THE GROWTH OF ENGLISH DRAMA

by

ARNOLD WYNNE, M. A. 

OxfordAt the Clarendon PressPrinted in EnglandAt the Oxford University Pressby John JohnsonPrinter to the UniversityImpression of 1927First edition, 1914

PREFACE

In spite of the fact that an almost superabundant literature ofexposition has gathered round early English drama, there is, I believe, still room for this book. Much criticism is available. But the studentcommonly searches through it in vain for details of the plots andcharacters, and specimens of the verse, of interludes and plays whichtime, opportunity, and publishers combine to withhold from him. Notableexceptions to this generalization exist. Such are Sir A. W. Ward'smonumental _English Dramatic Literature_, and that delightful volume, J. A. Symonds' _Shakespeare's Predecessors_; but the former extends itssurvey far beyond the limits of early drama, while the latter too oftenpasses by with brief mention works concerning which the reader wouldgladly hear more. Some authors have written very fully, but upon only asection of pre-Shakespearian dramatic work. Of others it may generallybe said that their purposes limit to criticism their treatment of allbut the best known plays. The present volume attempts a morecomprehensive plan. It presents, side by side with criticism, such dataas may enable the reader to form an independent judgment. Possibly forthe first time in a book of this scope almost all the plays of theUniversity Wits receive separate consideration, while such familiartitles as _Hick Scorner_, _Gammer Gurton's Needle_, and _The Misfortunesof Arthur_ cease to be mere names appended to an argument. As aconsequence it has been possible to examine in detail the influence ofsuch men as Heywood, Udall, Sackville, and Kyd, and to trace from itsbeginning, with much closer observation than a more general methodpermits, the evolution of the Elizabethan drama. 

I have read the works of my predecessors carefully, and humblyacknowledge my indebtedness to such authorities as Ten Brink and Ward. From Mr. Pollard's edition of certain _English Miracle Plays_ I haveborrowed one or two quotations, in addition to information gathered fromhis admirable introduction. Particularly am I under an obligation to Mr. Chambers, upon whose _Mediaeval Stage_ my first chapter is chieflybased. To the genius of J. A. Symonds I tender homage. 

For most generous and highly valued help as critic and reviser of mymanuscript I thank my colleague, Mr. J. L. W. Stock. 

ARNOLD WYNNE. 

SOUTH AFRICAN COLLEGE, CAPE TOWN. 

CONTENTS

 PAGECHAPTER IEARLY CHURCH DRAMA ON THE CONTINENT 9

CHAPTER IIENGLISH MIRACLE PLAYS 22

CHAPTER IIIMORALITIES AND INTERLUDES 51

CHAPTER IVRISE OF COMEDY AND TRAGEDY 87

CHAPTER VCOMEDY: LYLY, GREENE, PEELE, NASH 124

CHAPTER VITRAGEDY: LODGE, KYD, MARLOWE, _Arden of Feversham_ 193

APPENDIXTHE ELIZABETHAN STAGE 270

INDEX 277

CHAPTER I

EARLY CHURCH DRAMA ON THE CONTINENT

The old Classical Drama of Greece and Rome died, surfeited with horrorand uncleanness. Centuries rolled by, and then, when the Old Drama wasno more remembered save by the scholarly few, there was born into theworld the New Drama. By a curious circumstance its nurse was the sameChristian Church that had thrust its predecessor into the grave. 

A man may dig his spade haphazard into the earth and by that actliberate a small stream which shall become a mighty river. Not lesscasual perhaps, certainly not less momentous in its consequences, wasthe first attempt, by some enterprising ecclesiastic, to enliven thehardly understood Latin service of the Church. Who the innovator was isunrecorded. The form of his innovation, however, may be guessed fromthis, that even in the fifth century human tableaux had a place in theChurch service on festival occasions. All would be simple: a number ofthe junior clergy grouped around a table would represent the 'Marriageat Cana'; a more carefully postured group, again, would serve to portraythe 'Wise Men presenting gifts to the Infant Saviour'. But the realitywas greater than that of a painted picture; novelty was there, and, shall we say, curiosity, to see how well-known young clerics, members oflocal families, would demean themselves in this new duty. Thecongregations increased, and earnest or ambitious churchmen wereincited to add fresh details to surpass previous tableaux. 

