed.

The Elder Brother, the date 1637. This play, which is originally Spaniſh, is ſtrangely and wildly treated by BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, and indeed would have ſunk long ago into oblivion had not CIBBER taken it for one of the plots of his Love [211] makes a Man, a play we ſhall hereafter examine. The ground work is good, but the whole merit is due to the original writer.

Monſieur Thomas, the date 1639. Here we have ſome clue to ſet us right as to the time the pieces of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER were performed, but we cannot much rely on any thing we learn of theſe authors, for firſt we are told that they wrote con⯑jointly all the plays publiſhed in their works, except The Maſque of Grays Inn, and The Faithful Shep⯑herdeſs; we are afterward told that they were aſ⯑ſiſted by SHAKESPEAR, by JONSON, by MID⯑DLETON, and other writers, and even this play FLETCHER is ſaid to have written after the death of BEAUMONT. There is nothing, however, in the preſent inſtance worth contending for. It is a very indifferent play, and, though publiſhed with great care by BROOME after FLETCHER's death, who dedicated it to COTTON, a great admirer of the author, and afterwards altered and got up by DURFEY, under the title of Trick for Trick, it never had ſucceſs. My drift is that, as this piece was originally brought out after the death of FLETCHER, ſo very probably many of the other productions were alſo, and this would a good deal invalidate the aſſertion that BEAUMONT was concerned in ſo many [212] of thoſe plays, writing as they did very often for the moment, and being both of them the ſort of character not very likely to lay in a ſtore of ma⯑terials. This conjecture, however, we ſhall have opportunity more cloſely to examine as we go on.

Wit without Money, the date 1639. This co⯑medy, being written with leſs extravagance and cloſer to nature than the pieces of theſe authors in general, it has longer kept the ſtage. There is, how⯑ever, a flimzineſs in it that has always prevented it from being attractive. The comic muſe that pre⯑ſided over the labours of theſe writers ſeems to have been one of thoſe ladies who are for ever either ſad, or in hyſterics. She ſeems to be unac⯑quainted with a ſmile, the reſult of feeling, and the recommendation of the heart, ſhe is either muzzed with a vapid ſimper, or convulſed with a broad grin, and under this influence, when theſe gentlemen have attempted at mere nature, they have not been able to preſerve the milk in its native ſtate; their aſperity having turned it, by which means their hu⯑mour is either hard like the curd, or mawkiſh like the whey. This play is a proof of it, which is well conceived and full of nature, but the circumſtances are not wrought high enough, nor do the characters ſufficiently come out of the canvaſs.

[213] Rollo Duke of Normandy, the date 1640. This tragedy is ſaid to have been received with very great applauſe when it firſt appeared. It has, how⯑ever, been long conſigned to oblivion, and in⯑deed juſtly, for it is a turgid imitation of SENECA and JONSON, without fancy or ſpirit, or, indeed, any thing but heavy, declamatory dialogue, unaſ⯑ſiſted by force or intereſt.

Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, the date 1640. This play is well known, being one of the very few of thoſe written by BEAUMONT and FLETCHER which are now upon the theatrical ſtock liſt; intrin⯑ſically, however, this piece is no great acquiſition to the theatre, and it is at the riſk of a thin houſe that it is ever performed, unleſs bolſtered up with a new LEON, or an ESTIFANIA. The plot of this play though admirably imagined is poorly treated. There is ſomething very well, if it went no further, in re⯑claiming a vain coquette by placing her in the hands of a brave and manly huſband, but MAR⯑GUERETTA is an avowed wanton, whom it would have been a diſgrace to a man of ſuch a deſcription to have married, and after all LEON's claim to theſe noble qualities is very ill grounded, for he is the brother of his wife's waiting maid, and he tricks MARGUERETTE into the marriage by perſonating [214] an idiot, an art which a man of his ſpirit and honour would have diſdained. This has evidently thrown the authors into an unpleaſant predicament towards the end of the play; for, finding it impoſſible to excuſe themſelves naturally, they try to huſh up both the infamy of their heroine, and their own want of judgment in a ſummary way. Thus after MARGUETTA has played a hundred indecent tricks, and endeavoured to make her huſband's houſe a brothel, with all the forgiving good nature in the world, he takes her up and ‘"wears her next his heart."’

The ſcenes of the COPPER CAPTAIN and ESTI⯑FANIA, have a better claim to praiſe. They are highly comic, and the equivoque of the houſe which mixes the epiſode with the main deſign, is the happieſt thing in the piece. It is impoſſible to paſs over this article without uniting ſome degree, of pity with contempt at the fond idea of theſe authors, who in CACCAFOGO imagined they had outdone FALSTAFF.

The Mad Lover. This play as well as Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and all the reſt that will now follow, were collected into an edition and pub⯑liſhed in 1647, ſo that it will be impoſſible to know [215] when they actually made their firſt appearance, nor is it material.

The Mad Lover, which play ſir ASTON COCKAIN has highly commended in a copy of verſes, is never⯑theleſs a work of but mediocre merit, We know but little of its ſucceſs, and, indeed, it does not appear to have been at any time very familiar with the ſtage. It is partly borrowed from Mundus and Paulina in Joſephus.

The Spaniſh Curate. This play is a hetrogeneous jumble in the ſame ſtyle of many others in this col⯑lection. It has been pruned, altered, and amended, and fitted to the ſtage frequently by different au⯑thors, but never with any thing like ſucceſs, and yet there are good materials in it. It is taken from the Don John, and the Spaniſh Curate, of GERARDO.

The Little French Lawyer. This comedy is a mixture of the Spaniſh Rogue, and Don Lewis de Caſtro, and Don Roderigo de Montalva, which SCAR⯑RON has alſo treated in his Fruitleſs Precaution, and the Complaiſant Companion, but this could not have been early enough to have been of any uſe, as ſome imagine, to BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, BEAU⯑MONT having died when SCARRON was only five years old.

[216] The Cuſtom of the Country. This tragic-comedy, as it is called, has aſſiſted other authors but never did any thing for its own. CIBBER uſed part of it for Love makes a Man, and CHARLES JOHNSON formed out of it his Country Laſſes. It is a ſtrange wild thing but full of good materials. Its great fault is obſcenity. DRYDEN ſays in one of his pre⯑faces, by way of anſwer to thoſe who accuſed him of indecency. ‘"There is more baudry in one play of FLETCHER, called the Cuſtom of the Country, than in all ours together; yet this has often been acted on the ſtage in my remembrance."’

CHAP. II. CONTINUATION OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The Noble Gentleman. This comedy was little known till it was revived by DURFEY, under the title of The Three Dukes of Dunſtable, and then it was only ſtirred up to make its ſtench more intolerable. ſir GEORGE ETHERIDGE, in a letter to the duke of BUCKINGHAM, ſays, ‘"By my laſt packet from EN⯑GLAND, among a heap of nauſeous traſh, I re⯑ceived the Three Dukes of Dunſtable, which is really ſo monſtrous and inſipid that I am ſorry LAPLAND, or LIVONIA, had not the honour of producing it; but, if I did pennance in reading it, I rejoice to hear that it was ſolemnly interred to the tune of Cat Calls."’

The Captain, a comedy of very ſlender merit, has been ſometimes attempted on the ſtage, but the effort was always ſo unſucceſsful that it has long been lain by as unfit for ſervice.

[218] Beggar's Buſh. What ſucceſs this play had originally is not known. It was altered and brought out under the title of the Royal Merchant, by NORRIS, the comedian, in 1706, and in that ſtate occaſionally performed. In 1768 it was made into an opera by Mr. HULL, the muſic by Mr. LINLEY. It had no great ſucceſs, but the words and muſic of ſome of the ſongs were again brought forward and introduced into the Camp, an entertainment per⯑formed with great ſucceſs in 1778, and attributed to Mr. SHERIDAN; but, that every bird of Parnaſſus may be allowed his own plumage, the ſongs above mentioned, which were conſidered as indifferently written at Covent Garden in the Royal Merchant, were found admirable afterwards at Drury Lane in the Camp, are not the production of Mr. SHERI⯑DAN, but of Mr. HULL.

The Coxcomb. This comedy may rank with The Captain. Its revival has been attempted but to no purpoſe.

The Falſe One. This tragedy is founded on CLEOPATRA's inconſtancy to JULIUS CAESAR in EGYPT, and taken from SUETONIUS, PLUTARCH, and other authors, who wrote of thoſe times. It has ſome ſtrong writing, but upon the whole it is a bad play.

[219] The Chances. This is a comedy borrowed from The Lady Cornelia of Cervantes, and has been by various authors altered and brought on the theatre. The duke of BUCKINGHAM's alteration was a very judicious one. He kept the hurry and perplexity of the plot much more clear than it had been originally, but after all it has much more to beget curioſity than to create intereſt, and the indelicacy that per⯑vades the piece, and the libertiniſm throughout the whole character of DON JOHN, render it a moſt im⯑proper and reprehenſible ſubject for the ſtage; nor could GARKICK's incomparable performance of this character, though he had again weeded it, ſcarcely juſtify our attention to it.

The Loyal Subject. This tragedy is a poor pro⯑duction. It would not be worth while to examine it, and indeed it has lain ſo long aſleep that it were pity to awake it. The Laws of Candy, a tragi-comedy by theſe authors, has been a great while in the ſame ſituation, and ſo let it remain. The Lover's Progreſs has no better pretenſion to our notice. It is taken from a French romance called Lyſander and Caliſta, written by DAUDIGUIER, and to the ſame peaceful oblivion we may alſo conſign the Iſland Princeſs.

The Humouous Lieutenant. This play has been [220] performed at different times with ſome ſucceſs. The principal part of the plot is taken from PLU⯑TARCH's Life of DEMETRIUS, and the Lieutenant's refuſing to fight after he has been cured of his wounds, i [...] the ſtory of LUCULLUS's ſoldier, related by HORACE. This is a play of that flighty kind which theſe authors ſo frequently produced, and is neither full enough of intereſt or regularity to claim a permanent ſituation in the theatre.

Nice Valour; or the Paſſionate Madman. This comedy is one of the worſt pieces in the whole catalogue.

The Maid in the Mill. This play has been ſometimes revived, but its ſucceſs has never repaid the pains of thoſe who have brought it forward. The plot of ANTONIO ISMENIA, and AMINTA, is borrowed from GIRARDO, and OTRANTE ſeizing FLORIMEL, the ſuppoſed daughter of the miller, is taken from an Italian novel written by BANDELLO, which was afterwards tranſlated into French. There is much good writing in this piece; but there is ſomething ſo radically wrong in its conſtruction that inſtead of mending it, the author, as the chair⯑man ſaid to POPE, ‘"had better had made two new ones."’

[221] The Propheteſs. This tragical hiſtory, as it is called, is founded on the well known ſtory of DIOCIESIAN, to whom it was foretold by a pro⯑pheteſs that he ſhould be emperor of ROME when he ſhould have killed a mighty boar; which pre⯑diction was fulfilled by his putting to death the tyrant APER. This extraordinary production has been brought on the ſtage in a variety of ſhapes, and in particular in the form of an opera by BET⯑TERTON, in 1690, embelliſhed by PURCELL's mu⯑ſic; but it has always been ſound ſo undramatic, and ſo little intereſting, that upon theſe occaſions all the expence has been thrown away.

Bonduca. This queen of ICENE, who was indiffer⯑ently called by hiſtorians BONDUCA, or BOADICEA, has been frequently the ſubject of a play. This of BEAUMONT and PLETCHER is the earlieſt and upon the whole the beſt; for it is full of pithy, nervous writing and good intereſt, the misfortunes of that ill fated princeſs being remarkably touching and well calculated for the ſtage. It, however, has never done any thing material, even when it has been ju⯑diciouſly altered. Mr. COLMAN, with great judge⯑ment and a proper tenderneſs for the reputation of theſe authors, brought it out on his theatre in the Haymarket, in 1778; but it has been ſeldom re⯑ſumed, [222] and it is now lain by with but little proſpect of being brought forward again.

The Sea Voyage. The deſign of this comedy is borrowed from SHAKESPEAR's Tempeſt, and has in it ſome good things, not good enough, however, to cope with the original; and, as if the failure was not diſgraceful enough to the authors, DURFEY revived it with alterations which made it ten times worſe.

The Double Marriage is a very indifferent play. It has been frequently revived, but, though DU⯑FREY lent a hand to ſpoil it, nothing reſulted from the attempt but diſappointment.

The Pilgrim. This excentric comedy has a great deal of merit. It originally received great applauſe, and has been often ſucceſsfully revived. In 1700, ſir JOHN VANBRUGH brought it out at Drury Lane Theatre, with a Prologue and DRY⯑DEN's Secular Maſque, which was the laſt of that great poet's works; but which, for what it is, abounds with brilliant poetry. It was revived again at Drury Lane without ſucceſs; but about the year 1762, it was brought out at Covent Garden with conſiderable reputation. Since that time it has been very ſeldom repeated.

[223] The Woman's Prize; or, the Tamer tamed. This play, which is ſaid to have been written by FLETCHER alone, after the death of BEAUMONT, ſo that the reader will ſee how weak all the autho⯑rities are upon this ſubject, is intended as a ſequel to SHAKESPEAR's Taming of the Shrew. CATHE⯑RINE being dead, PETRUCHIO is married to a young woman of a mild and gentle diſpoſition, who, in conjunction with ſome female companions, de⯑termine to break the temper of her huſband, which is at length effected; in conſequence of which he blindly ſubmits himſelf to her will and ſhe rules him as ſhe thinks proper.

Nothing is ſo eaſy as to ſee that a play cannot be framed upon worſe principles. The conduct of PETRUCHIO though violent is laudable, becauſe reaſonable ſubmiſſion is not only the duty but en⯑ſures the comfort of a wife, and, therefore, a proper ſubject for a poet to treat. Blind ſubmiſſion in a huſband, which muſt render him ridiculous to his friends, and an object of contempt even to his wife, is upon the ſame principle very improper matter for the ſtage; beſides the author of this play has wholly miſtaken the character of PETRUCHIO. So far from being of a tyrannical temper, he is generous and noble; his violence is all put on, all aſſumed; [224] and, from the moment he has carried his point and reſtored CATHERINE to herſelf, to him, and to her family, he ‘"doffs the lordly huſband."’ Time, however, who, as SHAKESPEAR ſays, ‘"tries all old offenders,"’ has ſettled the diſpute, for, while the Tamer tamed lies quietly interred with many of the family, CATHERINE and PETRUCHIO lives to afford us inſtruction and amuſement.

An Honeſt Man's Fortune, part of which is taken from HEYWOOD's hiſtory of Women, Love's Cure, and The Knight of Malta, are pieces which help to fill up the catalogue of theſe authors, but, though there is ſome good writing in each of them, they have very little claim to dramatic merit. To theſe may be added the Queen of Corinth which ſtands in the ſame predicament.

Women Pleaſed. The ſubject of this play has employed the pens of many authors, three of the different novels of BOCCACE having ſomething to do with it; but the ground work is in CHAUCER's Wife of Bath's Tale, which VOLTAIRE has ſucceſs⯑fully treated under the title of Ce qui plait aux Dames. This was afterwards brought on the French ſtage by FAVART, and called La Fee Urgelle, and and at length taken by GARRICK for the ſubject of [225] ſubject of his Chriſtmas Tale. This is certainly a piece of merit; but as the ſubject has been fre⯑quently tried and never to any effect without the auxiliary aſſiſtance of ſcenery and muſic, and, in⯑deed, romantic and fanciful tales are not at all cal⯑culated for comedy which ſhould depict true, fair, and natural manners, Women Pleaſed, in the ſtate it came out of the hands of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, has never been fortunate enough to pleaſe an audience.

A Wife for a Month. This tragi-comedy, a deſcription which always implies ſomething hetro⯑geneous, has ſome good traits. It is partly bor⯑rowed from the hiſtory of SANCHO the eighth, of LEON. The misfortune of this ſort of production is that the two plots are ſo diſtinct they cannot lend one another intereſt; and, take them ſingly, they have not ſtrength enough to ſupport themſelves, therefore let them be written ever ſo well they can⯑not have the effect of a play upon a ſubject in which if any thing is introduced it is kept ſubordinate, and ſo conſtructed as to aſſiſt the general deſign. Un⯑fortunately this does not happen to be the merit of this play, nor, indeed, ſcarcely any tragi-comedy written by theſe authors.

[226] The Fair Maid of the Inn is a tragi-comedy, and ſtands in ſomething like the ſame predicament as A Wife for a Month.

Wit at ſeveral Weapons, in which there is ſome whim, did very little itſelf, but has ſerved as ma⯑terials for other plays, particularly for ſir WILLIAM DAVENANT, who borrowed a good deal of it for his play called The Wits.

Valentinian. This is a tragedy, a ſpecies of per⯑formance in which BEAUMONT and FLETCHER have been leaſt ſucceſsful; this tragedy, however, is ſaid to have been well received when it firſt came out. It has been revived, and, in particular, by lord ROCHESTER, but it never met with ſufficient applauſe to warrant a repetition of it.

Love's Pilgrimage. This comedy, partly bor⯑rowed from The two Damſels of Cervantes, and partly from The New Inn, a play of JONSON, which was damned, has ſome merit. With all this aſſiſt⯑ance, however, though it has often been brought forward, the revivers only awaked it that it might ſleep the faſter.

Four Plays in One. Theſe four pieces, the two [227] firſt of which may be called tragi-comedies, the third a tragedy, and the fourth an opera, are princi⯑pally taken from BOCCACE, and are ſuppoſed to be performed before MANUEL, king of PORTUGAL, and his queen ISABELLA, at the celebration of their nuptials, the court being introduced as ſpectators, and the king and queen making remarks on the re⯑preſentation. It is, however, moſt probable that this curious medley was never performed at all.

The Wild Gooſe Chaſe. This play has conſiderable merit, but it is like the reſt ill conducted. The materials, however, have been found very uſeful; FARQUHAR has borrowed almoſt four acts of The Inconſtant from it.

Theſe plays, The Widow, The Jeweller of Amſter⯑dam, The Faithful Friend, A Right Woman, and The Hiſtory of Mador, King of Britain are all ſaid to have been written by theſe wits, either ſingly, toge⯑ther, or in conjunction with others, but how they were actually employed on them remains a ſecret which will be, probably, never divulged, nor is it very material whether it be or not.

I ſhall yet employ, however, a few words upon the ſubject of theſe authors, whoſe labours, though they may have failed as to regularity, and have [228] been weak on the ſide of judgment, are, notwith⯑ſtanding, meritorious, and breathe in various in⯑ſtances ſpirit and genius. The miſtake ſeems to have been an endeavour to ſoar beyond what nature qualified them for. The genius of SHAKESPEAR, being extenſive enough to graſp at real and imagi⯑nary worlds, they vainly conceived they might endeavour at the ſame track; but, in their fond neſs, they were Ixions, and in their preſumption Phaetons.

BEAUMONT is ſaid to have poſſeſſed the cor⯑recteſt judgment of the two, and FLETCHER the ſtrongeſt genius, and we are even told, that JONSON uſed to ſubmit his works to the opinion and cor⯑rection of BEAUMONT; this, however, after what we have witneſſed of CHAPMAN, DECKER, and others whom this hard cynic envied and abuſed, it is extremely difficult to believe; for, if BEAUMONT had ſuch conſummate judgment he certainly would have uſed it in the conſtruction of his own plays, the plots of which are the crudeſt and moſt indigeſted that can be poſſibly be conceived; and, as to the judgment of JONSON, it is but juſtice to ſay that it was his greateſt merit, and that there is more good ſenſe in the conſtruction of Every Man in his Hu⯑mour than in that of all the works of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER put together.

[229]All that is neceſſary to ſay on the ſubject may be comprized in this. The induſtry with which BEAUMONT and FLETCHER explored the works of the Spaniards and others for dramatic materials has been of ſuch benefit to the Engliſh ſtage, that it not only lent material aſſiſtance towards bringing it into great forwardneſs, but ſerved as a ground work for others, who have ſince derived much of their ſucceſs from having had recourſe to their labours.

As to their particular merits they were both good writers, and would have been better had they not perpetually tried to go beyond the bounds that nature and genius preſcribed them, had they not written too haſtily, had they not given into an un⯑bridled wit which grew to licentiouſneſs and deſtroyed the legitimate drift of their productions, had they not, in ſhort, arrogated a falſe conſequence and ri⯑diculouſly fancied themſelves ſuperior to a man, whom they might have been proud to have followed at an humble diſtance.

As to the ſhare they had reſpectively in thoſe productions which are publiſhed with their joint names, I have already ſhewn that whatever has been conjectured on the ſubject ſeems to have a very falacious air. That BEAUMONT could have been concerned in fifty three plays in eight years appears [230] to be impoſſible. It is as certainly impoſſible that ſo large a number could have been brought out during that time, and it is very unlikely that BEAU⯑MONT left behind him, he who was a writer for the moment, materials for the greateſt part of theſe plays; but, as we have no proof that what has been aſſerted on this ſubject is falſe, though it is a little contradictory, we are compelled ſo far to acquieſce as to give our verdict according to the evidence.