But the Church is conservative. It required the lapse of hundreds ofyears to make plain the possibility of action and its advantages overmotionless figures. Just before this next step was taken, or it may havebeen just after, two of the scholarly few mentioned as having not quiteforgotten the Classical Drama, made an effort to revive its methodswhile bitting and bridling it carefully for holy purposes. Some oneworthy brother (who was certainly not Gregory Nazianzene of the fourthcentury), living probably in the tenth century, wrote a play called_Christ's Passion_, in close imitation of Greek tragedy, even to theextent of quoting extensively from Euripides. In the same century a goodand zealous nun of Saxony, Hroswitha by name, set herself to outrivalTerence in his own realm and so supplant him in the studies of those whostill read him to their souls' harm. She wrote, accordingly, six playson the model of Terence's Comedies, supplying, for his profane themes, the histories of suffering martyrs and saintly maidens. It was a nobleambition (not the less noble because she failed); but it was not alongthe lines of her plays or of _Christ's Passion_ that the New Drama wasto develop. It is doubtful whether they were known outside a fewconvents. 

In the tenth century the all-important step from tableau to dialogue andaction had been taken. Its initiation is shrouded in obscurity, but mayhave been as follows. Ever since the sixth century Antiphons, or choralchants in which the two sides of the choir alternately respond to eachother, had been firmly established in the Church service. For these, however, the words were fixed as unchangeably as are the words of ourold Psalms. Nevertheless, the possibility of extending the applicationof antiphons began to be felt after, and as a first stage in thatdirection there was adopted a curious practice of echoing backexpressive 'ah's' and 'oh's' in musical reply to certain vital passagesnot fitted with antiphons. Under skilful training this may have soundedquite effective, but it is natural to suppose that, the antiphonalextension having been made, the next stage was not long delayed. Suitable lines or texts (_tropes_) would soon be invented to fill thespaces, and immediately there sprang into being a means for providingdramatic dialogue. If once answers were admitted, composed to fit intocertain portions of the service, there could be little objection to thecomposition of other questions to follow upon the previous answers. Religious conservatism kept invention within the strictest limits, sothat to the end these liturgical responses were little more than slightmodifications of the words of the _Vulgate_. But the dramatic elementwas there, with what potentiality we shall see. 

So much for dramatic dialogue. Dramatic action would appear to havegrown up with it, the one giving intensity to the other. The developmentof both, side by side, is interesting to trace from records preservedfor us in old manuscripts. Considering the occasion first--for these'attractions' were reserved for special festivals--we know that Easterwas a favourite opportunity for elaborating the service. The eventsassociated with Easter are in themselves intensely dramatic. They arealso of supreme importance in the teaching of the Church: of all pointsin the creed none has a higher place than the belief in theResurrection. Therefore the 'Burial' and the 'Rising again' called forparticular elaboration. One of the earliest methods of driving thesetruths home to the hearts of the unlearned and unimaginative was tobury the crucifix for the requisite three days (a rite still observedin many churches by the removal of the cross from the altar), and thenrestore it to its exalted position; the simple act being done with muchsolemn prostration and creeping on hands and knees of those whose dutyit was to bear the cross to its sepulchre. This sepulchre, it may beexplained, was usually a wooden structure, painted with guardiansoldiers, large enough to contain a tall crucifix or a man hidden, andoccupying a prominent position in the church throughout the festival. Not infrequently it was made of more solid material, like the carvedstone 'sepulchre' in Lincoln Cathedral. 

A trope was next composed for antiphonal singing on Easter Monday, asfollows:

 Quem quaeritis? Jhesum Nazarenum. Non est hic; surrexit sicut praedixerat: ite, nuntiate quia surrexit a mortuis. Alleluia! resurrexit Dominus. 

Now let us observe how action and dialogue combine. One of the clergy isselected to hide, as an angel, within the sepulchre. Towards it advancethree others, to represent three women, peeping here, glancing there, asif they seek something. Presently a mysterious voice, proceeding out ofthe tomb, sings the opening question, 'Whom do you seek?' Sadly thethree sing in reply, 'Jesus of Nazareth'. To this the first voice chantsback, 'He is not here; he has risen as he foretold: go, declare toothers that he has risen from the dead. ' The three now burst forth injoyful acclamation with, 'Alleluia! the Lord has risen. ' Then from thesepulchre issues a voice, 'Come and see the place, ' the 'angel' standingup as he sings that all may see him, and opening the doors of thesepulchre to show clearly that the Lord is indeed risen. The emptyshroud is held up before the people, while all four sing together, 'TheLord has risen from the tomb. ' In procession they move to the altar andlay the shroud there; the choir breaks into the _Te Deum_, and the bellsin the tower clash in triumph. It is the finale of the drama of Christ. 