One proud fact, however, the labours of theſe writers and their cotemporaries have aſcertained. All this contention for pre-eminence that was mani⯑feſted, all theſe valuable dramatic materials that were produced, and all this rapid improvement to which the ſtage had ariſen, had been confirmed be⯑fore the French theatre, that has always arrogantly affected to lead ours, boaſted a ſingle line from the great CORNEILLE, or any one of his ſatelites and before MOLIERE and RACINE were born. Who then can deny that, having ſo perfect a model be⯑fore them as the Engliſh ſtage, they made it an ob⯑ject of their imitation? But that there may be no cavil this ſhall hereafter be inconteſtibly proved.

CHAP. III. MASSINGER.

IF, in BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, we lament that authors ſometimes attempt too much, in MAS⯑SINGER, we have a proof that they may do too little. This very charming writer has ſeldom been allowed the merit he poſſeſſed, perhaps, becauſe he was a ſtranger to preſumption, vanity, and thoſe other qualities which often procure for an author more fame than he deſerves; poſterity, however, generally ſets the matter right; which, in the opi⯑nions of all judges of genius and taſte, has placed MASSINGER very little behind JONSON, and far before BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

MASSINGER, by the patronage of the earl of MONTGOMERY, under whom his father had an ho⯑nourable employ, and afterwards the earl of PEM⯑BROKE, was encouraged in his youth to purſue polite literature; which, coming in conſonance with a beautiful and refined genius which he inherited from [232] nature, he ſoon poſſeſſed all the qualities for a writer of correct taſte and brilliant fancy.

The ſtage attracted his attention, and was, in⯑deed, the very field for the exerciſe of his abilities. He had invention and ingenuity, he knew nature and character; his ſtyle, while it was warm and ſervid, was, nevertheleſs, pure and decorous, and even went beyond the times in which he wrote for poliſh and refinement; for he was as ſtrong as JONSON without being dull, and as elegant as WALLER with⯑out being mawkiſh; but, to give the proudeſt proof of the genius of MASSINGER, you ſee a great deal of the mind of SHAKESPEAR in him, though he has never ſervilely imitated him, nor arrogantly at⯑tempted to ſoar after him to thoſe heights which his genius alone could reach. But let us examine his plays.

The Virgin Martyr. This play was firſt acted, as we are told, in 1622, at which time MASSINGER was thirty-eight years old. He was aſſiſted by DECKER in this production, which, perhaps, might better have been let alone, but his modeſty too often prevented him from feeling his own conſe⯑quence. The Virgin Martyr is taken from the Mar⯑tylogies of the perſecution in the time of DIOCLESIAN; and, though there is ſome fine writing in it, it is evi⯑dently [233] a work of inexperience, and, therefore, had no great ſucceſs.

The Duke of Milan. Here our author had fairer play for his genius. This tragedy was per⯑formed in 1623 with good ſucceſs. The ſcene where inſtructions are given by SFORZA to his fa⯑vourite FRANCISCO for the murder of MARCELIA, is wrought up very maſterly, and I have no doubt but this very play has aſſiſted the various Mariamnes of the French ſtage, from TRISTAN to VOLTAIRE, that ſtory from the Hiſtory of the Jews having been the foundation of The Duke of Milan. Indeed the circumſtances are ſo ſimilar that Mr. CUMBER⯑BERLAND very laudably was induced to blend this play and FENTON's Mariamne together; but pro⯑bably from his unwillingneſs to encroach upon the writing of either of theſe authors, it appeared not to be of a piece, and, therefore, did not ſucceed.

The Bondman, acted at the Cock Pit, Drury Lane, 1623. This is a tragedy of great merit. The plot is full of truth and conſiſtency, and the writing is ſtrong and nervous. The incident of bringing back the rebellious ſlaves to their duty with whips, is in the trueſt ſpirit of the drama, and is here uſed to great advantage. The Bondman has been fre⯑quently [234] revived, and particularly by Mr. CUMBER⯑LAND in 1779, at Covent Garden theatre. This was certainly a very judicious alteration, and it was highly ſpoken of by the critics, but it did not ſucceed to the degree that was reaſonably expected.

The Roman Actor was performed at Black Friars in 1629. It was MASSINGER's greateſt favourite among all his works, and the writers of that time were ſo far of the ſame opinion that no leſs than ſix copies of commendatory verſes were prefixed to it. Indeed its ſucceſs was very decided, both originally and when it was revived by BETTERTON, who ren⯑dered himſelf very celebrated in the principal cha⯑racter. There is certainly a dignity in the conduct of the piece, and the language is charming.

The Renegado. This is a tragi-comedy and was performed in 1630, at Drury Lane. This play was recommended by complimentary verſes like the former, and certainly has much merit, but it has the fault of all tragi-comedies. The plots hang in⯑congruouſly together, and, therefore, each deprives the other of the approbation that would elſe be due to them.

The Picture, performed in 1630, at the Globe, and Black Friars. This admirable production, [235] which is called a tragi-comedy, ought to be deno⯑minated a play, for it conſiſts of a plot and an epi⯑ſode that have immediate relation to each other. There are objections to this piece, one of which cannot be got over, becauſe it is particularly wrong to call in magic to aſſiſt what ought to be a repre⯑ſentation of nature. BATISTA's reading, therefore, in nature's hidden ſecrets, and having thereby formed a portrait of SOPHIA which appears to the eyes of MATHIAS beautiful or deformed, according as ſhe is loyal or diſloyal, is certainly revolting, and inad⯑miſſible; but it has this admirable effect: The poet by placing his characters in ſo forcible a ſitua⯑tion, is obliged to give them a language adequate to it, and thus the paſſion of jealouſy acquires a peculiar kind of turbulence and agitation which, from mere conjectural proofs, could not have be⯑longed to it.

Of this difficult and delicate taſk, MASSINGER has acquitted himſelf wonderfully; ſo that, if you can bring yourſelf to pardon the deception, it will encreaſe your admiration of the author. Novelty was, probably, his excuſe, and he has ſo availed himſelf of it, that, perhaps, there cannot in lan⯑guage be found any thing ſtronger than the effect it has produced.

[236]It is impoſſible here to go into the different merits of this piece; but whether you take it for conduct, for character, or any other requiſite, but eſpecially for language, a few ſpots excepted, it is certainly a conſtellation in literature.

The Emperor of the Eaſt was performed in 1632. This is a tragi-comedy, and taken from the Life of the younger THEODOCIUS. We ſhould have known more at preſent, perhaps, of this piece in its original form had not LEE, that mad, but beautiful writer, taken ſome of the moſt forcible parts of it for his tragedy of Theodocius.

The Maid of Honour, performed in 1638, is a work of conſiderable merit. It has been revived, and particularly within a few years at Drury Lane theatre; but productions by men of ſuch eminence as MASSINGER ſhould never be touched but by authors of firſt rate abilities. In its original ſtate The Maid of Honour could not now be produced to advantage, but it had better have remained in its original ſtate than have appeared as it did at Drury Lane theatre.

The Fatal Dowry, which was brought out in 1632, is a tragedy, and would probably, have poſ⯑ſeſſed [237] more merit if MASSINGER had not been aſſiſted by FIELD. It has, however, enough to have materially aſſiſted both ROWE and VOLTAIRE; for it has furniſhed the moſt material parts of the Fair Penitent, and the character of NERESTAN in Zara. I ſhall ſay the leſs of this play becauſe I like MASSINGER beſt when he ſtands upon his own ground.

A New Way to Pay Old Debts, is a comedy full of admirable materials. It came out in 1633, and was prefaced by two copies of commendatory verſes, one by ſir HENRY MOODY, and the other by ſir THOMAS JAY. This play has been conſi⯑dered by moſt of the critics as the beſt in all the works of MASSINGER. It is difficult to ſay this; but it is certainly drawn with great nature and force, and written with ſtrength and nerve. The over⯑reaching of ſir GILES OVERREACH, ‘"both a lion and a fox in his proceedings,"’ is maſterly, and the diſmiſſal of his creature MARRALL, is moral and poetic. There are many other parts of this play full of ſterling merit. It has been ſeveral times re⯑vived, particularly at Drury Lane, and ſince at Covent Garden, to aſſiſt HENDERSON, who per⯑formed ſir GILES OVERREACH with judgment; but injudicious pruning always wounds a good tree, [238] and this kind of ſtab did the reputation of MAS⯑SINGER ſuſtain in both this caſe and in other caſes.

The Great Duke of Florence. This piece, like The Guardian, is called a comical hiſtory. It had great ſucceſs, and is recommended by verſes written by DONNE and FORD. The ſtory of EDGAR and ELFRIDA, is ſaid to have been taken from this play; and certainly the circumſtance of SANNASARRO's giving the Count a falſe account of LYDIA's beauty, has a reſemblance to that part of it; but that ſtory was known before MASSINGER, therefore, RYMER, who took his materials from William of Malmeſbury, RAVENSCROFT who profitted of both, and HILL, whoſe Athelwold, and alſo MASON's Elfrida, were taken from hiſtory, could not have had the leaſt ne⯑ceſſity to reſort to the Duke of Florence for aſſiſtance.

The Unnatural Combat, performed in 1639, is a tragedy of very great merit. This merit, however, lies more in the aſtoniſhing manner in which the au⯑thor has treated this ſtrange ſubject than in the con⯑duct of the piece itſelf. To fancy revolting circum⯑ſtances, which it is dreadful to admit may be natural, and operate upon them as if they were generally ſo, is begging the queſtion, and cannot be excuſed, however forcibly it may ſpeak the merit of that [239] author who can write well upon ſuch extraordinary occaſions.

The mutual accuſations of the father and ſon, which are the cauſe of the combat, the artful man⯑ner in which the Elder MALEFORT impoſes upon the Count by acting the BRUTUS, and the delicate, yet determined tone of the Younger, who accuſes his father of an inceſtuous crime which he ſcarcely dares to hint, is executed with ſuch ſound judg⯑ment, ſuch ſhrewd art, and ſuch conſummate ad⯑dreſs, that I cannot think there is any thing in lan⯑guage to r [...]val it, but, though theſe have been con⯑ſidered, from AESCHYLUS to us, as the proper ſub⯑jects to excite terror, and ſo they are in one ſenſe, I never will allow they are the legitimate, fair ob⯑jects of the drama.

At any rate let there be qualification. The inceſt of HAMLET's father, cauſed by ambition, is an ad⯑miſſible ſubject for an author, the inceſt of MALE⯑FORT's father, without a motive but barely wicked⯑neſs, is not admiſſible; and, under theſe circum⯑ſtances much as the writing of The Unnatural Com⯑bat may captivate, I believe no real well wiſher to the intereſt of the drama will wiſh to ſee it brought forward on the ſtage.

[240] The Guardian, performed in 1655, is a comedy of very great merit; and, two or three trifling par⯑ticulars excepted, I ſee nothing to prevent its hold⯑ing a regular rank on the ſtage. It is full of well managed equivoque, which is judiciouſly heightened at the end of the third act, and naturally developed at the finiſh of the play. The writing is of that fluent and eaſy kind that, nevertheleſs, has ſtrength and force, and that gives to manlineſs, and greatneſs of mind, the unaffected expreſſion of nature; but this is the peculiar beauty of MASSINGER; who, let his ſubjects be ever ſo common, never deſcends.

The Baſhful Lover, a tragi-comedy, which was produced at the Private Theatre, at Black Friars, in 1655, deſerves mention only on account of many beauties that are ſcattered up and down in different parts of it; for it is not conſtructed with the uſual correctneſs of MASSINGER, nor is the drift of the plots ſo intereſting as any of his other pieces.

The Very Woman, is another tragi-comedy. It was performed alſo in 1655, and has merit; but neither that nor ſir ASTON COCKAINE's Obſtinate Lady, from which it is borrowed, has a good claim to any material reputation. The more you read MASSINGER the more you admire him, and, there⯑fore, [241] even in this play, we trace a true genius and an elegant writer; but it is, nevertheleſs, unequal to many of his other productions.

The Old Law, a comedy brought out in 1656, is by no means a good play, though parts of it are ad⯑mirable. MASSINGER was here aſſiſted by MID⯑DLETON and ROWLEY. Perhaps it would have better if he had been let alone; certainly nei⯑ther of theſe writers was by any means equal to MASSINGER.

The City Madam, produced in 1659. This co⯑medy, which has a moſt laudable drift, is worked up with great art and addreſs. The folly of the chil⯑dren of induſtry and ſobriety, who ſpurn at that happineſs they legitimately poſſeſs, and that ſtable conſequence by which they are the ſupport of the commercial intereſt of the kingdom, and, therefore, the baſis of its wealth, for the tranſitory and frivolous pleaſures of the court, has been properly conſidered by the dramatiſt as the beſt materials for the ex⯑erciſe of his genius.

MASSINGER here has handled this ſubject in a maſterly ſtyle. His portraits are faithful to nature, [242] his manners are correctly appropriate, and his diſ⯑crimination is nice and critical.

Haughty, puffed up beauty, full of vanity and ambition, is as natural as it is contemptible; grovling ideas and riches wreſted from the unſuſpecting and neceſſitous, are inſeperable, and a diſtinction be⯑tween folly and crime, weakneſs and wickedneſs, is, in theſe circumſtances, the duty of an author. Thus has MASSINGER made his City Madam and her daughters arrogant and overbearing to be ſeverely puniſhed and afterwards pardoned, and thus he has made that foſtered ſnake the dependant brother the inſtrument of temporary puniſhment to others whoſe crimes were within the limits of pardon; till, at laſt, his arts recoil upon himſelf, and he is confounded in that ruin he had meditated for others.

This is the grand outline of the play, and very fine it is; there are ſubordinate particulars, however, which might have been better managed, ſir JOHN, LACY, and PLENTY might have been more judi⯑ciouſly diſguiſed and have come with a more pro⯑bable tale, conſidering the conſummate art of the man they had to deal with, and the magic at laſt, after the diſrepute poor STARGAZE had thrown it into, is a poor contrivance to awe a libertine, and an [243] unbeliever; and, even if it had been in other re⯑ſpects admiſſible, it is a blameable vehicle for a dra⯑matic plot, but particularly for a comedy. We paſs over a ghoſt in a tragedy, we are even charmed with a ſpectre in a romance, and we have no ob⯑jection to changing of the wives in the Devil to Pay, becauſe it is a farce, though none of theſe are cri⯑tically right, but producing ORPHEUS, CERBERUS, CHARON, and twenty other fantaſtic ſpirits in a ſober citizen's houſe would not have impoſed upon LUKE, nor ought it to have impoſed upon the audience.

The faults, however, in this comedy after all are but trivial, and were they judiciouſly removed, and the denouement brought about by a more na⯑tural means, there are few pieces on the ſtage that could challenge a fairer claim to reputation.

Beſides the play already mentioned, there were others, written by MASSINGER, of which we have different accounts. Of theſe The Noble Choice, The Judge, or Believe as you Liſt, The Spaniſh Viceroy, Minerva's Sacrifice, The Tyrant, Philenzo and Hippolita, Antonio and Vallia, and Faſt and Welcome, were loſt to the world by the careleſſneſs of a ſervant belonging to Mr. WARBURTON, the SOMERSETSHIRE Herald.

[244]Three others under the titles of The Wandering Lovers, The Italian Night Piece, and The Priſoner, were performed but never printed. Theſe, there⯑fore, that have been here enumerated with a ſlight account of their different merits, may be conſidered as the theatre of MASSINGER; and here it is im⯑poſſible to help noticing that I cannot in my con⯑ſcience agree to the dates of theſe plays which I have ſet down, by the concurrent authorities of various writers, exactly as I found them.

To ſet up any criterion of my own, founded only on probable circumſtances, as to the dates, would be to combat errors, which, to a monſtrous number, are conſidered as dramatic goſpel. Com⯑mon ſenſe will not permit us to credit the date of any play between 1635 and the Reſtoration; for PRYNN and Puritaniſm ſo attacked the ſtage, that, though it lifted its head for a ſhort time, its own ruin was involved at length in the ruin of the conſtitution^*.

[245]It is on this account that, although, in this book I have limited myſelf to the death of JAMES the firſt, I have, nevertheleſs, gone through the whole life of MASSINGER, and I ſhall do the ſame by JONSON, becauſe it keeps the whole ſubject under the reader's eye and within the ſcope of recollection; beſides it is within poſſibility that in doing this I have committed no error, for in the accounts of MASSINGER's death ſcarcely two of them are alike; [446] nay, ſome make him live twenty years longer than others do, and ſome ſay he died in affluence, while others inſiſt that he died in penury.

But, to leave that which in this author is uncer⯑tain, to dwell a little on what is not, in his various merits he ſtill lives, and will long continue to do ſo, to the honour of genius, of taſte, of elegance, of judgment, of truth, of nature, and of morality.

CHAP. IV. CHAPMAN, HEYWOOD, DECKER, MARSTON, AND OTHERS.

I SHALL now go into all that it will be neceſſary to ſay on the ſubject of CHAPMAN and other writers, who, though they were conſidered as a ſubordinate claſs, were, nevertheleſs, men of abilities; and, hav⯑ing done this, and alſo noticed what more I may conceive myſelf bound to ſay of JONSON, I ſhall purſue the willing taſk of dwelling a little more on the plays of SHAKESPEAR.

Before JAMES the firſt, CHAPMAN produced two plays. In 1605 he brought out a comedy called All Fools, which was taken from TERENCE, and which received conſiderable applauſe. Eaſt⯑ward Hoe, performed in the ſame year, is more celebrated for the predicament into which it plunged its ſuppoſed authors, CHAPMAN, JONSON, and MARSTON, as the reader will recollect, than for any merit the piece itſelf contained. HOGARTH, [248] however, took from it the plan of his Idle and In⯑duſtrious Apprentices, and it was revived many years ſince as a proper ſubſtitute on Lord Mayor's Day, for that diſgrace to the ſtage, The London Cuckolds, TATE again brought it forward and called it The Cuckold's Haven, and Mrs. LENOX alſo brought it out with alterations under the title of Old City Manners.

The Gentleman Uſher, a comedy produced in 1606, had its partiſans, but it is indifferently ſpoken of, and there is a doubt whether it was ever acted, Monſieur D'Olive, performed in the ſame year, re⯑ceived ſome praiſe, and we are told was performed with ſucceſs.

Buſſy D'Ambois made its appearance in 1607. It was the firſt tragedy produced by CHAPMAN, and thought by ſome to be the beſt of his works. It kept the ſtage for a time with conſiderable repu⯑tation, but at length, that eternal mutilater of good authors, DURFEY laid his iron hand on it, from which time it became ſo crampt that it has ever ſince been laid aſide.

Ca [...]ſar and Pompey was performed in the ſame year with ſome ſucceſs. The Conſpiracy, and Tra⯑gedy of Charles Duke of Byron, Marſhal of France [249] came out in 1608, and conſiſts of two plays which relate to the hiſtory of FRANCE in the time of HENRY the fourth.

May Day, a comedy, was brought out at Black Friars in 1613. There is nothing material known of this piece, but The Widow's Tears, produced in 1612, is well ſpoken of The ſubject is evidently The Epheſian Matron, but in the other parts there are ſome well wrought ſcenes, and ſeveral affecting and intereſting incidents. CHAPMAN is every where a man of learning, but he has in this play ſhewn him⯑ſelf a writer of taſte and genius.

The Revenge of Buſſy D'Ambois, is a bad attempt at following up a good ſubject, for it is not ſo cloſe to hiſtory as the former play, nor does it create ſo much intereſt. The Maſque of the Middle Temple and Lincoln's Inn. This was no more than a tem⯑porary piece to celebrate the marriage of the Count PALATINE, of the RHINE, with the Princeſs ELIZABETH. It was performed before the Royal Family at Whitehall, and coſt the ſocieties of theſe courts two thouſand four hundred pounds. The machinery and decorations were deſigned and con⯑ducted by INIGO JONES.

[250] Two Wiſe Men and all the reſt Fools. It is doubtful whether this curious piece was written by CHAPMAN; but, as it has never been aſcribed to any other author, we always find it in his catalogue. It was performed, or, perhaps, only printed, in 1619, and is remarkable for having a prologue and epilogue in proſe, and for its being extended to ſeven acts; but as theſe are inovations of no kind of con⯑ſequence, the intelligent reader would have been better ſatisfied if an account had been preſerved of its merits as to character, incident, and ſituation.

Revenge for Honour, The Fatal Love, The Tra⯑gedy of a Yorkſhire Gentlewoman and her Son, and The Second Maiden's Tragedy, are alſo from the pen of CHAPMAN, but they do not appear to have been printed, and, therefore, it is impoſſible to ſay any thing of their merits with certainty. What we do know of this author, who was, as is univerſally admitted, a man of ſound erudition, in the character of a dramatiſt is at leaſt honourable to his fame, which cannot, perhaps, receive a ſtronger proof than his being conſidered a reſpectable cotemporary writer with SHAKESPEAR, and an object of envy to JONSON.