To illustrate at once the dramatic nature and the limitations of thedialogue as it was afterwards developed we give below a translation ofpart of one of these ceremonies, from a manuscript of the thirteenthcentury. The whole is an elaborated _Quem quaeritis_, and the partselected is that where Mary Magdalene approaches the Sepulchre for thesecond time, lamenting the theft of her Lord's body. Two Angels sittingwithin the tomb address her in song:

 _Angels. _ Woman, why weepest thou?

 _Mary. _ Because they have taken away my Lord, And I know not where they have laid him. 

 _Angels. _ Weep not, Mary; the Lord has risen. Alleluia!

 _Mary. _ My heart is burning with desire To see my Lord; I seek but still I cannot find Where they have laid him. Alleluia!

 [_Meanwhile a certain one disguised as a gardener draws near and stands at the head of the sepulchre. _]

 _He. _ Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou?

 _Mary. _ Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. 

 _He. _ Mary!

 _Mary_ [_throwing herself at his feet_]. Rabboni!

 _He_ [_drawing back, as if to avoid her touch_]. Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God. 

At Christmas a performance similar to the _Quem quaeritis_ took placeto signify the birth of Jesus, the 'sepulchre' being modified to servefor the Holy Infant's birthplace, and Shepherds instead of women beingsignified by those who advanced towards it. The antiphon was in directimitation of the other, commencing '_Quem quaeritis in praesepe, pastores?_' Another favourite representation at the same festival wasthat of the Magi. The development of this is of interest. In itssimplest form, the three Magi (or Kings) advance straight up the churchto the altar, their eyes fixed on a small lamp (the Star) lit above it;a member of the choir stationed there announces to them the birth of aSaviour; they present their offerings and withdraw. In a more advancedform the three Magi approach the altar separately from differentdirections, are guided by a moving 'star' down the central aisle to analtar to the Virgin, bestow their gifts there, fall asleep, are warnedby an Angel, and return to the choir by a side aisle. For this versionthe service of song also is greatly enlarged. Another rendering of thestory adds to it the interview between the Magi and Herod; yet othersinclude a scene between Herod and his Councillors, and the announcementto Herod of the Magi's departure; still another extends the subject toinclude the Massacre of the Innocents. Finally the early Shepherdepisode is tacked on at the beginning, the result being a lengthyperformance setting forth in action the whole narrative of the birth andinfancy of Jesus. 

Here then is drama in its infancy. A great stride has been taken fromthe first crude burying of a crucifix to an animated union of dialogueand natural action. The scope of the Mystery (for so theserepresentations were called) has been extended from a single incident toa series of closely connected scenes. In its fullest ecclesiastical formit consisted of five Epiphany Plays, of the Shepherds (or _Pastores_), the Magi (or _Stella_ or _Tres Reges_), the Resurrection (or _Quemquaeritis_), the Disciples of Emmaus (or _Peregrini_), and the Prophets(or _Prophetae_), the last perhaps intended as a final proof from theOld Testament of Christ's Messianic nature. Four points, however, deserve to be noted. The language used is always Latin. The subject isalways taken from the Bible. Close correspondence is maintained with theactual words of the _Vulgate_ (compare the Magdalene dialogue with Johnxx. 13-17). The Mystery is performed in a church. Each point, it will beobserved, imposes a serious limitation. 

There was one play, however, which broke loose from most of theselimitations, a play of _St. Nicholas_, written by one Hilarius early inthe twelfth century. The same author composed a Mystery of _Lazarus_, and an elaborate representation of _Daniel_, which must have made largedemands on the Church's supply of 'stage properties'. But his _St. Nicholas_ is the only one that interests us here. To begin with, thetitle informs us that the subject is not drawn from the Bible. Thewords, therefore, are at the discretion of the author. Further, thoughthe medium is mostly Latin, the native language of the spectators hasbeen slipped in, to render a few recurrent phrases or refrains. Thestory is quite simple, and humorous, and is as follows:

The image of St. Nicholas stands in a Christian church. Into the churchcomes a pagan barbarian; he is about to go on a long journey, anddesires to leave his treasure in a safe place. Having heard of thereputation of St. Nicholas as the patron of property, he lays his richesat the foot of the statue, and in four Latin verses of song commits themto the saint's safe-keeping. No sooner is he gone, however, than thievessteal in silently and remove the booty. Presently the barbarian returns, discovers his loss, charges the image with faithlessness, and, snatching up a whip, threatens it with a thrashing if the treasure isnot brought back. He withdraws, presumably, after this, to give St. Nicholas an opportunity to amend matters. Whereupon one representing thereal celestial St. Nicholas suddenly appears, perhaps from behind acurtain at the rear of the image, and seeks out the thieves. Hethreatens them with exposure and torment unless they restore theirplunder; they give in; and St. Nicholas goes back to his concealment. When the barbarian returns, his delight is naturally very greatat perceiving so complete an atonement for the saint's initialoversight. Indeed his appreciation is so genuine that it only needsa few words from the reappearing Saint to persuade him to acceptChristianity. --Monologue and dialogue are throughout in song. Thefollowing is one of the three verses in which the barbarian proclaimshis loss; the last two lines in the vernacular are the same for all. 

 Gravis sors et dura! Hic reliqui plura, Sed sub mala cura. Des! quel dommage! Qui pert la sue chose purque n'enrage. 

A play of this sort, dealing with the wonder-working of a Saint, becameknown as a Miracle Play, to differentiate it from the Mystery Playsbased on Bible stories. 

_St. Nicholas_ would be performed in a church. But there is a probablycontemporaneous Norman Mystery Play, _Adam_, of unknown authorship, which shows that the move from the church to the open air was alreadybeing made. This play was performed just outside the church door, andthough the staging remains a matter of conjecture, it may be reasonablyassumed that the church represented Heaven, and that the three parts ofa projecting stage served respectively as Paradise (Eden), Earth, andHell (covered in, with side doors). The manuscript of the play (found atTours) supplies careful directions for staging and acting, as follows:

 A Paradise is to be made in a raised spot, with curtains and cloths of silk hung round it at such a height that persons in the Paradise may be visible from the shoulders upwards. Fragrant flowers and leaves are to be set round about, and divers trees put therein with hanging fruit, so as to give the likeness of a most delicate spot. Then must come the Saviour, clothed in a dalmatic, and Adam and Eve be brought before him. Adam is to wear a red tunic and Eve a woman's robe of white, with a white silk cloak; and they are both to stand before the Figure (_God_), Adam the nearer with composed countenance, while Eve appears somewhat more modest. And the Adam must be well trained when to reply and to be neither too quick nor too slow in his replies. And not only he, but all the personages must be trained to speak composedly, and to fit convenient gesture to the matter of their speech. Nor must they foist in a syllable or clip one of the verse, but must enounce firmly and repeat what is set down for them in due order. Whosoever names Paradise is to look and point towards it. [1]

Glancing through the story we find that Adam and Eve are led intoParadise, God first giving them counsel as to what they shall and shallnot do, and then retiring into the church. The happy couple are alloweda brief time in which to demonstrate their joy in the Garden. Then Satanapproaches from Hell and draws Adam into conversation over the barrier. His attempt to lure Adam to his Fall is vain, nor is he more successfulthe first time with Eve. But as a serpent he over-persuades her to eatof the forbidden fruit, and she gives it to Adam, with the well-knownresult. In his guilt Adam now withdraws out of sight, changes his redtunic for a costume contrived out of leaves, and reappears in greatgrief. God enters from the church and, after delivering his judgmentupon the crime, drives Adam and Eve out of Eden. With spade and hoe theypass under the curse of labour on the second stage, toiling there withmost disappointing results (Satan sows tares in their field) until theend comes. Let the manuscript speak for itself again:

 Then shall come the Devil and three or four devils with him, carrying in their hands chains and iron fetters, which they shall put on the necks of Adam and Eve. And some shall push and others pull them to hell: and hard by hell shall be other devils ready to meet them, who shall hold high revel at their fall. And certain other devils shall point them out as they come, and shall snatch them up and carry them into hell; and there shall they make a great smoke arise, and call aloud to each other with glee in their hell, and clash their pots and kettles, that they may be heard without. And after a little delay the devils shall come out and run about the stage; but some shall remain in hell. [2]

Immediately after this conclusion comes a shorter play of Cain and Abel, followed in its turn by another on the Prophets; but in all three thecatastrophe is the same--mocking, exultant devils, and a noisy, smoky'inferno'. 