HEYWOOD's dramatic works, after the death of [251] ELIZABETH, next claim our attention. If you Know not me you Know Nobody, was performed in 1606. This production conſiſts of two parts, and relates to circumſtances which happened during the reign of ELIZABETH, but how the building of the Royal Exchange can be dramatized is really more than one can ordinarily conceive. Upon the whole it was a ſtrange incomprehenſible thing, which the author allows, but he ſhields himſelf from cen⯑ſure by a declaration that it was printed without his conſent, and to prove that this copy, which is full of irregularity, and not even divided into acts, might be modified and amended, he produced what he conceived a perfect piece on the ſame ſubject, which, however, met as bad a fate as the original.

The Fair Maid of the Exchange, of which men⯑tion is only made of the title, The Golden Age, and The Silver Age, two pieces crammed full of cir⯑cumſtances from the Heathen Mythology without order, or coherence, as is alſo his next piece called The Brazen Age, and The Four Apprentices of Lon⯑don, with the Conqueſt of Jeruſalem, which is taken from the exploits of GODFREY of BOLLOGNE, a moſt romantic ſubject for a play, are alſo among HEYWOOD's dramatic productions.

After this we met with A Woman killed with [252] Kindneſs, a piece, though upon a moſt extravagant and overſtrained ſubject, certainly written in a ſtrong and maſterly ſtyle. The incidents are per⯑plexed, owing to their number, but the relation they bear to one another is perfectly dramatic, ex⯑cept the quarrel of MONTFORD and ACTON, which had better have been out of the piece. There is ſomething revolting in the conduct of Mrs. FRANK⯑FORD, but her contrition, and the conſciouſneſs of her not deſerving that lenity which her forgiving huſband, in conſequence of her repentence, hu⯑manely ſhews her, and which produces the remorſe that is the cauſe of her death, exhibits a moſt forci⯑ble moral. It ſeems to reprobate by anticipation the dangerous doctrines of lord CHESTERFIELD, and is, in fact, whether deſignedly or not, the ground work of Mr. PRATT's admirable pro⯑duction The Pupil of Pleaſure. Theſe are the worthieſt purpoſes to which the ſtage can be applied, and if this play were well modernized, and well acted, it could not fail of brilliant ſucceſs^*.

[253] The Rape of Lucrene. This true Roman tra⯑gedy as it is called, and indeed very properly, for it is a complete farago of declaiming, miming, and [254] ſinging, is very ill calculated for the Engliſh ſtage, and, therefore, it was poorly received. This is, how⯑ever, by no means a general rule, and more's the pity.

[255] The Fair Maid of the Weſt, a comedy in two parts, had conſiderable ſucceſs. Its ſubject may be found in DANCER, who wrought theſe two pieces into a novel called The Engliſh Lovers.

The Iron Age. Theſe fanciful kind of pieces are very ill calculated for the ſtage but, now and then incongruities pleaſe beſt. The Iron Age was produced in two parts, the firſt of which contains no leſs than the Rape of HELEN, the Siege of TROY, the Combat between HECTOR and AJAX, the Deaths of TROILUS and HECTOR, the Death of ACHILLES, the Contention of AJAX and ULYSSES, the Death of AJAX, and many other circumſtances.

The ſecond part goes on and deſcribes the deaths of AGAMENNON, MENELAUS, CLYTEMNESTRA, HELEN, ORESTES, EGISTHUS, PYLADES, and in ſhort all the reſt of the perſonages, at any time, or in any way concerned in the Trojan war, to THERSITES; ſo that we have HOMER, and all the other of the claſſical writers on this curious ſubject, crammed into two plays, or rather narratives in dialogue; which are brought forward without the leaſt regard to any ſpecies of dramatic propriety. This curious medley, however, as well as the Three Ages before ſpoken of brought crouded audiences, which in [256] general conſoles an author for any drawback on reputation.

The Engliſh Traveller, a tragi-comedy, is partly taken from PLAUTUS, and partly from an actual fact. It travelled, however, a very little way either towards dramatic fame, or public favour. A Maid⯑enhead well Loſt, loſt itſelf, for there is no trace to be found of it.

The Lancashire Witches, in which BROME aſ⯑ſiſted, and which was afterwards altered into a more regular piece by SHADWELL, neither in its original or its altered ſtate, did much. Party ſpirit conjured up for it, of courſe, adherents and enemies, and the Papiſts were horridly provoked againſt TEAGUE O'DIVELLY, whoſe tricks and ingenuity, probably, they envied.

Love's Miſtreſs. This is a maſque which was performed before the Royal Family ſeveral times. It is taken from APULIUS's Golden Aſs, and is in⯑debted to the decorations of INIGO JONES for the greateſt part of its ſucceſs. This play, the Challenge for Beauty, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, taken from FLETCHER's Loyal Subject, the Wiſe Woman of Hogſdon, which was printed with a copy of com⯑mendatory [257] verſes before it, and Fortune by Sea and Land, in which ROWLEY aſſiſted, are all the dra⯑matic productions we know of, out of the prodi⯑gious number which HEYWOOD, like HARDY, is ſaid, and, perhaps with equal truth, to have written.

Of theſe pieces few will be found regular, taking them by any denomination. A Woman killed with Kindneſs, is beyond meaſure the beſt production of this author, and yet there is much good writing, and there are many beauties in ſome of his other produc⯑tions; but they were upon ſuch ſtrange, fanciful ſub⯑jects that they could come into no claſs; and, as to the immenſe labour he is ſaid to have beſtowed on them, his great merit ſeems to have been a good memory, for he has ſo thrown together what he had conned at ſchool, that, inſtead of being original himſelf, he was little more than the amanuenſis of the ancients.

DECKER, after the death of queen ELIZABETH, produced the following pieces. The Honeſt [...], performed in 1604. The different opinions con⯑cerning this play ſhew how little we know, with any certainty, of the works of authors at that period. A biographer tells us confidently, that neither this play nor the ſequel to it is divided into acts; but [258] this is ſo far from the truth that DODSLEY has printed it in his collection of old Plays, where it not only appears in a very regular ſtate, but gives good proof that DECKER had conſiderable merit. The ſecond part, appears to have been a num⯑ber of ſcenes thrown together, but it was never digeſted into a regular play.

Weſtward Hoe. This play was brought on in 1607. WEBSTER aſſiſted in the writing of it, as he did of Northward Hoe, and we are told they had both ſucceſs, probably more owing to the titles caught from the Eaſtward Hoe, which we have ſeen ſo popular in conſequence of having involved its authors in ſuch diſgrace.

The Whore of Babylon, written expreſsly in compliment to queen ELIZABETH, with a view to expoſe the deſigns of the Jeſuits, and ſet forth their dangerous plots, from which the queen eſcaped, was printed in 1607, but it is moſt probable it never was performed. The queen is repreſented under the character of TITIANA, which name SPENCER originally gave her, and which was adopted by SHAKESPEAR in his Midſummer Night's Dream. There were other characters of that time perſonified, all tending to deſcribe and illuſtrate the virtues of [259] ELIZABETH, a proper tribute to her exalted merit, and a laudable mode of ſtimulating the loyalty of the people.

If it be not good the Devil's in it. This play is founded on MACHIAVAL's Marriage of BELPHE⯑GOR, and is a poor attempt at wit from the title to the laſt word. The title, indeed, is ſo contemptible a quibble that as the Devil is actually in the play, ſo the author gives it under his hand that it is not good; this flimzy ſtuff has, however, been fre⯑quently copied, and once moſt miſerably under the title of a Comic Opera, at Drury Lane.

Match me in London. To this play the different writers have given different merits; but, as it is im⯑poſſible that it ſhould be excellent, poor, tolerable, and good, at the ſame time, which words I copy, we may fairly take it that it had merit and defects.

Theſe are all the dramatic works the world gives to DECKER. He is ſaid, however, to have written, in conjunction with DAY, The Jew of Venice, not printed, Guy, Earl of Warwick, of which various writers have conjectured a good deal but have known nothing, Guſtavus, King of Swithland, of which the world is nearly as ignorant, and the Tale [260] of Jocondo and Aſtolpho, taken probably from the ſame ſtock as LA FONTAINE's Joconde, a circum⯑ſtance not, however, to be aſcertained, this play hav⯑ing been deſtroyed, together with ſo many others, by WARBURTON's ſervant.

Upon the whole, DECKER cannot be ranked with CHAPMAN and HEYWOOD, and it is very probable that he would not have been half ſo well reſpected as he was, had not the envy of JONSON, who had he poſſeſſed an atom of good ſenſe would have ſmiled and paſſed by him, liſted him into a conſequence, not only fancied by him but credited by the world.

MARSTON, who wrote in all but eight plays, produced ſix of them after the death of ELIZA⯑BETH. The Inſatiate Counteſs, performed in 1604, is one of them, and contains under feigned titles the hiſtory of JOAN, the firſt queen of JERUSALEM, NAPLES, and SICILY, whoſe ſtory had been pretty well handled before, both for the ſtage and as a novel. The reader will remember that BEREN⯑GER de PARASOLS was poiſoned for making free with this lady's character, and this queen is intended by ANNE, ducheſs of ULME, in GOD's revenge againſt adultery. Very little is known as to the real merit of this play.

[261]The Malcontent, produced in 1604. This is the play which MARSTON, as we have ſeen, dedicated with ſuch warmth to JONSON, with whom he had afterwards ſo ſevere a quarrel. Some of MARSTON's enemies endeavoured to induce a general belief that this piece was intended as a ſatire on particular characters, which invidious report JONSON is ſup⯑poſed ſecretly to have ſeconded, and the probability is that this gave riſe to the diſpute which made the breach between theſe authors. There does not ap⯑pear, however, the ſmalleſt ground for this impu⯑tation; for by ſeveral writers, but particularly LANGBAINE, we are aſſured the Malcontent was a fair, manly, general ſatire; beſides, we are capable of aſcertaining this ourſelves, and ſo far we muſt vouch in favour of the author, whoſe piece cer⯑tainly goes to the times both then and now; but this does not preclude the poſſibility that particular perſons ſat for their portraits, for ſatire was cer⯑tainly the vein of MARSTON, and it is impoſſible to be critically ſatirical without fitting the cap ſomewhere.

The Dutch Curtizan. This comedy is full of the intrigue of thoſe times, and muſt certainly have had ſucceſs, for The Revenge; or, a Match in New⯑gate, which is attributed to BETTERTON, and which [262] poſſeſſes a great deal of whim and pleaſantry, though in other reſpects it is a ſtrange excentric thing. is nothing more than an alteration of MARS⯑TON's play which again was wrought into a farce that at one time greatly ſucceeded, under the title of the The Vintner Tricked.

Pariſitaſter; or the Fawn, performed in 1606, is taken partly from The Decameron of BOCCACE, and partly from Ovid. It has particular merit, but is not ſo good a play as any other of the productions of MARSTON.

The Wonder of Women; or, Sophoniſba, pro⯑duced in 1606. This play is rather imitated than copied from hiſtory, for the author himſelf ſays that he has not laboured in it to tye himſelf to relate every thing as a hiſtorian, but to enlarge every thing as a poet.

What you Will, a comedy, was brought out in 1607. This piece, which did but little itſelf, has provided materials for other dramatic productions ſince. It appears to be taken from PLAUTUS, but the equivoque of miſtaking one perſon for another cannot properly be ſaid to belong to any particular author; it has been uſed in all times, and by all [263] writers; and ſo the circumſtances vary it may be conſidered always as a novelty.

MARSTON having conſulted regularity and cor⯑rectneſs in the conduct of his plays, and beſides having written them naturally, and both with hu⯑mour and pathos, muſt rank before DECKER, and eſſentially, upon a par with CHAPMAN and HEY⯑WOOD, eſpecially when we are told that his poems rendered him ſtill more celebrated than his plays. Being, however, a ſevere ſatiriſt, his cotemporaries were not willing to allow him his due portion of praiſe, and poſterity cannot properly judge of his whole merit. What we know of him, however, ranks him very reſpectfully as a writer.

MARLOE, in the reign of JAMES the firſt, wrote The Maſſacre of Paris, a ſubject which has em⯑ployed the pens of ſo many able writers. LEE wrought it into a play; but, without ſome intereſt⯑ing private ſtory, the ſubject is too ſhocking for an audience. MERCIER in his Biſhop of Liſieux has hit upon exactly the method to give it effect. He ſuppoſes a Proteſtant family protected by a Catholic biſhop, who riſks his ſituation and his life for their ſuccour; in conſequence of which the ſoldiery re⯑volt from their inexorable duty, and the ravages of [264] CHARLES the ninth and his proſtigate court are put a ſtop to. Neither MARLOE nor LEE did any thing like this, and, therefore, this play is little known.

The tragical hiſtory of Dr. Fauſtus is ſpoken of in ſuch vague terms, that, though it is neceſſary to ſay there was ſuch a play, it is uſeleſs to ſay more. The Jew of Malta was uſhered into the world by HEYWOOD, and is ſaid to have been greatly re⯑ceived. Luſt's Dominion was well received at firſt, and was afterwards altered by Mrs. BEHN, a cir⯑cumſtance all in the lady's way. We ſhall examine it hereafter under the title of Abdelazar; or, the Moor's Revenge.

Theſe, with Dido, and The Shepherd's Holiday, in the firſt of which he joined NASH, and in the other DAY, are all we know of MARLOE. It is very probable he wrote more, and that he could have written better; but, with a mind divided by proſtigacy and debauchery, from that neceſſary ſtudy and neceſſary rectitude, by the bye, for the meritorious taſk of inculcating morality, indiſpen⯑ſible in a dramatic writer, it is wonderful we have ſo much to praiſe in his public character from which [265] his private conduct obliges us ſo largely to deduct.

MIDDLETON, who produced one play in the reign of ELIZABETH, wrote ſixteen dramatic pro⯑ductions afterwards, and in ſix more he was con⯑cerned with JONSON, FLETCHER, ROWLEY, and others.

The Phoenix, a tragi comedy, performed in 1607, is well ſpoken of. The plot is taken from a Spaniſh novel called The Force of Love. Michaelmas Term is a mere undigeſted ſketch^*. Your Five Gallants was printed, but probably never per⯑formed. The Family of Love. All we know of this play is that SHIRLEY makes one of his cha⯑racters ſpeak of it in his Lady of Pleaſure. A Trick to Cheat the Old One, performed in 1608. This comedy was a great favourite when it firſt came out, and is eſteemed, among thoſe who are [266] in poſſeſſion of old plays, as a piece of conſi⯑derable merit.

A Mad World my Maſters performed in 1608, was alſo a popular play. It is certainly a ſtrange thing but it has a great deal of whim and humour of that broad latitude that, though it may not be correctly chaſte, is, nevertheleſs, provokingly laughable. Mrs. BEHN, however, had no objection to this rich vein of humour, and has borrowed ſome of the moſt luſcious parts of it for her City Heireſs, and CHARLES JOHNSON, who, however, was contented with that part which was leſs offenſive, availed himſelf of a part of the plot for his Country Laſſes. Other authors have alſo gone to this ſource for materials.

The Inner Temple Maſque, was one of thoſe temporary things which were at that time performed upon ſome public occaſion. It has been ſuppoſed to have furniſhed the hint of Comus, how truly it is difficult to ſay.

The Game of Cheſs. This was any thing you pleaſe but a play. It was ſymbolical of a diſpute between the Church of ENGLAND and the Church of ROME, wherein, of courſe, the former was con⯑queror. [267] It was a ſtupid impolitic buſineſs, and ended, though in other reſpects it was very ſuc⯑ceſsful, in the author's loſing the game, for he was ſent to priſon^*.

A Chaſte Maid in Cheapſide, appeared and was ſoon forgotton. No Wit, no Help like a Woman's is a play of which there is no trace but the title. Woman beware Woman. This is a tragedy, and has for its date 1657, which is eight years after the Re⯑ſtoration. It muſt, however, have been originally performed in 1630 at lateſt, and it was probably, re⯑vived 1657 by ſir WILLIAM DAVENANT, whoſe reſtoration of the ſtage has no doubt cauſed ſo many miſtakes, his copies only being extant which writers [268] have taken for originals. At this time it was known and greatly received. What was its original ſuc⯑ceſs cannot be known^*.

More diſſemblers beſides Women. This play is extant but no author pretends to ſay any thing about its ſucceſs. Any thing for a quiet Life. From this play, of which we know nothing but that it was printed in 1662, I ſhall take a hint and content my⯑ſelf once for all with ſetting down dates, and leaving the reader to conſider of the probability of whether the plays they are prefixed to were originally per⯑formed at that time or not.

Before I take my leave of this ſubject, however, I ſhall briefly reiterate that no date, from about 1634 to the Reſtoration, can be relied on, and I leave it, in all caſes as well as the preſent, to the good ſenſe of thoſe who may think this an object of any material conſequence, as my friends the ad⯑vertiſers [269] call it, ‘"to read and compare,"’ in which caſe I expect to be acquitted of intentional error whenever I ſet down any thing that nobody can poſſibly believe, ſuch as that MIDDLETON produced one play in the forty-third year of ELIZABETH's reign, and another in the fourteenth year of the reign of CHARLES the ſecond. But the ſpirit of this will be eaſily given me when we conſider MIDDLETON as a cotemporary of SHAKESPEAR and not of DRY⯑DEN. In this particular inſtance LANGBAINE bears me out, who thinks all MIDDLETON's plays were performed before the civil wars—and ſo no doubt were MASSINGER's—particularly Any thing for a quiet Life, and the reaſon he gives for this opinion is that it was publiſhed, as well as the Phooenix, the Game of Cheſs, and the Family of Love, by KIRK⯑MAN, who knew ſo much of the plays performed at that time and was ſo careful to attribute each to its proper owner.

The pieces in which MIDDLETON was joined by other writers are The Roaring Girl, The Fair Quarrel, The Widow, The Changling, The Spaniſh Gipſey, and The Old Law; all which, except the Changling, which we are told met with conſiderable applauſe, are very little ſpoken of by the various writers on the drama.

[270]There are other things attributed to MIDDLE⯑TON, but with nothing like certainty, and in parti⯑cular that in a piece, called The Witch, he fur⯑niſhed SHAKESPEAR with the hint of his witches in Macbeth; but when we recollect how very poorly JONSON imitated them, we can hardly ſuppoſe our great poet, in his own particular province, where he upon every occaſion ſo completely left all the world behind him, ſtood in need of a cue from MIDDLE⯑TON; who, though he was a reſpectable writer, and made no mean ſtand as a dramatiſt, had nothing in his genius that could furniſh inſtruction to SHAKESPEAR.

CHAP. V. WEBSTER, ROWLEY, AND THE INFERIOR DRA⯑MATIC POETS.

IT will yet be neceſſary to mention a third claſs of dramatic poets; which, though inferior to thoſe noticed already, were conſidered as men of talents.

WEBSTER, who frequently wrote in conjunction with DECKER, MARSTON, and ROWLEY, ventured now and then to go alone. There are ſix plays pub⯑liſhed with his name to them, under the titles of The White Devil, The Devil's Law Caſe, The Ducheſs of Malfy, Appius and Virginia ^*, The Thracian Won⯑der, and A Cure for a Cuckold.

[272]The firſt of theſe plays we have no particular account of, the ſecond which is partly borrowed from the ſtory of PHAEREUS JASON, in Velerius Maximus, and partly from the Hiſtoires admirable of GAULART, met with applauſe; the third, taken from LOPEZ de VEGA, GOULART, and BONDELLO, had alſo ſucceſs; the fourth was revived and altered by BETTERTON, and the fifth, and ſixth, in which ſome ſay ROWLEY had a hand, were both received with applauſe. WEBSTER, however, does not appear at any time to ſo much advantage as in thoſe pieces wherein he laboured with others, his beſt knack be⯑ing more to find out materials for his aſſociates than to give form to them, for he was a pariſh clerk, and an aſſiſtant at a ſchool, neither of which occupations ſeems very much calculated to give his genius ſcope, whatever talents he might poſſeſs,

ROWLEY was an actor as well as an author. He was very much eſteemed, and, in his man⯑ners, and being intimately acquainted with all the wits of his time, and carreſſed by perſons of the firſt faſhion, he a good deal reſembled the French actor RAISIN, of whom I have already ſpoken, and to whom, for his wit, for his elegance, and for his gen⯑tlemanly qualities, I could find a finiſhed likeneſs in an actor now living whoſe abilities would honour [273] any merit, and whoſe intimacy would throw a luſtre upon any rank.

It is very probable that the advice and aſſiſtance of ROWLEY were of the utmoſt ſervice to the in⯑ferior authors of that day; his part of their con⯑junctive taſk being of courſe to fit the work to the ſtage, of which department he may be ſuppoſed to have had a better judgment than them.

Thoſe plays in which he was connected with others have been mentioned already. There are, however, ſix, which he is ſaid to have written with⯑out aſſiſtance. Their titles are, New Wonder; or, a Woman never Vexed, All's Loſt by Luſt, A Match at Midnight, A Shoemaker is a Gentleman, The Birth of Merlin, and the Witch of Edmonton.

In moſt of theſe plays there are diverting cir⯑cumſtances. They are generally taken from old Novels, which he ſeems to have been well able to dramatize. DODSLEY has printed the Match at Mid⯑night in his old Plays, which is full of very pleaſant intrigue, and, in the Birth of Merlin, SHAKESPEAR is ſaid to have lent ROWLEY aſſiſtance, which, though the opinion is not ill ſupported, ſeems very [274] unlikely. The ſuſpicion, however, is greatly ho⯑nourable to ROWLEY, if it was begotten by a peruſal of his writings, but even then it depends upon who were the judges, for till the world at large give their never failing deciſion upon occaſions of ſuch nice diſcrimination, the conoſcente are too often miſerably gulled out of their reaſon by their own conſent; a lamentable truth, of which we have had recent proof.

DAY, who appears to have been well educated, had a hand in ſome of the plays produced early in the reign of JAMES the firſt, with DECKER, ROW⯑LEY, and others, particularly The Travels of three Engliſh Brothers, Guy Earl of Warwick, and The Maiden's Holiday. He alſo wrote, unaſiſted, The Iſle of Gulls, which is taken from ſir PHILIP SIDNEY's Arcadia, and had ſucceſs; Humour out of Breath, of which we know nothing but the title; Law Tricks, which one author calls an admirable play, though no other appears able to give any account of it; The Parliament of Bees, which was nothing more than converſations between twelve perſonages, ſomething in the ſtyle of the Moralities; and the Blind Beggar of Bethnel Green, from which DODS⯑LEY took the materials for his ballad farce under the ſame title.

[275]Lord STIRLING roſe by his merit, from ob⯑ſcurity to a coronet. During the minority of JAMES the ſixth of SCOTLAND, he improved by a polite and elegant education, thoſe brilliant parts he inherited from nature. He obtained the patronage of the earl of ARGYLE, whoſe favour he won in quality of tutor while they were abroad, and, this introducing him to court, he was carreſſed, admired, and conſulted by the firſt ranks; till, by able con⯑duct, great merit, and a ſeries of fortunate circum⯑ſtances, he was made Secretary of State, created afterwards a viſcount, and at length an earl. His dramatic works are Darius, Craeſus, The Alex⯑andrian Tragedy and Julius Caeſar.

The firſt of theſe tragedies was a mere juvenile effort and can never be conſidered in a perfect light, as it was full of Scottiſms, and by no means calculated for the ſtage. The ſecond has a much better claim to attention, but it is wholly borrowed from Herodotus; and, indeed, all the works of this author are an imitation of the ancients, and parti⯑cularly of the phlegmatic SENECA. The third, in which the ghoſt of ALEXANDER is the principal part, and which is founded upon the differences that aroſe among the chiefs of ALEXANDER as to who was to ſucceed him, is ſtill more extravagant. [276] When he bequeathed his crown ‘"to the moſt worthy,"’ perhaps he had it in view to perplex the world as much after his death as he had done while living. He ſucceeded at any rate with this author, for the ſubject is ſo complicate for a play, that with a great deal of good writing, aed much claſſical knowledge, it was not in his power to bring the council of MELEAGER and PERDICIAS to any rational concluſion.

The fourth piece, Julius Caeſar, is a ſubject ſo familiar to every reader, that it is unneceſſary to ſay more than that lord STIRLING has ſhewn in it a competent knowledge of the Roman Hiſtory, and commented on that part of it with ſound judgment; but this play is not more regular nor better con⯑ſtructed than any one of the others, and indeed the author ſeems not to have gone ſo much for perfect dramatic pieces, as for mere erudite productions, for he calls them very emphatically four monarchic tragedies, and, his bringing in the chorus between the acts, and dreſſing up the matter in all the heavy and turgid pomp of SENECA, ſhews that it was his ambition more to be admired in the cloſet than on the ſtage.

Sir FULK GREVILLE, lord BROOK, whoſe life [277] may be read at large in FULLER's Britiſh Worthies, who was born the ſame year with ſir PHILIP SID⯑NEY, who was a great favourite of queen ELIZA⯑BETH, by whom he was created a lord, and who was diſtinguiſhed by his learning and his courage, has a claim to notice here in conſequence of his having written two tragedies called Alaham, and Muſtapha. They were, however, never acted, being upon the model of thoſe of lord STIRLING, full of decla⯑mation, and explained by choruſes. Lord BROOK, however, if he was not witty himſelf was the cauſe of wit in others; for, like his friend, he was a moſt liberal patron and benefactor to the dra⯑matic writers.

This amiable and celebrated character was mur⯑dered at the age of ſeventy-four by one of his de⯑pendants named HAYWOOD; who, not thinking his ſervices ſufficiently requited, mortally ſtabbed his maſter, and afterwards, to avoid an ignominious death, deſtroyed himſelf. This was in Brook Houſe, Holborn, where Brook Street now ſtands. On his monument in WARWICK Church, lord BROOK is ſtyled ſervant to queen ELIZABETH, counſellor to king JAMES, and friend to ſir PHILIP SIDNEY.

FIELD, of whom a good deal is conjectured, [278] becauſe but little is known, wrote two plays, called Women is a Weathercock, and Amends for the Ladies. Theſe plays LANGBAINE tells us will ſtill bear reading. I rather think, however, it muſt be by thoſe who are endowed with patience. They have nevertheleſs good materials but are full of ſtrange irregularities.

The firſt is dedicated to any woman who is not a weathercock, by which the author means quaintly to inſinuate that it is dedicated to nobody. It is warmly commended by CHAPMAN. The ſecond is an apology, or, as the author calls it, an amends to the fair ſex, for having written a ſatyr againſt them in his firſt play. It is imitated from the Curious Imper⯑tinent in DON QUIXOTE, which has been ſince treated on the French ſtage both by BROSSE and DESTOUCHES, and is alſo the ſubject of The City Night Cap, The Amorous Prince, and The Curious Huſband.

It is not ſettled whether FIELD the author, and FIELD the actor were the ſame perſon. We hear of a letter written by ROBERTS, the actor, to POPE, wherein he aſſerts that the FIELD in queſtion was the ſame whoſe name is always joined with HEM⯑MINGS, BURBAGE, and CONDEL, and the reſt of that [279] company, placed before the folio edition of SHAKES⯑PEAR's works, and alſo in the dramatis perſonae pre⯑fixed to the Cynthia's Revels of JONSON, but ſay thoſe who quote this authority, ‘"it is more probable that the FIELD, who was a fellow of New College, OXFORD, was the author."’ This, however, does not, with me, clear up the point at all; a good edu⯑cation being no more an impediment to good acting than to good writing.

FORD was one of the aſſociates of ROWLEY and the reſt. He alſo wrote eleven plays without their aſſiſtance, one of which, 'Tis a pity She's a Whore, DODSLEY has printed in his collection of old Plays, and which, of courſe, is the beſt, as no man knew how to ſelect with more judgment. He has, how⯑ever, choſen it, no doubt, for the writing, which is in many parts, ſtrong and poetical, for nothing can be more revolting than the ſubject; and, therefore, the warmer and more glowing the pictures of love are worked up, the more reprehenſible is the au⯑thor, becauſe the deeper is the wound given to ho⯑nour, and to decorum.

‘"But,"’ ſay the critics, ‘"the title bears out the the author, and the cataſtrophe is ſo ſhocking that that all thoſe who may be inclined to practiſe [280] ſuch monſtrous crimes, will be warned by it."’ Nothing can be more falſe than ſuch argument. No warning, no cataſtrophe can deter ſuch wretches as are here deſcribed; and, as to the title, Is ANNA⯑BELLA merely a ſtrumpet? No; ſhe is the ſtrumpet of her brother. And is ſhe to be pitied for that? Such reaſoning is equally monſtrous, ridiculous, and ſupererogate, and of courſe reprehenſible; for it is not the province of a dramatic writer to ſeek for mon⯑ſters, and to record prodigies; is it his duty to repro⯑bate ſuch vices as are commonly known, and often practiſed, in which catalogue, for the honour of human nature, inceſt without a motive has no place; but if it had, it ought to be introduced as a deed of darkneſs which could not be pleaded for or ar⯑gued on, even by the wretches themſelves, therefore, all we can ſay in favour of FORD is, to wiſh be had employed his beautiful writing to a more laudable purpoſe.

The Lover's Melancholy. This was a tragi co⯑medy, and we find it highly commended by verſes from different friends. The moſt remarkable cir⯑cumſtance concerning it, however, was its ſucceſs, and its conſequence. It came out in the ſame week that JONSON produced his New Inn, and was re⯑ceived warmly, while the other was damned, both [281] owing in great meaſure to the enemies that JONSON had conjured up, as we ſhall ſee by and by more particularly. This cynical, pedantic churl, who could not bear ſuch ſucceſs in a young author, for it was FORD's firſt play, among other ridiculous conduct, charged him with having ſtolen his ma⯑terials from SHAKESPEAR's papers, with the con⯑nivance of HEMMINGS and CONDEL; and this, together with other foreneſſes, brought about JON⯑SON's ears a thouſand ſquibs, one of which was called, Old Ben's light heart made heavy by young John's Melancholy Lover.

Love's Sacrifice, The Broken Heart, Perkin Warbeck, The Fancies Chaſte and Noble, and The Ladies Tryal, are ſpoken of as having had ſucceſs. They were well patronized, and highly commended by different poets, who were, perhaps, as happy to ſee the envious JONSON nettled, as the modeſt un⯑aſſuming FORD carreſſed. Beauty in a Trance, The Royal Combat, An ill beginning has a good End, and The London Merchant, are alſo ſaid to have ſucceeded; but they are loſt to the world through the ſame careleſſneſs of Mr. WARBURTON's ſer⯑vant, by which we were deprived of ſo many of MASSENGER's plays.

[282]DANIEL, had his dramatic writings being equal to his hiſtoric, would have claimed a forwarder place in this work. He was born two years before SHAKESPEAR, and embelliſhed the reign of ELI⯑ZABETH, as we have ſeen by giving to hiſtory a poliſh which till then was unknown to it. The ac⯑counts concerning him are very contradictory, ſome averring that he only lived fifty-ſeven years, and others eighty. Theſe are points, however, which I always ſteer clear of inveſtigating, fearing to imitate thoſe who are anxious to tell their readers how long an author lived, rather than to ſhew whether he lived to any good purpoſe.

The dramatic pieces of DANIEL are ſix in num⯑ber; among which, Cleopatra was eſteemed a well written production, but not well calculated for re⯑preſentation; The Queen's Arcadia, a compliment to queen ANNE, conſort of JAMES the firſt, is ſaid to have been borrowed from QUINAULT's Comedie Sans Comedies, and RANDOLPH's Amyntas, which is ſo far from the truth, that at the time this play came out, RANDOLPH was in his cradle, and QUINAULT was not born till nearly ſeventy years afterwards. Tethy's Feſtival was a thing merely writ⯑ten in honour of the unfortunate CHARLES, when he was created Prince of Wales, Hymen's Triumph was [283] alſo an occaſional thing on the nuptials of lord ROXBOROUGH, and The Viſion of the Twelve God⯑deſſes was again complimentary, DANIEL having written it as an allegorical repreſentation of the bleſſings of peace enjoyed under JAMES the firſt. So that it is plain he wrote his dramatic pieces in quality of poet laureat, and that he worked hard for his But of Sack.

This, indeed, is the worſt trait in the character of DANIEL, for the ſubjects of his productions were little worthy the verſes beſtowed upon them, and indeed, were we to take all we know of hiſtory, we ſhould find upon a compariſon that the worſt vices of bad men have been often gloſſed over by good poets, while the beſt virtues of good men have paſſed unrecorded; and the reaſon is evident. Vice needs the ableſt talents to defend it; virtue is its own advocate; and thus it is only that, by a col⯑lective review of various exertions, characters are accorded legitimate fame.

The other play of DANIEL, called Philotas, is ſaid to have very nearly joſtled him out of his ſeat as poet laureat on account of a report, ſuppoſed to have been connived at by JONSON who ſucceeded to that honourable poſt after him. This report was that DANIEL, in the character of PHILOTAS, had [284] brought forward the unfortunate earl of ESSEX, a ſubject certainly of too tender a nature to touch on at that time, and the conſequences became ſo ſerious that he was under the neceſſity of vindi⯑cating himſelf in an apology printed at the end of the play.

The fact of this report having been propagated there can be no doubt of, but the ground on which it is ſuppoſed that JONSON connived at it is not firm, for it is preſumed upon under an idea that the play made its firſt appearance in 1606, which is the period ad⯑mitted by every writer that I have looked into; but it has not the leaſt probability to ſupport it. I have no doubt the miſtake has ariſen from a ſuppo⯑ſition that DANIEL was only laureat to JAMES the firſt, whereas he ſucceeded to that ſituation at the death of SPENCER, four years before the death of ELIZABETH, during which time no doubt he brought out this play. Hence the predicament into which his enemies attempted to plunge him, and this ſpeaks for itſelf; for what did JAMES care about the earl of ESSEX?

I do not, however, mean to ſay that this excul⯑pates JONSON, whoſe envy was no doubt as tingling in the reign of ELIZABETH as in the reign of JAMES, and the hateful bent of whoſe private cha⯑racter [285] needs not this trait to magnify its deformity. My intention is only to give an added proof how little dates are to be relied upon, and to rectify falſe ipſe dixits by detecting them through circum⯑ſtances. The fact upon this principle as to DAN⯑IEL's plays is, that Philotas, which is allowed on all hands to be his firſt, he wrote in the reign of ELI⯑ZABETH; and, having had a taſte of that danger he was likely to run among his enemies at court, he deferred his other dramatic writings till the next reign; when, in order to keep on the ſafe ſide of the poſt, he went into the other extreme and quitted ſatire for adulation.

BREWER has been conſidered by all authors as a dramatic writer, and by many as a man of talents nearly equal to SHAKESPEAR, and yet ſome of them give him credit but for two plays of which they ſuſpect one was written by ſomebody elſe. From ſuch materials as theſe are writers obliged to collect hiſtory.

As the particulars of this diſpute are a little extra⯑ordinary I ſhall go into them in ſome degree by way of a leſſon to credulous readers. BREWER is ſaid, by thoſe who are willing to allow him, perhaps, more than the full extent of his merit, to have written ſix [286] plays under the titles of Landgartha, Love's Do⯑minion, Love's Loadſtone, Lingua, The Country Girl, and The Love Sick King, and thoſe who accord him this portion of fame. if it be any, among whom are WINSTANLEY, and PHILLIPS, ſay alſo that he was a man of moſt extraordinary genius, which is recorded in a poem, called Steps to Parnaſſus, where he is ſuppoſed to have the magic power of calling in the Muſes to his aſſiſtance; thus be⯑coming to SHAKESPEAR that ſort of rival that HESIOD is ſaid to have been to HOMER.

LANGBAINE, JACOB, GILDON, and others, however, allow him to have been author of only the laſt two, and LANGBAINE ſuſpects one of theſe not to have belonged to him becauſe it was pub⯑liſhed with the initials T. B. whereas had it been BREWER's, it muſt have been A. B. which con⯑jecture certainly has probability enough to ſup⯑port it.

The reſt, who have been at ſome pains to aſcer⯑tain the truth in this buſineſs, congratulate them⯑ſelves upon having DODSLEY's poſitive authority that, in addition to theſe two plays, BREWER wrote Lingua. Now this happens not to be the truth, for DODSLEY gives no poſitive opinion on the [287] ſubject, but ſays merely that WINSTANLEY has given this play to BREWER, but that LANGBAINE will not allow it to belong to him, which is all perfecly right in DODSLEY, his buſineſs being to collect old plays belong to whom they might. He, therefore, pledges himſelf to none of theſe opinions; but, on the contrary, ſays that CROM⯑WELL, having performed at CAMBRIDGE the part of TACTUS in the play, which is a contention among the ſenſes for a crown, it has been fooliſhly ſaid, by WINSTANLEY, LANGBAINE, and the reſt, to have inſpired him with ambition^*.

[288]To ſhew the reader, however, how far this au⯑thor merits ſo much contention, and to what a de⯑gree he was ſo dangerous a rival to SHAKESPEAR, Lingua, though it has ſome good writing, is little better than one of the Moralties; The Country Girl is not known enough for any author to give a deſcription of it, and The Love Sick King was only preſerved to be altered into a very poor piece, called The Perjured Nun; and as to the other three plays, the very ſame authors, who inſiſt they were written by BREWER, give Landgartha to BURRELL, Love's Dominion to FLECKNOE, and as to Love's Loadſtone it has ſo loſt its attraction, if it ever had any, they have not been able to find it at all: ſo completely have they deſerted the ſame of their their favourite and their own conſiſtency; which, that it may be all of a piece, has been ſo correct that they do not even know when BREWER wrote, for they make OLIVER CROMWELL act originally in Lingua, who muſt have been but eight years old when that play, if it may be called ſo, was publiſhed.

Of theſe authors I have, perhaps, given a more particular account than their merits or my limits warranted. I had a mind, however, to notice as much of their celebrity as would ſerve to ſtrengthen the reputation which the ſtage held in this early yet [289] remarkable era; but there were many other dra⯑matic writers ſome of whom I ſhall ſlightly mention.

BARNES, who was the ſon of a biſhop, and ſerved in the army under the celebrated and un⯑fortunate earl of ESSEX, wrote a play called The Devils's Charter, in which he has endeavoured to hand down to execration that moſt contemptible of all characters Pope ALEXANDER the ſixth. He has framed his play upon the model of PERICLES, Prince of TYRE, for having taken his ſtory from GUICCIARDINI, he makes him his interlocutor ex⯑actly as the other author conjures up GOWER, the old Engliſh bard, for the ſame purpoſe.

TO BASKER, of whom we have little certain in⯑telligence, is attributed a play called The Bloody Banquet, but with very little propriety perhaps, be⯑cauſe the initials J. D. are prefixed to it. BEL⯑CHIER DRAWBRIDGECOURT wrote or tranſlated a ſtrange thing called Hans Beer Pot's inviſible Co⯑medy; ſo uncertain, however, is all the intelligence we procure concerning ſuch authors, particularly as they get more inſignificant, that this piece has been aſcribed to NASH.

BROWNE, whoſe works were collected and [290] publiſhed ſomething more than twenty years ago, wrote, in 1623, a dramatic piece called The Inner Temple Maſque. CAMPION, a phyſician in the reign of JAMES the firſt, was author of two compli⯑mentary pieces in the ſtyle of thoſe written by DANIEL. COOK wrote a comedy which DODS⯑LEY has thought it worth his while to publiſh in his old Plays. It was called Green's Tu Quoque, and written in compliment to an actor who had a me⯑thod of jeering, or as it is called at this day, of quizzing, his friends, by uttering comically thoſe words^*.

TAILOR wrote The Hog hath loſt his Pearl, a ſtrange comedy, that DODSLEY has, however, to give an idea of the contraſt between different early writers, publiſhed alſo in his twelve volumes. TOMKIS certainly wrote well, and probably more than was attributed to him. We can point to no⯑thing, however, but Albumazar, from which DRY⯑DEN [291] has accuſed JONSON of having pilſered his Alchymiſt. This fact has been warmly diſputed upon the old rotten ground of relying upon dates, which, in moſt of the writers, ſubſtantiate that the Alchymiſt was performed four years before Albu⯑mazar; but we have ſeen how vague theſe ſort of authorities generally are and it is very unlikely that DRYDEN ſhould commit himſelf upon this ſub⯑ject without being perfectly ſatisfied of what he aſſerted.

MASON wrote a tragedy called Meleaſtes the Turk, of which nothing is noticed but that the au⯑thor had a better opinion of it than it deſerved. MACHIN, whoſe name has been reſcued from oblivion by DODSLEY, who publiſhed his comedy called The Dumb Knight, hardly deſerved that compliment, for it is one of the worſt in the col⯑lection. SHARPMAN is ſcarcely known, and the poor glimmering of his merit that has reached us is through a borrowed light in the ſhape of a comedy called The Fliere, which he ſtole from MARSTON's Paraſitaſter.

GOSSON wrote three pieces, one of which was a Morality. They were not printed, and what we know of them from report is vague and unim⯑portant. TOURNEUR alſo wrote three pieces [292] which we know as little about. A cotemporary has of him this notable remark.

WILKINS wrote a piece called The Miſeries of enforced Marriage, which was very little celebrated, although Mrs. BEHN thought it worth while to ſteal from it the plot of her comedy called The Town Fop. LEGG wrote two plays which were performed at CAMBRIDGE, where he was twice Vice Chan⯑cellor, ſo there can be but little doubt of their having ſucceeded. They were not printed, how⯑ever, nor can any account be given of them.

Theſe authors DYMOCK, BARRY, and others, make up all who, during the time of SHAKESPEAR and JONSON, were publicly known as dramatic writers; but there were anonymous plays produced to the number of about thirty, beſides thoſe already mentioned, ſome of which are now known, and two or three of them are in DODSLEY's collection; and now, having pretty well cleared my ground, I ſhall have better opportunity of giving fair play to JONSON; a review of the remainder of whoſe works await the reader's attention.

CHAP. VI. JONSON RESUMED.

I SHALL now proceed to a final examination of the works of JONSON; who, after the death of ELIZA⯑BETH, produced one tragedy and nine comedies, beſides a great variety of occaſional complimentary maſques, principally in quality of poet laureat.