The most important characteristics of _Adam_ are the venturesome removalof the play outside the sacred building, the increase in inventeddialogue beyond the limits of the Bible narrative, and the 'by-play'conceded to popular taste. The last two easily followed from the first. Within a church there is an atmosphere of sanctity, a spirit ofprohibition, which must, even in the Middle Ages, have had a restrictiveeffect upon the elements of innovation and naturalness. The good peopleof the Bible, the saints, had to live up to their reputation in everysmall word and deed so long as their statues, images, and pictures gazeddown fixedly from the walls upon their living representatives. This wasso much a fact that to the very end Bible and Saint plays concededlicence of action and speech only to those nameless persons, such as thesoldiers, Pharisees, and shepherds, who never attained to thedistinction of individual statues, and who could never be invoked inprayer. Out of sight of these effigies and paintings, however, theoppression was at once lightened. True, these model folk could not bepermitted to decline from their prescribed standards, but they might beallowed companions of more homely tastes, and the duly authorized wickedones, such as the Devil, Cain, and Herod, might display their iniquityto the full without offence. Thus it is that in this play we find greatprominence given to the Devil and his brother demons. They would delightthe common people: therefore the author misses no opportunity ofsecuring applause for his production by their antics. Throughout theplay we meet with such stage directions as 'the devils are to run aboutthe stage with suitable gestures', or the Devil 'shall make a sallyamongst the people'. In this last the seeing eye can already detect thepresence of that close intimacy between the play and the people whichwas to make the drama a 'national possession' in England. The devil, with his grimaces and gambols, was one of themselves, was a true rusticat heart, and they shrieked and shouted with delight as he pinched theirarms or slapped them on the back. The freer invention in dialogue isequally plain. Much that is said by Adam and the Devil has no place inthe scriptural account of the Fall, and the importance of this for thedevelopment of these dramas cannot be exaggerated. 

The move into the open air was not accidental. Every year these sacredplays drew larger congregations to the festival service. Every year thewould-be spectators for whom the church could not find standing roomgrumbled more loudly. In the churchyard (which was still within the holyprecincts) there was ample space for all. So into the churchyard theperformers went. The valuable result of this was the creation of araised stage, made necessary for the first time by the crushing of thepeople. But alas, what could be said for the sanctity of the graves whenthrongs trampled down the well-kept grass, and groups of men and womenfought for the possession of the most recent mounds as highest points ofvantage? Those whose dead lay buried there raised effectual outcriesagainst this desecration. To go back into the church seemed impossible. The next move had to be into the street. It was at this point that thereset in that alienation of the Church from the Stage which was neverafterwards removed. Clerical actors were forbidden to play in thestreets. As an inevitable consequence, the learned language, Latin, wasreplaced more and more by the people's own tongue. Soon the festivalsassumed a nature which the stricter clergy could not view with approval. From miles around folk gathered together for merriment and trading. There were bishops who now denounced public plays as instruments of thedevil. 

Thus the drama, having outgrown its infancy, passed from the care of theChurch into the hands of the Laity. It took with it a tradition ofcareful acting, a store of Biblical subjects, a fair variety ofcharacters--including a thundering Herod and a mischievous Devil--andsome measure of freedom in dialogue. It gained a native language and aboundless popularity. But for many long years after the separation the_Epiphany Plays_ continued to be acted in the churches, and by theirvery existence possibly kept intact the link with religion whichpreserved for the public Mysteries and Miracles an attitude of sobernessand reverence in the hearts of their spectators. The so-called _CoventryPlay_ of the fifteenth century is a testimony to the persistence of theserious religious element in the final stage of these popular Bibleplays. 

[Footnote 1: Mr. E. K. Chambers's translation. ]

[Footnote 2: Mr. E. K. Chambers's translation. ]

CHAPTER II

ENGLISH MIRACLE PLAYS

Most of what has been said hitherto has referred to the rise ofreligious plays on the continent. The first recorded presentation of aplay in England occurred in Dunstable--under the management of aschoolmaster, Geoffrey--about the year 1110. Probably, therefore, thedrama was part of the new civilization brought over by the Normans, andcame in a comparatively well-developed form. The title of Geoffrey'splay, _St. Katherine_, points to its having been of the _St. Nicholas_type, a true Miracle Play, belonging to a much later stage ofdevelopment than the early _Pastores_ or _Quem Quaeritis?_. We need notlook, then, for shadowy gropings along the dramatic path. Instead we mayexpect to find from the very commencement a fair grasp of essentials anda rapidly maturing belief that the people were better guardians of thenew art than the Church. 