Volpone; or the Fox, was performed in 1605, and has been generally conſidered as JONSON's beſt production. Certainly the plot is upon a very meritorous principal, and the characters are forcibly drawn. A knave who feigns illneſs in order to im⯑poſe upon knaves, and cheat them of their money by working up their credulity into a belief that each ſhall become his heir, is one of the boldeſt ideas of a character that can be conceived, and yet moral juſtice is rendered more complete by making that knave impoſed upon by another of yet ſuperior cunning; ſhewing that the machinations of the wicked, be they ever ſo ſubtle, are conſtantly coun⯑teracted by the ſame devil that inſpired them.

[294]The groop of characters that are introduced to work up thoſe materials, are full of contraſt, ſtrength, and nature; would not one think it, therefore, very extraordinary that this piece, even ſupported by ad⯑mirable acting, has never greatly ſucceeded? No⯑thing, conſidered ſuperſicially, can be ſo unaccounta⯑ble; but, when the ſubject is fairly inveſtigated, no⯑thing can be more clearly comprehended. Quaint, dry, ſtudied correctneſs, unſupported by quickneſs, ſpirit, and fire, can never ſatisfy. The author in this piece conducts us into a uniform and pro⯑tionable building, preſents us with an entertain⯑ment, and introduces us to company, but the apart⯑ments are cheerleſs vaults, the viands are carved marble, and the gueſts are ſtatues.

The ſame objections lie againſt the Silent Woman, though upon the whole, perhaps, it is a better play for general approbation; but it muſt not be denied that with the ſame faults it poſſeſſes at leaſt the ſame perfections. This piece is partly taken from OVID, partly from JUVENAL, and partly from PLAUTUS, and, therefore, poſſeſſes the merit of an excellent imitation; a quality JONSON was better acquainted with than invention. DRYDEN, has gone at large into an examination of this play, but nothing can prove that it has that ſterling attraction which begets for a dramatic production univerſal ſatisfaction; not even [295] that judicious and ſenſible alteration of it by COL⯑MAN, which was brought out, yet not with very warm ſucceſs, in 1776, at Drury Lane.

The Caſe is Altered, performed in 1609, is one of the pooreſt of this author's productions. It is in ſome reſpects borrowed from PLAUTUS, but does no great credit either to the original or the imitator; in ſhort, it is one of thoſe inſtances which we notice through all his works how bounded and contracted JONSON's talent's were; which ſeldom reached to nature or her beſt imitators the Greeks, but were ſatisfied with copying thoſe clumſy apes of them the Romans. What ſhould we ſay of a ſculptor who contentedly made MICHAEL ANGELO, admirable as he was, the excluſive model of his imi⯑tation, forgetting, or perhaps not knowing, that ſuch an artiſt ever exiſted as PHIDIAS.

The Alchymiſt was performed in 1610. This comedy, which was laudably written to ridicule a prevailing folly, muſt, no doubt, have been greatly ſucceſsful originally, ſince we have ſeen it very much followed and admired during the time GAR⯑RICK ornamented the ſtage. His incomparable performance, however, of ABEL DRUGGER was a conſiderable drawback from the proper reputation of the author, and in great meaſure the cauſe of the [296] ſucceſs of the play; at the ſame time it muſt be confeſſed that the beſt acting can do nothing with⯑out good materials, with which certainly the Alchy⯑miſt abounds.

JONSON's beſt poſition as the foundation of his plays has been the old proverb, ‘"when knaves fall out honeſt men come by their own,"’ and this he has often ſucceſsfully played upon. In the preſent inſtance his knaves, by not being very great rogues, and by employing their art only to work upon cre⯑dulity, beget an uncommon intereſt, and the au⯑dience almoſt applaud the waggery of FACE, and the dry humour of SUBTLE, upon principle. The Alchymiſt, however, will probably never again be celebrated; but this is more owing to the ſubject, which of courſe grows every day in a greater degree obſolete, than to any deficiency in its dramatic re⯑quiſites, although the inſuperable objection to JON⯑SON in a degree prevails here as well as every where elſe; for though his comic characters do not actually wear the buſkin, yet the ſock has ſuch high heels and is made of ſuch ſtiff materials, that the cha⯑racters ſtalk inſtead of trip, and thus we have quaint⯑neſs for nature, affectation for grace, and awkward⯑neſs for eaſe^*.

[297] Bartholomew Fair, performed in 1614. This ſtrange play, out of which might be framed the hu⯑mour of half a dozen farces, is fuller, perhaps, of comic characters than any thing that ever appeared on the ſtage. We are given to underſtand that JONSON wrote it purpoſely to ridicule the age in which he lived, for the prevalent preference given to low wit, inſtead of poliſhed and refined writing. If this was his motive he has outwitted himſelf, [298] for there is more nature in Bartholomew Fair than in any one of his other works; but yet, being as it is, crammed full of extraneous and hetrogeneous inci⯑dents, he has as much overſhot the mark as he had come ſhort of it in his Cataline, which this play was written purpoſely to defend; that tragedy having nothing intereſting in it, on account of its dullneſs and declamation; and this comedy, on account of its wildneſs and extravagance.

The Devil's an Aſs, produced in 1616. This comedy is not mentioned by any writer as having had extraordinary reputation. The circumſtance of giving the cloak to the huſband for permiſſion to make love to the wiſe is taken from BOCCACE, which has been ſince uſed in the Magnifique, and from thence borrowed by Mrs. CENTLIVRE. Parts of this play may be read with pleaſure, but no talents, however able, could give it a form that might en⯑title it to ſucceſs on the ſtage.

The Staple of News. This comedy, which ac⯑cording to the date appeared originally in 1625, was very probably ſoon diſcontinued, for it has the fault of Every Man out of his Humour, and is conveyed to the audience through the medium of a grex. There is in it, what will be found every where in JONSON, found ſenſe and ſhrewd obſervation, but it [299] is ſenſe and obſervation couched in terms which, though they may be written, will never be ſpoken; and it is this eternal objection to the pieces of this author, that will ever keep them aloof from the theatre.

The New Inn; or, the Light Heart. This co⯑medy made its appearance in 1631, and was ſo ill re⯑ceived that JONSON, whoſe merit, great as it was, fell upon all occaſions ſhort of his inſolence, in⯑ſtead of wiſely pocketing the affront, and mending his errors, whether in judgment or in calculation, for the future, printed his play with a libel againſt its actors and its auditors at its head. The trait is curious, and therefore I ſhall tranſcribe the title.

‘"The New Inn; or a Light Heart. A comedy never acted but moſt negligently played by ſome of the king's ſervants and more ſqueamiſhly be⯑held and cenſured by others, the king's ſubjects, 1629. Now at laſt ſet at liberty to the readers, his majeſty's ſervants and ſubjects, to be judged."’

Were not this a fact to which the world has borne teſtimony, it could not be credited that a man of talents ſhould be ſo contemptibly arrogant, ſo pitifully vain, ſo groſsly ignorant of ſound ſenſe and decorous propriety, as to erect himſelf into a deſpotic [300] dictator in the empire of poetry, and impudently announce that men ought to think and feel when and how he ſhould think proper to give them leave, or elſe, like PETER's fiat in The Tale of the Tub, be damned they and theirs to all eternity; and yet this ſtate, ſtrong as it may appear, is not a particle ſhort of the real truth; for not content with the above pompous title, by which one would think he forbad any reaſonable being to read his play, he prefixed to it a fort of anathema, by way of an ode, which I ſhall tranſcribe that my readers may judge him by his own words. It is addreſſed to that god of his idolatry, himſelf.

[303]Having written this ode, JONSON ſeems to have ſit down contentedly under the blind idea that he had corrected the age, and indeed ſo he had in one reſpect, for he had convinced that public, who had ſhowered down numerous ſavours on him, that he was unworthy ſo generous a protection. In the idea, however, that what he had done was unan⯑ſwerable, he was ſo deceived, that FELTHAM, an inferior poet, produced a ſort of parody on his ode, or rather an anſwer to every article of it, that threw him and his inſolent pretenſions moſt com⯑pletely into ridicule. Attend to FELTHAM.

Beſides FELTHAM, there was ſcarcely a wit of that day who had not ſome ſome ſling at this King Log. We have ſeen in the buſineſs of FORD how many lampoons were levelled at him; but nothing galled him more ſeverely than SUCKLING's Seſſion [306] of Poets, in which this faſhionable young, but neat, writer moſt ſucceſsfully ridicules him for his pre⯑ſuming to be the pedagogue of his cotemporaries. The following diſtich will ſerve as a ſpecimen of the pleaſantry that runs throughout the whole of the ſtrictures. He ſays BEN broke ſilence,

In this conteſt, JONSON deprecated his un⯑toward fate; for the blows he received were fol⯑lowed up ſo ſucceſsfully that he never produced any thing afterwards but the literary hue and cry was raiſed againſt him, and he was brought forward to receive critical juſtice.

The Magnetic Lady, his next play, ſcarcely made its appearance but the wits began to tear it to pieces like ſo many crows about a putrid carcaſe. Doctor GILL, maſter of St. PAUL's ſchool, and BEN, pen in hand, had a pitched battle, in which the doctor, though a man of no genius, ſlogged his antagoniſt like a very ſchoolboy. In the diſpute, as it always happens in theſe caſes, the public at firſt intereſted themſelves, but getting cool, the merit of the piece, for it had ſome, ſell unnoticed in the general indifference.

[307] A Tale of a Tub, the laſt piece written by JON⯑SON, eſcaped criticiſm in great meaſure by its in⯑ſignificance. Writers, however, were not wanting to charitably deplore that falling off evidently ma⯑nifeſted in the humour of this piece, which ex⯑hibits nothing better than ſpirits drained to the very lees, and which DRYDEN calls the dotages of JON⯑SON. Some charitable friend ſhould by this time have admoniſhed this debilitated wit to have lain down a weapon which he was no longer able to wield; but, perhaps, ſuch counſel was wiſely with⯑held, leſt the adviſer and the adviſed ſhould have acted the ſcene of GIL BLAS and the Biſhop^*.

The various Maſques written by JONSON, in ſome of which we find ſound poetry and good imagery, were generally complimentary, and in number about thirty-four, ſome of which, how⯑ever, were mere trifles, and others written ſolely for the amuſement of the queen and her ladies, who performed in them. The ſubjects are generally political and ſervilely foiſted in to keep him ſteady [308] in his ſeat of laureat; and, as they were generally repreſented through the medium of ſuperb decora⯑tions deſigned by INIGO JONES, they can be con⯑ſidered, taking them generally, as nothing more than a vehicle to ſet off his ingenuity.

Thus have we ſeen, in the works of JONSON, the prototype of the man. They were full of fancied pomp, weight, and dignity, affected juſtice, truth, and perſuaſion, diſguiſed rancour, malice and envy, and real meanneſs, ſervility, and adulation. As a member of ſociety he was haughty, rude, and overbearing; as a friend, miſtruſtful, treacherous, and unſafe; and, as a foe, dark, revengeful and daſtardly.

He was one of thoſe, who, having no virtue in themſelves, hate virtue in others, for he never could bear to be upon terms with any but thoſe whom he deſpiſed while he flattered, and who, ſucked in the nutriment for their vanity through his proſtituted pen.

Manly, open, candid communication with man⯑kind he diſdained. His repulſive mind could em⯑brace nothing kind, nothing fair, nothing rational. Thus we ſee among all his connections he neither [309] deſerved nor kept a ſingle friend; and, whether we mark him by his rank ingratitude to SHAKESPEAR, who foſtered him and licked his bear-like genius into form, his poor and cowardly fears of DECKER, MARSTON, CHAPMAN, HEYWOOD, FORD, and the reſt, his unprovoked inſolence to Cardinal PER⯑RON who ſhewed him ſo much civility in FRANCE, his artful intrigues againſt DANIEL, his unjuſt and wanton ridicule of INIGO JONES^*, to whom he owed ſome of his beſt reputation, his inſolent and undutiful ſlander of his ſovereign who had loaded him with benefits, or by any other ſimilar brand; if theſe are a fair title to fame, an honourable inſignia of renown, a legitimate claim on the gra⯑titude of poſterity; if theſe exhibit a ſingle con⯑ſtruction of wiſe, great, good, or rare, let us quote his eulogium from his tomb and cry—O Rare BEN JONSON^†![310]

CHAP. VII. SHAKESPEAR RESUMED.

WITH the ſame pleaſure that men return from ex⯑erciſing the common buſineſs of life, to whatever object they conſider as the reward of their toil, do I now ſhake off leſs intereſting purſuits in this la⯑bour, to return to SHAKESPEAR; the remainder of whoſe works I ſhall examine, and notice ſuch col⯑lateral circumſtances relative to them as may beſt ſerve to ſhew the foundation of their claim to that immortal rank they hold in the records of poſterity.

The firſt play, according to the accepted dates, that SHAKESPEAR produced, after the death of ELIZABETH, was Meaſure for Meaſure, in which there are many and various traits of thoſe inimitable beauties that pervade the writings of this boaſt of literature. Nothing can be managed with more art and underſtanding than the conduct of the deputed [312] ANGELO, who, proud of his authority, overſtrides that very power of which he himſelf incurs the penalty.

How beautiful is the ſcene where ISABELLA pleads for her brother. Can any thing go beyond this

And again

ANGELO's ſoliloquy, in which he deplores that he is caught in the ſame ſnare of the man whom he had condemned to die, is admirable and ſhews with what judgment the Duke pitches upon this weak, irreſolute, and fallible character, to rouſe the ſleep⯑ing laws of VIENNA, while he himſelf ſtands by to prevent any ſerious miſchief; ſhewing that when he ſhall come to exerciſe thoſe laws himſelf, how many ſtrong motives will cry out in favour of lenity.

ANGELO's ſecond ſcene with ISABELLA, where he unmaſks, under the idea that if ſhe ſhould refuſe [313] him and even proclaim his infamy the ſanctity of his character will ſhield him with the world from all diſagreeable conſequences, is again maſterly.

The Duke's ſcene with CLAUDIO, in which is the celebrated ſpeech on the inſignificance of life, un⯑matchable but in SHAKESPEAR, is remarkable for good conduct, eſpecially as it gives the Duke an opportunity of liſtening to the converſation between ISABELLA and her brother, where ſhe opens her heavenly mind in the language of angels, eſpecially in her defiance of that weak and irreſolute brother, for whom upon principles of honour ſhe had pleaded. Where, but in SHAKESPEAR, ſhall we find ſuch language as this?

But this is a vein more agreeable than proper to indulge, for we muſt not here go into a diſſertation on the beauties of SHAKESPEAR, I ſhall, there⯑fore, conſider this circumſcribed privilege rather as a favour than a right, and uſe it as ſparingly as poſſible; and, if I ſhould ſometimes catch myſelf at making too free with it I hope I ſhall be excuſed on account of the temptation.

Doctor JOHNSON, who has ſometimes, though [314] not here, manifeſted ſound ſenſe in his judgment of SHAKESHEAR's plays, ſays that the ſerious language of Meaſure for Meaſure has more labour than ele⯑gance. If he looked in his own Dictionary for the etymology of elegance, which is there defined to be beauty without grandeur, he is right, for this lan⯑guage is ſweetly beautiful and unaffectedly grand. The noble virtue, the true greatneſs, and the fe⯑minine honour of ISABELLA, are every where con⯑veyed through ſentiments of reſponſive eloquence, and the great and commanding juſtice of the Duke, who learns the temper of his ſubjects to govern them, and who chuſes for a wife the moſt amiable of thoſe ſubjects, are dreſſed in language no leſs conſonant. This ſurely is grandeur of language, and, therefore, according to the Doctor, not ele⯑gance. I hope he was aware of the compliment this negative praiſe would pay SHAKESPEAR^*.

He alſo ſays the plot is more intricate than [315] artful. This is ſurely a contradiction in terms. Can there be intricacy without art, and is not a dramatic poet's beſt art to keep his plot intricate? But theſe are the criticiſms of thoſe who deal in epithets who weigh inſtead of feel, and who, in a fancied conſi⯑deration of what they are unequal to themſelves, ſet up an imaginary ſtandard of excellence for men whoſe genius is ſuperior to their comprehenſion.

The plot of Meaſure for Meaſure is admirable both as a public and a private moral. The language is beautiful in the ſerious parts, and eaſy and full of vicacity in the comic. The characters are perfectly natural and well conſtructed; and, were the unity of time correctly obſerved, a matter however, in the preſent caſe, of no moment, it would be at all points a complete dramatic production.

Cymbeline, performed in 1604. Againſt this wonderful production has the pen of doctor JOHN⯑SON blurted out a moſt unqualified and thought⯑leſs denunciation. His words are: ‘"To remark the folly of the fiction, the abſurdity of the con⯑duct, the confuſion of the names, and manners of the different times, and the impoſſibility of the events in any ſyſtem of life, were to waſte cri⯑ticiſm upon unreſiſting imbecility, upon faults [316] too evident for detection, and too groſs for aggravation."’

How much eaſier it is to ſay this, than to de⯑fend it; and how much more do theſe ſour, haſty, envious ſtrictures ſpeak the ſnarling cynic than the candid critic. Suppoſe every word of this chari⯑table declaration to be truth, ought a man to be tried only by his faults? Will doctor JOHNSON ſubmit to this ordeal? Are there no beauties in Cymbeline? Did not doctor JOHNSON know that when GARRICK performed POSTHUMUS, and for ſome years afterwards, particularly when POWELL came forward, that it was the delight of the public? And will SAMUEL JOHNSON ſo far imitate his ex⯑emplar BEN as to ſay the public are a ſet of ſtupid idiots becauſe they do not admit the infallibility of his ipſe dixit? But let us ſee if the facts to which theſe aſſertions relate will bear the doctor out.

The characteriſtic of that fiction which ſerves the beſt purpoſes of morality, which teaches ſuffer⯑ing innocence to wait patiently its recompence, which puniſhes vice and rewards virtue, is not ‘"folly;"’ that conduct by which theſe ends are accompliſhed is not ‘"abſurdity;"’ thoſe events on which that con⯑duct is founded are not ‘"impoſſibilities,"’ therefore [317] ſo far the Doctor is unſupported by truth. No⯑thing can be more moral, more intereſting, more poſſible than the plot of Cymbeline.

If the puniſhment of the preſumptuous IACHIMO, the fool CLOTEN, and the wicked ſtepmother Queen, the reward of the ſweetly enduring IMOGEN, and the generouſly miſtaken POSTHUMUS, the reſto⯑ration of the diſguiſed Princes to their father, who had been deceived and miſled, and the kingdom to peace and to happineſs, is not moral and truly thoſe very circumſtances which conſtitute the beſt pur⯑poſes of the drama, what is?

Such events as theſe may be conducted by means too intricate, and I am the firſt to confeſs that theſe are the faults of this play; but to ſay that they are ſo ‘"groſs,"’ ſo unpardonable, as we are taught by doctor JOHNSON to believe, and that Cymbeline is therefore a maſs of ‘"unreſiſting imbecility,"’ would be to write a libel upon the whole kingdom; many of whom have the ſtory, bad as it is, rivetted in their memories, and can repeat numberleſs of the moſt beautiful paſſages in it by heart. Even VOL⯑TAIRE is obliged to allow this; why will not doctor JOHNSON?

The ſtory of Cymbeline is uncommonly dra⯑matic, [318] and after all the cavilling in the world the utmoſt that can be ſaid about it is, that, though the play has but one plot, it has ſeveral epiſodes. The outline of the plot, however, is perfectly ſimple, and attempts at no more than, what SHAKESPEAR has accompliſhed in his Meaſure for Meaſure and other plays, the reſtoration of private happineſs and public tranquility.

The tree it muſt be granted has many branches and yet it is extremely difficult to know where to lop, leſt not only deformity ſhould ſucceed ſmyetry, but that ſome vital part ſhould be wounded; pruning therefore was all that could be found practicable, and this was ſo well done by GARRICK, in a con⯑ſultation of his friends, that I believe it would be a difficulty to find a play on the ſtage that now, as well as at the time doctor JOHNSON ſaw it, could be entitled to a greater degree of reputation^*.

[319]The London Prodigal, performed in 1605. As this play has with one voice been voted not to have been written by SHAKESPEAR, my ipſe dixit could be of little conſequence were I to give a contrary opinion which, however, no man can do who takes the trouble to peruſe it.

It has been remarked that two things are extra⯑ordinary relative to this play; one, that it ſhould be publicly acted at SHAKESPEAR's own theatre with his name affixed to it, and the other, that he ſhould be ſo negligent of his fame as to ſuffer ſuch an im⯑putation to paſs unnoticed. The firſt, if true, would be extraordinary enough; but there is no ma⯑terial proof of its truth and, againſt mere report, which I have frequently ſhewn has been ſeldom upon theſe occaſions to be relied on, we have the poſitive evidence of our ſenſes that it would be im⯑poſſible for SHAKESPEAR to have admitted of a [320] ſpurious piece that would either riſk or aſſiſt his reputation, the ſplendor of his talents, and the recti⯑tude of his conduct giving the lie completely to ſuch a ſuppoſition; and for the laſt, if it was only imagined by the world in general to have been written by SHAKESPEAR it would have been an im⯑peachment of thoſe talents and that rectitude, had he for a ſingle moment thought it worth his while to refute the calumny.

King Lear, produced in 1608. To dwell upon beauties that all the world knows and feels is nei⯑ther novel, nor neceſſary. As it is, however, im⯑poſſible to withhold one's admiration of any thing ſingularly meritorious we are not only entitled to pardon but thanks for endeavouring, by freſh obſer⯑vation, to revive a ſubject that has given and will for ever give univerſal delight.

Upon this principal, if we only bring to public recollection thoſe beauties in this aſtoniſhing play, on which they have ſo often dwelt, and with ſo much pleaſure, offering the ſame proſpects yet al⯑tering the lights and the ſhadows, the merit of the ſubject may recommend the portrait to notice.

In King Lear the three grand ends of tragedy are completely effected. Pity, terror, and delight, have [321] an equal ſhare of this admirable compoſition and ſometimes one, ſometimes another, and often all of theſe paſſions are excited, in a manner maſterly even to aſtoniſhment.

Can pity be more beautifully awakened than in the ſufferings of the loyal and venerable GLOSTER, the miſeries unnaturally inflicted on the tender, cre⯑dulous, choleric, but noble LEAR, or the unavailing filial piety of the angelic CORDELIA? Can terror be more tremendouſly rouſed than by the wicked⯑neſs of GONERIL and REGAN, or the blind adop⯑tion of EDMUND by GLOSTER? Can delight be more legitimately gratified than by the conqueſt of ſtruggling virtue over inordinate vice?

If theſe paſſions are called forth with all this ve⯑hemence, with all this art, and with all this truth, how much muſt we admire the judgment with which they are applied. It is not in tragedy who dies, but who dies lamented, and who execrated. Here are a knot of virtue's beſt votaries, of honour's trueſt advocates; they live to behold the diſcom⯑fiture of their enemies, but it is then too late to re⯑pair that ruin of which their imprudence had been the cauſe. On the other hand the infamous ſet who [322] had dared to put nature, honour, and decency at defiance, fall execrated even by one another.

LEAR, in mind an angel, in temper a man, hopes, by exerciſing an act of unparalleled generoſity, to be thanked and admired by all the world; and in particular by thoſe on whom he has conferred this extraordinary benefit. He finds himſelf diſappointed at ſetting out by the obſtinacy of that daughter whom moſt he loved, and from whom he expected the moſt unequivocal obedience. He is naturally choleric, and, from that moment to the end of his life, meet⯑ing with nothing but contradiction and provocation, which is wound up to a paroxyſm at loſing CORDE⯑LIA, whoſe duty he had juſt recognized, and who comes to deliver him from his enemies, life becomes a torment, and his death is inevitable, and conveys in a moſt ſolemn moral, how much miſchief may be cauſed by one ſingle act of imprudence. GLOSTER is in the ſame predicament.

The rapidity, yet the collectedneſs, with which the mind accompanies the author from one ſituation to another is reſiſtleſs, and the conduct of the ac⯑tion is ſo correct and ſpirited that it does not ſink for a ſingle moment. As for the diſcrimination, the ſingle circumſtance of the diſtinction between the [323] feigned madneſs of EDGAR and the real madneſs of LEAR, is enough to ſtamp the judgment of the poet with ſuperlative reputation.

But what pen ſhall do juſtice to the language? None but his own; nor can any thing but quotations from SHAKESPEAR ever illuſtrate him. When LEAR corrects his haſtineſs, and flatters himſelf that CORN⯑WALL's reaſon for not ſeeing him is indiſpoſition, not arrogance, how charming are theſe lines.

The epithet ‘"commands"’ is exquiſite. How greatly majeſtic is the language of LEAR in the ſtorm? How grand are the firſt ſix words?

The image conveyed in calling the flaſhes of lightening, in the ſame ſpeech,

is greatly poetic. The next ſpeech in which he deprecates the elements, yet accuſes them with joining with his daughters againſt a head ſo old [324] and white as his, is facinating as well as the beau⯑tiful tranſition

Further on, where he dares the guilty to face the ſtorm and bear the admonitions of their own gnawing conſciences, is another happy and bold object in the groupe, which again changes moſt fe⯑licitouſly to a conſciouſneſs of his own rectitude, in the words

As the reflections are more and more en⯑duced by the objects of horror that ſurround him, they become more and more poignant, noble, and profound. What for ſimplicity, for truth, for grandeur, and for conviction can exceed this?

And then how melting is the following exclamation;

afterwards, upon the approach of another miſerable [325] object, in EDGAR, how natural and affecting is the queſtion,

and upon KENT's ſaying he has no daughters,

What wonderful flights has this happy author hit off on the madneſs of LEAR, what variety and wild truth is there in that ſpeech with which he breaks in, upon GLOSTER's ſaying

Having heated his ideas in the reſt of his ſpeech againſt adultery, the tranſition

is wonderfully happy. After this ſays GLOSTER,

Theſe are a very few of the beauties of Lear; a play that might erect a monument of fame, not only for the author himſelf, but for the country in which he wrote. In ſhort the faults of this play [326] are trivial, the merits are magnificent; and the fair judgment on it may be reduced to this. It is as its ſtands equal to any thing for the cloſet, for even the fool, though he retards the action, is full of ex⯑quiſite wit, and with a very few judicious alterations it would make a moſt complete tragedy for the ſtage. The piece, however, is certainly injured by the admitted alteration by TATE, becauſe it takes away from the grandeur of the original plot and the juſtice of the cataſtrophe. COLMAN brought out at Covent Garden a better alteration, but the idea of ſeeing the play end happily, which is from the pur⯑poſe of tragedy, has now obtained, and, TATE hav⯑ing the voice of the public in his favour, it is very unlikely that any other alteration will be attempted.

Macbeth, brought forward in 1606. When we look at the many, the extraordinary, the exquiſite beauties of Lear, it is ſomething more than won⯑derful that on the following year SHAKESPEAR could produce Macbeth, a tragedy ſo well invented, ſo greatly conducted, and ſo inimitably written. Lear unites many intereſts, and intereſts many paſſions; Macbeth illuſtrates one paſſion alone, from which many intereſts iſſue; and in this it is ſuperior to Lear, becauſe the ſingle moral enforced is never abſent from the mind.

[327]Where ſhall we find ambition, its terrible and deſtructive conſequences, and its dreadful and head⯑long downfall ſo vividly deſcribed? Here, indeed, is terror laudably and ſtrongly excited. 'Tis little to ſay that there is nothing in literature equal to it. We have ſeen monſters in nature, going from one ferocity to another, deface countries, depopulate nations, and ſtand like inſatiate tygers grinning over their trembling prey; but it was reſerved for SHAKESPEAR to mould a man who had bought ‘"golden opinions of the world"’ into a monſter, and gradually plunge him into ſuch iniquity that his example one ſhould think would baniſh ambition from the world for ever.

Thus the principal character in the picture is conſtantly held up to you, always in a different at⯑titude, and each attitude more terrific than that which went before it. When MACBETH returned from the field, where he had gloriouſly juſtified his ſovereign and preſerved his country, his mind was occupied with reflections too noble to have hailed the honours that were thickening about him, other⯑wiſe than by their fair and legitimate title; nor, till the Devil, in the ſhape of the weird ſiſters, tempted him to his ruin, and inſpired his wife to forward their infernal purpoſe, did he in the ſmalleſt degree ſhrink from his fealty.

[328]How beautifully manifeſt is this in his conflicts with himſelf. He is firſt timid, then wavering, then determined, then guilty; and, what is maſterly, even to wonder, he neither ſees his actual danger, nor queſtions the ambiguity of his tempters, till he has atchieved the end of his ambition. Thus he hurries from deſperation to deſperation; yet, ſtill retaining ſome faint colour of his original nature through his numerous and ſanguinary villanies, he deplores his wickedneſs with philoſophy, and holds his courage to the laſt.

As to keep up the conſtant excitement of terror and to warn the ſpectator into virtue, is the great object of this tragedy, ſo the means to attain that object are as aſtoniſhingly purſued as they are various and material. The propheſy of the witches on the barren heath, the temptation of lady MACBETH, the ap⯑pearance of BANQUO's ghoſt, lady MACBETH's con⯑feſſing her crimes in her ſleep, the deception of the witches in the cavern, which opens his mind to the folly of his truſting the Devil that had deceived him, are the ſteps that gradually lead to that height of deſpair from which he can neither advance nor retreat; and the few grains of pity at his fall, which are mixed with univerſal execration, make the example more terrible, for they remind us that this fiend was a human creature.

[329]As to the language of MACBETH take it for na⯑ture, for truth, for grandeur, for pathos, or indeed for any other particular excellence, to read it is to rivet the attention, and to taſte it to compliment the underſtanding. It would take a volume to deſcribe its beauties, and when the willing taſk were performed it would be as vain and as uſeleſs as to deſcribe daylight.

The imputed fault of this play is that its au⯑thor has called in ſupernatural agents; but, though there are ſome writers that had better avoid this, I believe all readers of taſte will pardon it in SHAKESPEAR. Certainly credulity might have been played on through the medium of dreams, and various other means; but SHAKESPEAR has in Macbeth given us a Scottiſh ſtory, and, therefore, introduced us to people who had a ſtrong belief in witches, ſecond ſight, and who indulged themſelves in other ſuperſtitious whims; beſides to warn the weak and credulous againſt illuſive predictions was here moſt laudable, and this even doctor JOHNSON defends, who ſays SHAKESPEAR was right to do this, though ſome parts of this expedient may now ſeem improbable^*.

[330]But let me be forgiven for indulging myſelf in a few quotations. I ſhall not follow any chain but take them at random. MACBETH thus argues with himſelf.

This heſitation induces lady MACBETH to fortify his mind with moſt diabolical firmneſs. She re⯑minds him of his oath, and ſays,

How wonderfully admirable is the epithet in the [331] ſecond line, ‘"the babe that milks me."’ Nor muſt we forget the ſpeech of lady MACBETH in which are theſe words,

After he has committed the murder how awfully beautiful are theſe words,

When MACBETH reflects how much more happy are the murdered innocent than the living mur⯑derer, he ſays,

In the fifth act, when MACBETH, driven to the toil and hopeleſs, begins to feel the approaches of deſpair, and looks every where in vain for a re⯑ſource, he deplores his miſpent life in theſe words:

And afterwards to the doctor,

Then this reflection when the queen is dead.

Upon his hearing of the approach of Birnan for⯑reſt he utters in deſpair

I ſhall here reſtrain my pleaſure, and leave theſe paſſages from MACBETH warm with the reader, to ſpeak its commendation.

After ſo much violent exerciſe of the mind, no wonder SHAKESPEAR ſhould, in his next production, feel himſelf inclined to treat a comic ſubject. The Taming of the Shrew came out the ſame year as Macbeth, on which comedy I ſhall have the leſs to ſay, having already deſcribed its merits when I ſpoke of it in oppoſition to FLETCHER's play of the Woman's Prize. It has great merit, as the world can witneſs for me, but its grand fault is that there are in it two plots inſtead of a plot and an epiſode, and therefore the whole play never had brilliant ſucceſs. The comedy, however, which we know under the title of Catherine and Petruchio, and which is an alteration by GARRICK from SHAKES⯑PEAR, is perfect in all its parts, and will no doubt be conſtantly a favourite with the public as long as true humour is conſidered as a requiſite in comedy.

Of Julius Caeſar, which play SHAKESPEAR pro⯑duced the following year, the critics have com⯑plained [334] becauſe that warrior's death did not make up the cataſtrophe of the piece. Had this been the caſe, however, the author muſt have uſed in every reſpect different materials, and have wrought his piece upon an entirely different plan; for it was not his intention merely to ſhew the workings of the conſpiracy, till its meditated conſummation and there leave it, but to diſplay the conſequences of that aſſaſination.

As theſe, however, are fairly wrought up, and productive of great intereſt and variety, I believe there are few who regret that SHAKESPEAR took this courſe. For one thing it would have been a pity to have loſt the ſpeeches of BRUTUS and AN⯑TONY over the body of CAESAR, which contain perhaps, ſome of the moſt ſterling oratory to be found in any language, not excepting the con⯑tention of AJAX and ULYSSES for the armour of ACHILLES.

It muſt be confeſſed the unities are all broken, and there is much extraneous matter brought into the piece, but the inimitable beauties that ſo thickly pervade it ſpring out of theſe circumſtances, nor do we ſo much incline to cavil at this inconguity, ſince we ſee through it treaſon diſcomfitted, and the death of CAESAR revenged.

[335]But if, upon the whole, the features of this tragedy are more maſſed than ſhaped, we are greatly recom⯑penced by peculiar beauties, however extraneous. The ſcene of BRUTUS and PORTIA, though it comes to nothing, is very fine; ſo is that of CAESAR and CALPHURNIA; and, perhaps, there never was a grander picture of the infirmity of human nature than the quarrel and reconciliation of BRUTUS and and CASSIUS. The very ghoſt of CAESAR is awful in the extreme; and, ſo intimidates the army of the conſpirators, that it may properly be ſaid CAESAR is his own avenger.

Upon the whole, conſider this play as a regular tragedy, it is faulty in many points, conſider it as hiſtorical it is ſupportable; but, conſider it as an effort of genius, and it is incomparable.

A Yorkſhire Tragedy, produced in 1608; is by ſome attributed to SHAKESPEAR; as however all his commentators, except Mr. STEEVENS, have agreed to reject it, to avoid unneceſſary cavil, we will agree ſo far with them as to ſay that it ſeems to ſtand in a predicament ſomething between Pericles, and Locrine; for though there are evidently many images which appear to have emanated from the mind of SHAKESPEAR, thoſe paſſages ſeem rather [336] to have been written for the aſſiſtance of another than that the whole belonged to himſelf. Let the belief, however, reſt either way, the merit of it can⯑not aſſiſt any more than the imperfections of it can diminiſh his reputation.

Anthony and Cleopatra was performed 1608. This play from which was formed the materials for DRYDEN's All for Love, a tragedy of moſt inimi⯑table beauty, in many inſtances however tranſcends it, and would never probably have been touched by that exquiſite poet, had not the unities been ſo ill purſued in SHAKESPEAR that the mind cannot ac⯑commodate itſelf to ſuch a ſtretch of probability.

SHAKESPEAR's play takes in part of the life of FULVIA, her death, ANTHONY's return to ROME, his marriage with OCTAVIA, his return to CLEO⯑PATRA, the battle of ACTIUM, ANTHONY's death, and CLEOPATRA's captivity and death; and, if the queſtion had been for an author to have wrought intereſt out of complexity, SHAKESPEAR has greatly accompliſhed this end; for, in the words of doctor JONSON, ‘"the continual hurry of the action, the variety of incidents, and the quick ſucceſſion of one perſonage to another call the mind forward without intermiſſion from the firſt act to the laſt."’

[337]It muſt, however, be confeſſed this intereſt is more extraneous than collected, or rather there are a number of broken intereſts which ſpring more from novelty than reflection; thus, though there are many great and admirable particular beauties, the conduct is disjointed, and the pleaſure we receive it diſtracted by perpetual interruption.

The characters of the piece are well drawn. You ſee in ANTONY, in ROME, the ſame artful orator that ſtirred the Romans againſt the aſſaſſins of CAESAR, and, in EGYPT, the fond, the doating, the credulous lover that loſt his world by gazing. The imbecility of LEPIDUS, is as powerfully drawn, and ſo is the cunning of OCTAVIUS CAESAR, who depoſes LEPIDUS at pleaſure, and makes the in⯑juries of his ſiſter a pretence to deſtroy his more noble but infatuated rival.

CLEOPATRA is drawn in a yet more maſterly ſtyle; and, leſt we ſhould ſail to loſe her enticing image for a moment, the deſcription of ANTONY's meeting her upon the river CYDNOS, ſpeaks a hiſtory of her and all ſuch voluptuous ſyrens. The bur⯑niſhed gold that burnt on the water, the flutes that kept time to the oars, the purple ſails, the ſilk tack⯑ling, ſhe reclining in her pavillion, the boys like [338] ſmiling Cupids fanning her, her nymphs like Ne⯑reides, the incenſe that perfumed the air, all com⯑bine to conquer the conqueror ANTONY.

This is her firſt ſtroke of art. Afterwards by how many matchleſs graces does ſhe enſlave him; and, unfortunately every way for ANTONY, his firſt wife was ugly, and his ſecond he married merely to patch up a truce with OCTAVIUS CAESAR; who, afterwards conſolidated the empire in himſelf, and acquired the title of AUGUSTUS by working on the different weakneſſes of ANTONY and LEPIDUS.

The whole of CLEOPATRA's conduct is con⯑ſiſtently worked up; the ſame ingredients are every where infuſed; and ardent love, quick jealouſy, unconquerable pride, conſcious dignity, and con⯑ſcious levity, are evident in every look, word, and motion, and therefore her language is made to conſiſt of rapture, reproach, haughtineſs, eloquence, and blandiſhment. This portrait of her we receive at the hands of SHAKESPEAR; and, whether we ſee her parting from ANTONY, ſtudying to endure his abſence, receiving the news of his ſecond marriage, greeting him on his return, provoking him to fight by ſea at ACTIUM, conſoling him on his defeat, playing him falſe with CAESAR's ambaſſador, luring him into ſecurity, helping him on with his armour, [339] congratulating him on his victory by land, endur⯑ing his death, reſolving her own; each ſcene, each ſpeech, has a ſhare of theſe and other correſpond⯑ing qualities.

There are ſome admirable ſubordinate points moſt nobly introduced; among theſe are CAESAR's cool reception of thoſe friends who have fallen off from ANTONY, the apoſtacy and compunction of ENOBARBUS, and that exquiſite trait of honour in POMPEY; who, when he is perſuaded by MENAS aboard the galley, to diſpoſe of ANTONY, CAESAR, and LEPIDUS, and be conqueror of the world, greatly rejects the offer, becauſe they are his gueſts, in theſe words:

But thoſe who would know the admirable and various beauties of this greatly meritorious pro⯑duction muſt read it, and it will then be found that, whatever general faults it may have in its component parts as one piece, it has particular excellence enough to furniſh materials for the whole reputation of any reaſonable author.

Coriolanus performed in 1609. Men of extra⯑ordinary [340] genius chuſe ſometimes unproductive ſub⯑jects to work upon, in order to ſhew with what art and management they can conquer the moſt irre⯑concileable difficulties. To reduce the hiſtory of CORIOLANUS into a play was one of thoſe labours, which our dramatic Hercules has atchieved in a moſt wonderful manner; but after all, the labour is ſcarcely worth the pains, for, except the ſingularly noble character of CORIOLANUS, there is nothing correctly great in the piece.

The high ſpirit of VOLUMNIA is neither great⯑neſs nor dignity; it is merely loftineſs. She con⯑ceives herſelf a Spartan mother, and would ſacrifice every thing to her ſon's honour, and ſhe perſuades him to debaſe himſelf by flattering the people to ob⯑tain the conſulſhip; and when, upon nobly diſdain⯑ing to follow ſuch unworthy advice, he is baniſhed that country which he had preſerved, and driven by its ingratitude to take up arms againſt it, ſhe once more tries her influence over him by which means a ſlaviſh peace is patched up for ROME, which ter⯑minates in the triumph of his enemies and the ac⯑compliſhment of his death by the ungrateful Vol⯑cians, whom he had imprudently ſerved.

Thus there is nothing effectual nor juſtifiable, taken upon poetic ground, in the cataſtrophe. [341] MENENIUS, with all his friendſhip and good na⯑ture, is ſet down where he was taken up, he neither does good nor harm. The tribunes, SICINIUS, and BRUTUS, who deſerve more the Tarpeian death than CORIOLANUS does baniſhment, inſtead of being puniſhed, live and are happy, and VOLUMNIA, VIR⯑GILIA, and her children exiſt to deplore the death of the ſon, the huſband, and the father, and the folly of having intruded on him their officious, weak, and unavailing virtue.

If SHAKESPEAR had departed from hiſtory, this play with a very little trouble to him would have been complete even to perfection. Who does not ſee that, if the Volcians had bravely reſiſted the calumny of AUFIDIUS, puniſhed him for his per⯑fidy, and made the reſtoration of CORIOLANUS to his country the terms of a laſting and honourable peace, the cataſtrophe would have been correctly poetical, and that a moſt patriotic moral would have been inculcated.

As it is, however, one very ſtrong leſſon is en⯑forced; that it is impoſſible to ſerve the ungrateful, and that the puniſhment of the wicked may be ſafely truſted to the hands of fate.

For the language; the beauties of SHAKES⯑PEAR [342] are always reſplendant, and his diction always appropriate; which we ſhall conſtantly find in this play; whether we trace the mind of the truly no⯑ble CORIOLANUS, the fondly proud VOLMUNIA, the daſtardly envious AUFIDIUS, the ſimply honeſt MENENIUS, or the raſcally artful Tribunes, whoſe baſe minds never could forgive ſuch taunts as theſe.

But I ſhall not have ſpace for extracts, and muſt therefore refer the reader to the play.

We have next in Timon of Athens, which was brought out in 1610, a kind of Coriolanus of an⯑other ſpecies, as fortunately handled, and more hap⯑pily conceived, becauſe private and domeſtic virtue is more a ſubject for the heart than public and pa⯑triotic. The ingratitude of which CORIOLANUS has to complain is from his country, that of TIMON is from his friends; one ſubject therefore is grand, the other pathetic, one great, the other intereſting.