We know nothing of _St. Katherine_ except its name. Of contemporaryplays also we know practically nothing. A writer of the late twelfthcentury tells us that Saint Plays were well favoured in London. Thisstatement, coupled with the fact that all sacred plays, saintlywonder-workings and Bible stories alike, were called Miracles inEngland, gives a measure of support to Ten Brink's suggestion that theEnglish people at first shrank from the free treatment of Bible storieson the stage, until their natural awe and reverence had becomeaccustomed to presentations of their favourite saints. 

Passing over the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, therefore, ascenturies in which the idea of the drama was filtering through thenation and adapting itself to its new audiences, we take up the storyagain in the fourteenth century, before the end of which we know thatthere were completed the four great plays still preserved to us--the_Chester_, _Wakefield_, _York_, and _Coventry Miracles_. Early in thatcentury the Pope created the festival of Corpus Christi (about themiddle of June). To this festival we must fix most of our attention. 

Glancing back a few pages we shall recall the elaboration of the play ofthe _Magi_ from one bare incident to what was really a connected seriesof episodes from the scene of the 'Shepherds' to the 'Massacre of theInnocents'. It grew by the addition of scene to scene until the serieswas complete. But the 'Massacre of the Innocents' only closed theChristmas story. For the festival of Easter fresh ground must be brokenin order that the 'Passion' might be fittingly set forth, and, in fact, we know that both stories in full detail eventually found a place in themore ambitious churches, any difficulty due to their length beingovercome by extending the duration of the festivals. Then a time camewhen, even as St. Matthew was anxious to lay the foundations of hisGospel firm and sure in the past, so some writer of Bible plays desiredto preface his life of Jesus with a statement of the reason for Hisbirth, and the 'Fall of Man' was inserted. In writing such anintroductory play he set going another possible series. To explain theSerpent's part in the 'Fall' there was wanted a prefatory play on'Satan's Revolt in Heaven', and to demonstrate the swift consequence ofthe 'Fall', another play on 'Cain and Abel'; the further story of the'Flood' would represent the spread of wickedness over the earth; infact, the possible development could be bounded only by the wide limitsof the entire Bible, and, of more immediate influence, by therestrictions of time. That this extension of theme was not checked untilthese latter limits had been reached may be judged from the fact that inone place it was customary to start the play between four or fiveo'clock in the morning, acting it scene after scene until daylightfailed. But this was when the Corpus Christi festival had become thechief dramatic season, combining in its performances the already lengthyseries associated respectively with Christmas and Easter. Between the'Massacre of the Innocents' and the 'Betrayal' (the point at which theEaster play usually started) a few connecting scenes were introduced, after which the Corpus Christi play could fairly claim to be a completestory of 'The Fall and Redemption of Man'. Admittedly of crude literaryform, yet full of reverence and moral teaching, and with powers ofpathos and satire above the ordinary, it became one single play, thesublimest of all dramas. To regard it as a collection of separate smallplays is a fatal mistake--fatal both to our understanding of the singlescenes and to our comprehension of the whole. 

Yet the space at our disposal forbids our dealing here with every sceneof any given play (or cycle, as a complete series is commonly called). The most that can be done is to give a list of the subjects of thescenes, and specimens of the treatment of a selected few. This list, however, should not be glanced through lightly and rapidly. The title ofeach scene should be paused over and the details associated with thetitle recalled. In no other way can the reader hope to comprehend theplay in its fullness. 

Here are the scenes of the _Coventry Play_. 

1. The Creation. 2. The Fall of Man. 3. Cain and Abel. 4. Noah's Flood. 5. Abraham's Sacrifice. 6. Moses and the Two Tables. 7. The Prophets. 8. The Barrenness of Anna. 9. Mary in the Temple. 10. Mary's Betrothment. 11. The Salutation and Conception. 12. Joseph's Return. 13. The Visit to Elizabeth. 14. The Trial of Joseph and Mary. 15. The Birth of Christ. 16. The Adoration of the Shepherds. 17. The Adoration of the Magi. 18. The Purification. 19. The Slaughter of the Innocents. 20. Christ Disputing in the Temple. 21. The Baptism of Christ. 22. The Temptation. 23. The Woman taken in Adultery. 24. Lazarus. 25. The Council of the Jews. 26. The Entry into Jerusalem. 27. The Last Supper. 28. The Betraying of Christ. 29. King Herod. 30. The Trial of Christ. 31. Pilate's Wife's Dream. 32. The Condemnation and Crucifixion of Christ. 33. The Descent into Hell. 34. The Burial of Christ. 35. The Resurrection. 36. The Three Maries. 37. Christ Appearing to Mary. 38. The Pilgrim of Emaus. 39. The Ascension. 40. The Descent of the Holy Ghost. 41. The Assumption of the Virgin. 42. Doomsday. 