It is on this account that Timon of Athens arreſts the attention to a degree of facination, and yet [343] TIMON is not ſo much pitied as that ingratitude is deplored; for there is a degree of oftentation an⯑nexed to his character, and therefore his liberality has a ſpecies of prodigality in it, and his generoſity is rather ſplendour than munificence.

All theſe ſhades of diſtinction SHAKESPEAR has moſt beautifully preſerved, and, indeed, it ſeems every where to have been his darling ſtudy rather to warn men againſt imprudence, which may be avoided, or at leaſt remedied, than the vices iſſuing from it, which when once committed are hopeleſs and without remedy.

TIMON gives; but we hear nothing of his re⯑lieving the diſtreſſes of honeſt poverty, neceſſitous virtue, or unrewarded merit, and, therefore, he is not munificent; he is vulnerable to flattery and pays the price of it, he gives to thoſe who have enough already, he laviſhes till his coffers are empty, and his lands mortgaged to pamper thoſe he knows to be undeſerving; this is not munificence.

But this is not all. He is aware of the ruin he ſeeks, he falls by choice; nor is it neceſſary, his follies are ſo glaring, ſo palpable, ſo known to him⯑ſelf, that his amiable and friendly ſteward ſhould [344] perſuade him, or the blunt APEMANTUS rail him out of his imprudence.

This, however, does not palliate the infamy of their ingratitude who, pampered and enriched by his bounty, deſert him in his diſtreſs. The ſtamp of their apoſtacy, of their villany, of their meanneſs is indelible. They are, as TIMON himſelf ſtyles them, ‘"courteous deſtroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, trencher friends, time's flies, cap and knee ſlaves, vapours and minute jacks."’

Thus all the puniſhments and rewards are equi⯑table. TIMON ſuffers for his imprudence; he is ruined by prodigality and folly, and requited by vexation and diſappointment. The Athenians are ſcourged and are ſunk into ſhame and remorſe at the recollection of their ingratitude to TIMON, and ALCIBIADES, the deſtruction of whoſe mutual ene⯑mies is inſiſted on, as the guarantee of peace with ATHENS. Nay even their own gold, which they had penuriouſly hid, is made the inſtrument of their chaſtiſement at the very hands of thoſe they had wronged, for it is found by TIMON, and applied to encourage the army of ALCIBIADES.

The warmth and ſpirit of the language, in many [345] places, has no parallel even in SHAKESPEAR; but its great beauty is its conſiſtency. TIMON, always in extremes, execrates the whole human race for in⯑gratitude he has experienced only from the Athe⯑nians, while APEMANTUS, conſtitutionally a miſan⯑thrope, makes no diſtinction between TIMON in proſperity or adverſity, but rails at his folly in both ſituations, and tells him rude but honeſt truths.

When TIMON, in the firſt act, tells him he is proud, he ſays he is proud of nothing ſo much as that he is not like TIMON. When he aſks him to dine; no, ſays he, ‘"I eat not Lords!"’ and after⯑wards to the poet, ſpeaking of TIMON, ‘"He is worthy of thee and to pay thee for thy labour; he that loves to be flattered is worthy of the flatterer."’ He ſays to TIMON at the dinner:

and then, for proof of his ſincerity, he thus aproſ⯑trophizes.

[346]When he meets TIMON in the woods, how ſe⯑verely, but how truly does he rate him.

The language of TIMON is all blandiſhment in proſperity, all execration in adverſity, and SHAKES⯑PEAR has done well in making APEMANTUS ſay to him, ‘"The middle of humanity thou never kneweſt."’

At the banquet, while his own heart is open and he ſtrives in bounty to outdo friendſhip, he ſays to thoſe, who, as APEMANTUS properly remarks, are eating him up, ‘"I have told more of you to myſelf than you can in modeſty ſpeak in your behalf, what need of friends if we ſhould have no uſe for them? They are the moſt needleſs things living, and would reſemble ſweet inſtruments, hung up in their caſes, that keep their ſounds to themſelves."’

In adverſity, he is altogether ſerocious, and purſue him from his denunciation of the Athenians, [347] to the digging of his grave, we find the ſame conſiſtent, ſteady hate; equally headſtrong, equally falacious, and equally indiſcriminate.

His diſappointment, when he is digging for roots and finds gold, is greatly conceived, and his extra⯑vagant exclamation in conſequence of it is admira⯑bly fine; he ſays, as he digs,

Next in the ſcene with ALCIBIADES, to whom he is thankleſs, though his wrongs are one motive of his revenge:

The whole of this ſcene is wonderfully written. Being left alone, he ſays as he reſumes his digging:

Numberleſs traits of this nature may be ſound in this admirable piece of exquiſite writing, with one more of which I muſt content myſelf. When TIMON, through the repreſentation of his ſteward, finds himſelf reduced to ruin, he exclaims, with aſtoniſhment:

To which he receives from the ſteward this af⯑fectionate reproof:

We come next to the beſt play upon the whole of SHAKESPEAR, and ſaying this it naturally follows that it is the beſt the world can produce. Othello was performed in 1611. Works of great merit, which carry with them the criterion of excellence, ſoar ſo far above praiſe that the ableſt pens and the warmeſt inclinations are inadequate to do them juſtice, and even doctor JOHNSON has handſomely allowed, that ‘"the beauties of this play impreſs themſelves ſo ſtrongly upon the reader that they draw no aid from critical illuſtration."’

The more reſplendant, however, great and aſtoniſhing objects are, and the admiration of them is diffuſed and general, the more do they extort from us involuntary praiſe. They are like our common ſalutations on the bleſſings of health and the beauty of the weather; which, though they are ſimple and ſelf evident, are always eloquent, becauſe they are ſincere and heartfelt.

To deſcribe the noble, vivid, and honeſt mind of the honourable and abuſed OTHELLO; violent in his love, ſlow in his ſuſpicious, and terrible in his revenge, muſt be done invariably by every writer in the ſame language, for there cannot be [350] two ways of explaining what every body have agreed upon.

The ſubtle, fullen, ſtudied villany of the cold blooded IAGO; inſenſible to honour, friendſhip, and gratitude; who laughs at conſcience, ſpurns at generoſity, and wounds virtue; and the ſweetly innocent DESDEMONA; who, having in the choice of her huſband given proof of boundleſs confidence and diſintereſtneſs, and, therefore, cannot conceive the poſibility in nature of her being ſuſpected, are known and acknowledged for characters as critically natural, and as warmly intereſting, as they are maſterly drawn.

Even the ſubordinate characters are full of in⯑tereſt. The brave and generous CASSIO, who little ſuſpects any ill effects from the confidence he un⯑warily places in an inſidious villain, is made ſub⯑ſervient to the malignant plot againſt OTHELLO's peace of mind; in which RODERIGO is the plyant tool that his credulity and vanity completely fit him for; nor is AEMILIA without a conſiderable ſhare of conſequence in the groupe; for, without her, the infamous purpoſes of her diabolical huſband would not be completed, nor his detection accompliſhed.

In ſhort, for truth of character, knowledge of hu⯑man [351] nature, intereſt, gradually developed and greatly wrought up, that continually varies, occupies, and attracts, and that leaves the mind ſatisfied, and the judgment convinced, there never has been among all the critics worth notice more than one voice upon the ſubject of this play, and the utmoſt that has been advanced at all againſt it is the infraction of the unities, which it is agreed would have been ſufficiently remedied if the ſcene had been lain in CYPRUS; for my own part, and I believe I am not ſingular in my opinion, as the ſcene of OTHELLO and DESDEMONA before the Senate contains in⯑tereſt and language which has been the delight and wonder of all hearers and readers, I am very well content that the unities in OTHELLO, broken as they are, ſhould remain as we find them in SHAKESPEAR,

As for the language; I dare not truſt myſelf with an examination of it for fear of getting into un⯑warrantable length. Thoſe who wiſh to know and feel its merit muſt read the whole play, for there is ſcarcely a paſſage in it that has not ſome remarkable beauty, I ſhall however be excuſed, perhaps, for noticing a few of the moſt admired ſcenes.

The ſcene of the Senate, where OTHELLO de⯑livers his round unvarniſhed tale, is for declamation [352] one of the fineſt things in the world, which might eaſily be proved by a compariſon with the ancients, but that it would be too elaborate for my purpoſe. Thoſe who wiſh to make the experiment will when the taſk is accompliſhed range on my ſide; and to go to the fountain head, for truth, for glow, for ſtrength, for nature, they will not find a cauſe ſo pleaded throughout the whole Iliad, admirable as that poem is; and, this admitted, what a glorious thing it would have been for literature had SHAKESPEAR written an epic poem in blank verſe!

SHAKESPEAR in this ſcene does not blink the queſtion, he admits the ſtrange improbability that

Thus it is not wonderful BRABANTIO ſhould conceive that OTHELLO had practiſed witchcraft upon her; but, when with honeſt unaffected truth he has related that he won her by an artleſs tale of the danger he had paſt which ſhe ſaid ‘"was pitiful, was wonderous pitiful!"’ and the Duke inſtantly exclaims

[353]With perfect good ſenſe he utters theſe words:

But when DESDEMONA in moſt unqualified terms confeſſes that ſhe loves OTHELLO, that ‘"her heart was ſubdued even to the very quality of her lord,"’ that ‘"ſhe ſaw OTHELLO's viſage in his mind,"’ and that ‘"to his honours, and his valiants parts, ſhe con⯑ſecrated her ſoul, and fortune,"’ no circumſtance of objection remains.

This, however, is the foundation of what is to follow. Nothing can get over a degree of capriciouſ⯑neſs in the conduct of DESDEMONA, for ſays IAGO, ‘"what delight can ſhe have to look upon the Devil,"’ and it is impoſſible but a conſciouſneſs of a diſparity between them muſt often occur to OTHELLO; who, though not ‘"eaſily jealous,"’ by ‘"trifles light as air,"’ that ‘"are confirmations ſtrong as proofs of holy writ,"’ is at length ‘"perplexed in the extreme."’ A preſcience of all this BRABANTIO ſeems to have had, when he parts from them.

Theſe words are ſpoken in the preſence not only [354] of OTHELLO, but IAGO, who afterwards makes a a notable uſe of them; and, though OTHELLO anſwers

Yet that they ſink into his mind, and remain latent there, till they come in contact and are called into action by IAGO's arts is evident; for, when IAGO remarks that in her not affecting ‘"many propoſed matches of her own clime, complexion and degree, whereto we ſee in all things nature tends, one may ſmell in ſuch, a will moſt rank, foul diſproportion, thoughts unnatural."’ OTHELLO after having ſtruggled with his ſuſpicions, exclaims, ‘"Why did I marry?"’ So that in this play SHAKES⯑PEAR has again inculcated that grand leſſon for hu⯑man nature, to beware of imprudence.

Never was any thing managed with ſuch art and nicety as the circumſtances which create the jealouſy of OTHELLO. SHAKESPEAR knew he had a noble mind to overthrow, and he has managed it by artful, gradual, and natural means. CASSIO is pitched upon by IAGO as the principal tool, to whom RODERIGO and AEMILIA are ſubordinate.

CASSIO is noble, generous, brave, and hand⯑ſome. He was privy to the loves of OTHELLO [355] and DESDEMONA, and has outſtept IAGO in pro⯑motion. Who then ſo proper to be the inſtrument of his intereſt, his hatred, and his revenge? But this were not enough, if RODERIGO did not pro⯑voke him to quarrel, and AEMILIA to ſteal the handkerchief. Upon theſe confirmed facts IAGO ventures to aſſert others; till at length the Moor, ‘"perplexed in the extreme,"’ like ‘"the baſe Ju⯑dean throws a pearl away richer than all his tribe."’

When he ſees CASSIO ſteal away from DESDE⯑MONA, out of conſcious ſhame for the fault that he was betrayed into by IAGO, the artful villain ex⯑claims, ‘"I like not that!"’ And this firſt rouſes the ſuſpicions of OEHELLO, who is unconſciouſly from that moment jealous; the quick progreſs of which paſſion he ſtrongly feels in his notice that IAGO echoes him.

[356]How well, immediately afterwards, does the noble unſuſpecting nature of OTHELLO burſt forth as he deſcribes unconſciouſly both what IAGO is, and what he thinks him:

IAGO takes this very hint; and, leſt he ſhould be taken for ſuch a knave, which knave he is though OTHELLO cannot ſuſpect him to be ſo, he ſays, ‘"Perhaps his thoughts are vile,"’ that ‘"he is vicious in his gueſs,"’ and that ‘"tis his nature's plague to to ſpy into abuſes,"’ therefore ſays he,

He next to ſhew how tenderly reputation ought to be handled exclaims,

Wrapt up in his beſt ſecuritys OTHELLO's good [357] opinion, he cautions him to beware of jealouſy, and having at length ſet him upon the rack, appears, as if put to the torture himſelf, to be wrought upon by his friendſhip to a reluctant confeſſion of what it was all along his aim to make OTHELLO draw from him. He then opens his pretended ſuſpicions, hints his doubts of CASSIO, bids OTHELLO remember, quoting BRABANTIO's words, that DESDEMONA had deceived her father, marrying him; and, when by theſe and other infidious arguments, he has ſhook the whole ſoul of the brave Moor, he moſt artfully utters with affected ſimplicity and compaſſion

To which, his heart burſting, he anſwers, with conſtrained coolneſs,

The whole ſcene is wrought up in the ſame maſterly manner, till IAGO has made ſuch an inroad to OTHELLO's heart that it is vulnerable every where, and trifles light as air corrode and burrow in it. The ſucceſſion of circumſtances, that gra⯑dually heighten the plot from this moment, are ma⯑nagement itſelf. OTHELLO is confirmed in every thing but the truth. IAGO ‘"is a fellow of exceed⯑ing honeſty,"’ and DESDEMONA's to be ‘"whiſtled [358] off and let down the wind to prey at fortune."’ She comes and he exclaims that ‘"if ſhe be falſe Heaven mocks itſelf!"’

Next he is on the rack and vents his fury againſt IAGO who at leaſt he thinks officious.

And again, in deſpair,

Then the tranſition from deſpair to extacy.

In this paroxyſm he rages higher and higher, till IAGO, knowing his right cue, undertakes to give him the proof he requires; and the dream, and the diſpoſition of the handkerchief, work him to ſuch a pitch that againſt CASSIO he exclaims

[359]This calls up an apoſtrophe to vengeance, and the concluſion is that IAGO undertakes the death of CASSIO, and OTHELLO goes apart to furniſh himſelf

Previouſly, however, conferring on IAGO the firſt ſymptom of his reward by making him his lieutenant.

If we go on to the ſcene where OTHELLO taxes DESDEMONA with the loſs of her handker⯑chief^*, ſhe perpetually reiterating the reſtoration [360] of CASSIO, and he demanding his preſent, which, he ſays, ‘"was given to his mother by an Egyptian who told her that, while ſhe kept it, it would make her amiable, and ſubdue her huſband en⯑tirely to her love, but that, if ſhe loſt it, or made a gift of it, his eye ſhould hold her loathly,"’ we ſhall ſtill ſee the ſame art and management. Again, in the next ſcene with IAGO, where he is wrought into a frenzy. After this comes the ſcene with LO⯑DOVICO when he reads the letter from VENICE, which calls him home and deputes CASSIO in his ſtead, a cunning ſtroke in the author, for it gives [361] DESDEMONA a freſh opportunity of ſoliciting their reconciliation. This he cannot bear. He ſtruggles with the conflict, till, provoked beyond his rea⯑ſon, he ſtrikes her. Her meekneſs, duty, and re⯑ſignation, enrage him ſtill more, and the ſpeeches uttered in broken ſentences where he is ſtung to death at her fancied infidelity, and CASSIO's real advancement, though at the ſame time he ſtrives to keep down his lively feelings, leave him an object of aſtoniſhment to the characters, of pity to the ſpectators, and of horror to himſelf—ſays LO⯑DOVICO

The next ſcene with DESDEMONA is greatly managed. He is now every way wrought up, and and it is impoſſible, though his interview is for the purpoſe of knowing the truth, that ſhe can dreſs it in language to be believed. AEMILIA has juſt ſaid

But 'tis too late. What anſwers OTHELLO to this?

[362]After this of what avail can be all the proteſta⯑tions of the poor unhappy, devoted creature, her⯑ſelf. It is this which makes the ſcene ſo warmly intereſting. We know that it is not in rhetoric to move him, and that the more truth ſtares him in the face, the more the phantom that haunts him dreſſes it in the garb of falſehood, and yet we flatter our⯑ſelves that he will be undeceived.

Innocence, conſciouſneſs, and rectitude, weigh nothing. He deplores the falſehood he believes, and will not ſee the verity that ſolicits him. He is diſtracted at the ingenuous ſweetneſs he fancies ſhe puts on, and is confirmed in his rooted ſuſpicions by the very courage with which ſhe meets his unmerited ingratitude; his nature ſuffers, but a falſe pride tempts him to falſe juſtice, and nothing can now prevent her fate.

DESDEMONA's ſcene with AEMILIA, and after⯑wards with the inexorable villain IAGO, are beau⯑tifully tender and irreſiſtibly melting. Her ſweet lamentations are exquiſite. IAGO's hypocriſy is happy, and AEMILIA's quick reſentment in which SHAKESPEAR has moſt fortunately blended the amiable in the virago, is truly the ebulition of an honeſt, enraged, feminine heart.

[363]She ſays that ſome eternal villain has deviſed the ſlander, to which IAGO replies,

We are now ripe for the cataſtrophe, which, if it has any fault, is too ſhocking. DESDEMONA's ordering her wedding ſheets to be put on the bed is mournfully moving, and the labouring of OTHELLO's ſwelling heart, while he meditates the murder, is awful to aſtoniſhment. ‘"It is the cauſe my ſoul,"’ ‘I'll not ſhed her blood,"’ ‘"yet ſhe muſt die,"’ ‘"put out the light,"’ and the con⯑ſequent remarks, upon theſe broken phraſes are highly intereſting.

DESDEMONA's waking, her inviting OTHELLO to bed, her gradual apprehenſions, and at length her reading her fate in his eyes, which ſhe ſays are fatal when they roll, are full of dread and terror. Theſe ſenſations increaſe as her juſtification of her⯑ſelf induces her to call for CASSIO to undeceive him, for this brings to the recollection of OTHELLO the orders he had given IAGO.

Nothing upon earth can breathe the language of an innocent and injured mind more than this laſt line, but how can the tortured ſoul of OTHELLO ſee this?

Her fate is now inevitable; his rage is at its ut⯑moſt, and the dreadful conſequence follows.

In the next ſcene with EMILIA, which is re⯑quiſite to the detection of IAGO, a ſtrong intereſt is ſtill kept up. The faithful creature, hurt to death at the ſcene before, is all heart; and when OTHELLO confeſſes that IAGO ſet him on, ſhe exclaims

All the rhapſody that follows is equally warm, vivid, and forcible. The other characters are at⯑tracted by the alarm; the credulous Moor is unde⯑ceived, and the deteſted IAGO doomed to the torture. OTHELLO's death is but too neceſſary, and he falls admired, cenſured, and lamented; or in his own better words ‘"an honourable murderer."’

[365]There are yet two plays of SHAKESPEAR to be examined, The Tempeſt, which appeared in 1612, and Twelfth Night, produced in 1614. The firſt is a freſh inſtance of the creative fancy of this in⯑comparable writer, and the other a fair and moſt humourous deſcription of natual manners.

Perhaps nothing can be ſuperior to the great di⯑verſity, extenſive variety, the oppoſition of in⯑telligent to vulgar characters, acriel to earthly, the admirable judgment, the philoſophic grandeur, and the ſtrong juſtice that mark the Tempeſt, or the elegant nature, the true humour, the whimſical equivoque, the neat point, the irreſiſtible pleaſantry that characterize Twelfth Night.

In the Tempeſt, the noble revenge of PROSPERO, the fallen ambition of ALONZO and ANTONIO, and the union of FERDINAND and MIRANDA are ſtrong circumſtances, and as greatly treated as they are poetically conceived. The magic is of that kind which in SHAKESPEAR we are impelled to call natural, and the diſtinction between the ſprite ARIEL, and the monſter CALIBAN, could origina [...]e from no other mind. Upon the whole there is ſuch a mixture of grandeur, pathos, nature, pleaſantry, and intereſt; that, at the ſame time every curioſity is on tip toe, every wiſh is gratified.

[366]As to the language; I could, with much plea⯑ſure, and without any difficulty, get myſelf into the ſame ſcrape as I did in the examination of Othello; but I muſt put a curb on my inclination; not, how⯑ever, without noticing that from this play the critics have very judiciouſly ſelected the propereſt ſpeech in the works of SHAKESPEAR, or, indeed, in the em⯑pire of letters, to ſerve for his epitaph^*.

[367]As for Twelfth Night; if in the violent love of [368] ORSINO for OLIVIA, her ſudden attachment to VIOLA, the marriage, under the likeneſſes ſhe bears to her brother SEBASTIAN, and he to her, huddled up with more ſpeed than prudence, and at laſt ORSINO's willingneſs to forego his former paſſion and wed VIOLA, we find more perplexity than art, more creation than nature; we are abundantly re⯑compenſed by ſome of the fineſt ſtrokes of humour the ſtage has produced in the ſcenes between ſir TOBY, ſir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and the reſt.

The trick played by this ſet upon MALVOLIO is moſt happily comic; and, though perfectly natural, is ſo ſingularly whimſical, that SHAKESPEAR himſelf is conſtrained to make FABIAN ſay, ‘"If this were played upon a ſtage now, I would condemn it as an impoſſible fiction."’

The language of Twelfth Night is full of beauty [369] judgment, and maturity; and we are taught by it to regret the prodigious literary treaſure which would have been the further boaſt of this kingdom had SHAKESPEAR been bleſt with longer life, and continued to labour for the advantage and amuſement of mankind. The ſpeech, ‘"She never told her love,"’ &c. is in every body's mouth, and many other admirable paſſages are all well remembered.

With this play, which finiſhed the brilliant ca⯑reer of SHAKESPEAR, I have brought up my ac⯑count of that aſſemblage of dramatic talents that ornamented the reign of JAMES the firſt; an era, not⯑withſtanding all that has been ſaid againſt it, which certainly has no parallel, and when we take in the conſideration of the ſhort time the theatre had eman⯑cipated from the rudeſt barbariſm and arrived to a degree of perfection it never knew before through⯑out the world, and which I am afraid it will never know again; and, alſo that this perfection was ſolely and entirely owing to SHAKESPEAR, the proud con⯑cluſion for the honour of this country is too decided to need an obſervation^*.

[370]In ſhort, though there are many faults which at⯑tach to every writer of that time, theſe are faults mag⯑nified by a compariſon with SHAKESPEAR's more reſplendant abilities. More dramatic poets wrote then and their various perfections were more univer⯑ſally felt than ſince, but they were planets and their ſatelites, to which SHAKESPEAR was the ſun. JONSON wrote for the learned, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER for the faſhionable, MASSINGER for the elegant, but SHAKESPEAR wrote for all the world.

CHAP. IX. PLAYHOUSES AND ACTORS.

I HAVE ſhewn that about ſeventy plays were pro⯑duced in the interval between 1589 and 1603. From that time to the death of JAMES the firſt, a period of twenty two years, there were probably about one hundred and ninety pieces brought out which were acknowledged by their authors, and about thirty, of which the authors were concealed, indeed we have accounts of a larger number but I think the remainder, amounting to about twenty-five, were performed between the death of JAMES and the commencement of the troubles of CHARLES the firſt.

We may, however, ſet down fairly that ten plays, on an average, beſides two, or perhaps three maſques, in a year, during that period, were pre⯑ſented to the public, and this induces us fully to believe that theatres multiplied very faſt owing to the various contentions of ſo many authors; but it [372] is not, therefore, to be taken for granted that they had all regular companies, or that plays were acted in them all at one time; but rather that they were ſome of them ſubordinate to the reſt, or that the companies of performers ſhifted about occaſionally to them, as it might from various cauſes ſuit their convenience,

We hear of no regular licence, under the Privy Seal, to any perſon or ſet of perſons except that granted in the firſt year of JAMES, to SHAKESPEAR, FLETCHER, BURBAGE, HEMMINGS, CONDEL, and others, and as this authorized them not only to ex⯑hibit plays at their uſual houſe the Globe, on the Bank Side, but wherever elſe they thought proper, it is poſſible, for they were not then encumbered with ſcenes, that they might perform at different places for the better accommodation of thoſe who lived in the vicinities of the reſpectives theatres.

We know that SHAKESPEAR's company occu⯑pied the Globe and Blackfriers, and alſo a winter and ſummer houſe, at either of which when they per⯑formed they were called the King's Servants, ſo that here are four houſes belonginging to one concern. The company at the Phoenix in Drury Lane, were called the Queen's Servants, and the private theatre in Saliſbury Court, were called the Prince's Servants, [373] but there is nothing that leads us to a knowledge of who the actors were that made up theſe two com⯑panies, whereas almoſt the whole of SHAKESPEAR's company are not only known by name but we have already ſeen a good deal of their reſpective merits.

Theſe ſix theatres, the Red Bull, in St. John's Street, and the Fortune, near White Croſs Street, ſeem to have attracted the principal notice at the time of which we are ſpeaking; the firſt being ap⯑propriated for the reception of genteel companies, and the latter for citizens and the inferior deſcrip⯑tion of perſons. It is poſſible the Curtain, and the Theatre, which had been built a great many years before, were at this time ſhut up, and what induces us to believe this is, that ALLEYN, when he became manager of the Fortune, was obliged to take it down and rebuild it; at which time he is ſaid to have diſ⯑covered that treaſure with which he erected and en⯑dowed Dulwich Hoſpital.

This ridiculous report has been credited on no other ground than that it is not eaſy, in any rational way, to account for ALLEYN's having amaſſed the very large riches he is ſaid to have poſſeſſed, which had they amounted to no more than the eight hun⯑dred a year, the endowment of Dulwich, would have been at that time an immenſe fortune for a perſon [374] in his ſituation. He is ſaid to have been an ex⯑cellent actor, and to have been very ſucceſsful; but who was at that time ſo ſucceſsful as SHAKESPEAR? and yet he died in no ſtate, though the world ſub⯑ſcribes to his prudence, to keep his family above mediocrity, much leſs to build and endow an hoſpital.

ALLEYN's fortune no doubt proceeded partly from marrying three wives each of whom brought a handſome portion, partly from the ſucceſs of his theatre, partly from his being keeper of the king's wild beaſts and maſter of the Royal Bear Garden, and partly from his being a moſt rigid and penurious economiſt, which character he ſo ſtrictly enjoined himſelf that he was the firſt penſioner in his own charity; probably in imitation of RAHERE, who founded, as we have ſeen, St. Bartholomew's Priory, in which he became the firſt prior^*.

[375]The Fortune Theatre did very well but it was only frequented, as we have ſeen, by thoſe who could afford to pay low prices; and, in other reſpects, could not be in ſuch repute as thoſe places over which SHAKESPEAR preſided; for none of the plays in great eſtimation were brought out there but on the contrary they were all performed either at the Globe, or Blackfriers, or at the Phoenix, and as we hear very little of any of the other theatres by which we can deſcribe their ſucceſs and the nature [376] of their entertainments by any eſtabliſhed criterion. I do not think it improbable, if they were not uſed occaſionally by the eſtabliſhed company, that they were either appropriated to the acting of plays for the amuſement of noblemen who kept their re⯑ſpective actors, or elſe their amuſements conſiſted like Sadler's Wells of ſomething inferior to thoſe of the regular theatres, eſpecially as Maſques were ſo much the faſhion in thoſe times.

This is, however, mere conjecture, and we have one proof, a ſtrange one to be ſure, that regular plays were acted at the Fortune at leaſt; for we are ſolemnly told that ALLEYN ‘"performing a Daemon with ſix others, in one of SHAKESPEAR's plays, was in the midſt of the play ſurprized by an apparation of the Devil; this ſo worked upon his fancy that he made a vow which he per⯑formed by building Dulwich Hoſpital^*."’

[377]However all this may have been, ALLEYN ſeems to have challenged and received the higheſt reſpect from all ranks. He was indeed the ROS⯑CIUS of his time, for, ſays FULLER, ‘"he was a youth of excellent capacity, a chearful temper, a tenacious memory, a ſweet elocution, and, in his perſon, of a ſtately port and aſpect."’

FULLER however, with that vulgar contempt, and ignorant prejudice, with which the profeſſion of of an actor is too often treated, congratulates AL⯑LEYN's father on having withheld from him a li⯑beral education, which he thinks would only have fitted him for a more ſerious courſe of life. By which, if ALLEYN had the extraordinary talents we are taught to allow him, he without intention pays him a compliment, for it is ſometimes better that nature ſhould furniſh an education than the ſchools; but if he would intimate that the inſtruction pro⯑mulgated from the ſtage is ſo ſuperficial and imma⯑terial as to require only ſlender and uninformed ta⯑lents, every man of liberal intelligence muſt hold his opinion in ſovereign contempt.

HEYWOOD compares ALLEYN to Proteus for change, and to ROSCIUS for eloquence. He is ſaid to have performed originally the principal cha⯑racters [378] in SHAKESPEAR's and JONSON's plays; but we have never been told what thoſe cha⯑racters were, and indeed the fact does not ſeem to be confirmed, at leaſt as to his having performed them originally, for not one of thoſe plays came out at his theatre; and, as we have plenty of cor⯑roboration that BURBAGE was the original RICHARD the third, LOWIN the firſt HAMLET, and other facts of the ſame complexion, there is ſuffiencient reaſon to believe that ALLEYN's performance of SHAKES⯑PEAR's, and JONSON's characters was at ſecond hand. He was, however, greatly extolled, and there can be no doubt but his merit was very con⯑ſiderable, even though it is but fair to conceive that the talents of the actor might be magnified by being ſeen through the munificence of the man^*.

[379]As it will ſhortly be very material to take up this ſubject again, and purſue it to the reſtoration, to which period, or very near it, moſt of the celebrated actors at the time of SHAKESPEAR lived, an ac⯑count of whom will then make a very intereſting feature in the theatrical hiſtory of this country, I ſhall for the preſent drop the ſtage itſelf to examine, in a ſummary manner, the ſtate of thoſe arts which are calculated to lend it collateral aſſiſtance.

CHAP. X. CLOSE OF JAMES THE FIRST.

THOUGH the arts, from the cloſe of HENRY the eighth's reign, had been making a progreſs towards perfection; though every encouragement was given to genius and talents by ELIZABETH, and to the beſt poſſible purpoſe and effect, as we have ſeen; yet when the kingdom loſt her energy in ruling, many purſuits of ingenuity relaxed.

JAMES, from principle and the prejudice of education, conſidered his right to rule as tranſmitted from heaven; and, under this abuſe of the idea that the king can do no wrong, which is a beautiful fact taken in its right ſenſe, he conſidered himſelf as in⯑fallible as a Pope, and thus throughout his whole reign there were conſtant ſtruggles between the pri⯑veleges of the people, and the prerogative of the king.

The Proteſtant religion having drawn aſide that [381] veil of ſuperſtition in which mens minds had been entangled, and inveloped, the people began to think for themſelves; and, though they were willing to al⯑low every honour and reſpect due to the chief ma⯑giſtrate that had by legitimate right been permitted to rule over them, yet they ſcouted the idea of his being next to a ſacred miſſionary, and heaven's vicegerent.

The was completely owing to the folly of their ruler. They never dreamt of this with ELIZA⯑BETH; their obedience to her, though inſiſted on, was neither exacted, nor enforced; it was neceſſary repreſentation on her ſide, and wholeſome compli⯑ance on the theirs. Thus her reign being conducted with equal wiſdom and reſolution, became admired and popular, and ſhe was permitted to poſſeſs pre⯑rogative to its utmoſt ſtretch, becauſe ſhe was not ſo unwiſe as to let it trench on the priveleges of the people.

In this critical juncture, when it required in a ſovereign ſtrong determination on one ſide, and ſtrict impartiality on the other, nothing could be ſo difficult as to reign in ENGLAND without great, ſtrenuous, and decided talents. Theſe JAMES un⯑fortunately did not poſſeſs; he did not even know the character of the people whom he came to go⯑vern; [382] and, ſeeing this, they were determined to know themſelves, and create their own reſources.

This inſtantly cleft the kingdom in two, and pri⯑velege, and prerogative, which, like the right hand and the left were formed for the aſſiſtance of each other, became the ſignal of ſo much ſchiſm and diſ⯑union that there can be no doubt but every meaſure during this reign, in which was conceived the no⯑torious gunpowder plot, in which the upright OVERBURY was poiſoned, in which the gallant RA⯑LEIGH was unjuſtly executed, and in which the great BACON was caſhiered for bribery, was ſome act of preparation for erecting the ſcaffold where the unfortunate CHARLES loſt his head.

Every period, in which a kingdom is involved in diſquiet and turbulence, is naturally unfavourable to the arts, and the monarch who neglects the for⯑tunes of wife and noble counſellors, accuſtomed under his predeceſſors to deſerve, by great and able conduct, the affection and countenance of their fellow ſubjects, will never be looked up to as the patron of the ingenious, and the enlightened.

JAMES ſelected his favourites from low ſitua⯑tions. They were weak, ignorant, and illiterate, and poſſeſſed minds congenial to his own. Theſe [383] men were employed to execute meaſures and con⯑duct expeditions of which they were incapable. Such were ill calculated to encourage merit, and thus it happened that the reſt of EUROPE, in general literature, and in many of the arts infinite outſtript ENGLAND.

It cannot however be ſaid that they laid more than dormont. Study was preparing them for that celebrity which patronage was afterwards to con⯑firm. In the mean time general poetry waited for COWLEY and MILTON, and painting for RUBENS and VANDYKE; muſic and dramatic poetry were nevertheleſs in full reputation; and this was owing to the gallantry introduced at court by the king's favourites.

The court of JAMES was full of every ſpecies of dramatic recreation; an indulgence the people were willing enough to take advantage of; who, while JONSON, invading DANIEL's province, pro⯑vided thoſe ſuperficial entertainments at court un⯑der the title of Maſques, the principal merit of which was owing to the ingenuity of INIGO JONES, followed the more rational purſuits of receiving in⯑inſtruction and amuſement from the labours of SHAKESPEAR, and thoſe admirable poets whoſe merits we have already examined.

[384]Theſe maſques, however, were particularly fa⯑vourable to the cauſe of muſic, which, being thus unreſtrained received, very faſt, particular counte⯑nance and protection. The great CAMDEN, whoſe mandate the ſchools of every deſcription were glad enough to obey, had from his infancy made muſic his favourite ſtudy, for he was originally a choiriſter at Magdalen College, OXFORD.

CAMDEN, thus partial to muſic, and determined to give it every advantage in his power made a re⯑ſolution to revive a lectureſhip at OXFORD that had been founded by ALFRED. For this purpoſe he ſent a muſical friend, of the name of HEYTHER, with the deed of endowment, for which he had ob⯑tained permiſſion to doctor PIERS, who was then Vice Chancellor, and who was ſo pleaſed with the circumſtance, as well as to have an opportunity of obliging CAMDEN, that he obtained the degree of Docor in Muſic for HEYTHER, and ORLANDO GIBBONS; who were both created by that title on the eigthteenth of May, 1622^*.

[385]Beſides theſe advantages, which muſic boaſted from the conſequence and the merit of its profeſſors, it had every poſſible encouragement under the pa⯑tronage of the great, and the protection of the king, whoſe children were all inſtructed in that art by the ableſt maſters. Prince CHARLES was a ſcholar of COPERARIO, of whom he learnt the viol da gambo^*. [386] Prince HENRY alſo learnt muſic, and was a warm patron of muſicians. He had fifteen muſicians on his houſehold eſtabliſhment, among whom were doctor BULL, CUTTING^*, the famous luteniſt, JONES, and ANGELO.

It does not appear, however, that ſacred muſic was ſo much encouraged at that time as familiar and light airs, particularly ſuch as promoted dancing; an amuſement in which JAMES ſo delighted that he was more anxious for his children to learn it than any thing in the world. There is extant a letter to his ſons where he enjoins them to keep up their dancing, even though they ſhould be obliged to whiſtle and ſing to one another for muſic.

This taſte, however, did ſervice to the cauſe of [387] muſic, for it accuſtomed the ear to familiar melody, that required only to be methodized by LAWES and PURCELL to ſtamp it with that character which is known by the term true Engliſh muſic; a ſpecies of ſound that ſo effects the mind, and ſo appeals to the heart, that the meaneſt hearer, with feeling and ſenſibility, will be as capable of taſting its beauty and deciding upon its merit as the moſt learned critic.

By theſe means public amuſements became a matter of ſingular conſequence. The people tired of fruitleſs controverſy, were glad enough to taſte ſo rational a relaxation as the theatre afforded them; and JAMES, by ſhews and ſpectacles, hugged him⯑ſelf under an idea that he was hiding his own frivo⯑lous folly, ingratiating himſelf with his nobles, and throwing out a tub to the popular whale.

Thus animoſity and mutual recrimination were laughed off and forgotten, through the medium of a comedy or a maſque; and, while the people con⯑tented themſelves with adopting modeſt yet manly means to ſupport their own privileges, the court was ſo full of fantaſtic ſports and romantic diverſions that it at length actually became like an enchanted caſtle, whence CHARLES, as a knight, and BUCK⯑INGHAM^*, [388] as his ſquire, ſallied forth to gain the affections of a Princeſs at the court of SPAIN; but CHARLES having fallen in love with the Princeſs HENRIETTA of FRANCE, whom he afterwards mar⯑ried, and who did ſo much injury to this country by inſtilling the principles of popery into her children, they overturned their whole ſcheme and came home in diſgrace.

In the mean time, the imbecility of the king of ENGLAND was at leaſt matched by that of the king of FRANCE. The great HENRY had ſcarcely been aſſaſſinated by RAVILIAC^†—which murder, in the [389] opinion of many hiſtorians, notwithſtanding he confeſſed nothing, was committed either at the in⯑ſtance of ſome of the nobles, who envied the vir⯑tues of HENRY, or by the emiſſaries of SPAIN—when the duke of SULLY reſigned, and the queen regent gave the government of the kingdom into the hands of an Italian chambermaid, whoſe huſ⯑band. CONCHINI, ſoon afterwards created Marſhal d'ANCRE, was preſently made the victim to her ab⯑ſurd and unbecoming ambition; for, as ſoon as the king aſſumed the government, which he did at the age of fourteen, firſt having married ANNE of AUSTRIA, fearing that, as the power of this man had been derived from one aſſaſſination, he might wiſh to encreaſe it by another, employed VITRY, who was afterwards made Marſhal of FRANCE to diſpoſe of his enemy; he was murdered by hire⯑lings, and his limbs given up to the fury of that populace who were but too juſtly incenſed againſt him.

In this ſtate was the court of LOUIS; a monarch, [390] timid, weak and illiterate, when CHARLES married the princeſs HENRIETTA, for though RICHLIEU, then biſhop of LUCON, had reconciled the king and his mother, and began to imagine all thoſe advan⯑tages for the kingdom which were ſo well planned and carried into execution afterwards, yet nothing but ſenſeleſs folly and fantaſtic intriguing, cha⯑racterized court manners.

We have ſeen RICHELIEU a great dramatic pa⯑tron, and this fancy might, perhaps, have ariſen from the neceſſity, at the time of LOUIS the thirteenth, of giving into ſome weakneſſes in order to get hold of more ſubſtantial power. Children cannot be cured entirely by ſeverity. But it is curious that he, who originally merely permitted lighter amuſements, ſhould at length grow ſo inordinately fond of them as to admire them more than any other purſuit.

It had been the faſhion to dedicate dramatic pieces; and TROTEREL, BERTRAND, FAUCO⯑NIER, De la GRANGE, and many others, inſignifi⯑cant writers by the bye, had already choſen their ſeperate protectors, not forgetting BILLARD who wrote a tragedy called Henri le Grand, which he dedicated to the queen regent.

Thus did the two courts vie with each other in [391] dramatic amuſements; and this is the moment to prove, which may be done in a few words, that the celebrity of the ENGLISH ſtage, for celebrity ſurely is more legitimately due to intrinſic merit than to ſhew and ſpectacle, was as decidedly ſuperior to that of FRANCE as an animal is to a vegetable, or a piece of mechaniſm. One had paſſive life, the other active. One was wound up and ſet a going, the other went of itſelf.

A reperuſal of the fifth number of this work will confirm this fact, for we ſhall there find that, except JODELLE, GARNIER, and HARDI, the French ſtage had boaſted no name of celebrity before COR⯑NEILLE, whoſe firſt play, Melite, came out in the very year in which JAMES the firſt died.

This proves that the emancipation of the En⯑gliſh from thoſe miſts of opinion which had begun and been encouraged in the reign of ELIZABETH, and had gradually ſtrengthened and been confirmed throughout the life of JAMES, yielded moſt rati⯑onally to the beſt relaxation that could recreate the fancy, without injury to the mind; and this ſolid ſenſe, and found judgment, taught them to cheriſh in SHAKESPEAR the greateſt genius the world has produced; for, in the midſt of the ſquabbles and bickerings during his life, in which there is nothing [392] arrogant, bold, or aſpiring, he poſſeſſed that ad⯑miration he never courted, and received every teſti⯑mony of grateful reſpect from his fellow creatures, whom he had taught and delighted. Not the leader of a party, or the minion of a court, but the advo⯑cate of virtue, and the favourite of human nature.

From all theſe premiſes I gather this concluſion. That, as the meritorious labours of the drama re⯑ceived very little ſupport but from the people, as the ſtage had not known the great variety of ad⯑vantages introduced to it afterwards, as all the col⯑lateral arts were in a ſupine ſtate; and, in ſhort, as it was obliged to ſtand or fall by its own intrinſic and individual merit; the number of admirable tragedies and comedies that were produced at that time, for theſe are its true criterion, give dramatic fame, be⯑yond calculation, a decided ſuperiority over every thing it ever boaſted, either before, or ſince.