One dominant characteristic is observed by every student of the originalplay, namely, the maintenance of a lofty elevation of tone wherever thesacredness of the subject demands it. The simple dramatic freedom ofthat day brought God and Heaven upon the stage, and exhibited Jesus inevery circumstance of his life and death; yet on no occasion does theplay descend from the high standard of reverence which such a subjectdemanded, or derogate from the dignity of the celestial Father and Son. That this was partly due to the Bible will be admitted at once. Butthere is great credit due to the writer (or writers) who could keep sotrue a sense of proportion that in scenes even of coarse derision, almost bordering on buffoonery, the central figure remained unsoiled andunaffected by his surroundings. A writer less filled with the religioussense must have been strongly tempted to descend to biting dialogue, inwhich his hero should silence his adversaries by superiority in the useof their own weapon. A truer instinct warned our author that any suchscene must immediately tend to a lowering of character. He refused, andfrom his pen is sent forth a Man whose conduct and speech areunassailably above earthly taint, who is, amongst men, Divine. 

Observe the impressive note struck in the opening verse. God standsamidst his angels, prepared to exercise his sovereign wisdom in the workof creation. 

 My name is knowyn, God and kynge, My werk for to make now wyl I wende[3], In myself restyth my reynenge, It hath no gynnyng ne non ende; And alle that evyr xal have beynge[4], It is closyd in my mende, Whan it is made at my lykynge, I may it save, I may it shende[5], After my plesawns[6]. So gret of myth[7] is my pousté[8], Alle thyng xal be wrowth[9] be me, I am oo[10] God in personys thre, Knyt in oo substawns. 

But before the world can be made, a rebellion has to be stamped out, andthe same scene presents the overthrow of Satan--not after days ofdoubtful battle as Milton later pictured it, but in a moment at the wordof the Almighty, 'I bydde the ffalle from hefne to helle'. At oncefollows the creation of the world and man. 

_Scene 2_ brings Adam and Eve before us, rejoicing in the abundantdelights of Eden. The guiding principle of the scene is the folly andwickedness of the Fall. Here is no thought of excuse for silly Eve. Withevery good around her, and with God's prohibition unforgotten, shechooses disobedience, and drags Adam after her. But Adam's guilt is noless than hers. The writer had not Milton at his elbow to teach him howto twist the Bible narrative into an argument for the superiority ofman. Adam yields to the same sophistry as led Eve astray; and sin, rushing in with the suddenness of swallowed poison, finds its first homenot in her breast but in his. The awful doom follows. In the desolationthat succeeds, the woman's bitter sorrow is allowed to move our pity atlast. Eating at her heart is the thought, 'My husbond is lost because ofme', so that in her agony she begs Adam to slay her. 

 Now stomble we on stalk and ston, My wyt awey is fro me gon, Wrythe on to my necke bon, With hardnesse of thin honde. 

Adam says what he can to console her, but without much success. Thescene ends with her lamenting. 

The foul contagion, spreading over the earth, has been washed out in theFlood and a fresh start made before _Scene 5_ introduces Abraham. In anearlier paragraph we have spoken of the pathos of which these plays werecapable. Here in this scene it may be found. Abraham is, before allthings else, a father; Isaac is the apple of his eye. When as yet nocloud fills the sky with the gloom of sacrifice, the old man exults inhis glorious possession, a son. Isaac is standing a little apart whenhis father turns with outstretched arms, exclaiming

 Now, suete sone, ffayre fare thi fface, fful hertyly do I love the, ffor trewe herty love now in this place, My swete childe, com, kysse now me. 

Holding him still in his arms the fond parent gives him good counsel, tohonour Almighty God, to 'be sett to serve oure Lord God above'. Andthen, left alone for a while, Abraham, on his knees, thanks God for Hisexceeding favour in sending him this comfort in his old age. 

 Ther may no man love bettyr his childe, Than Isaac is lovyd of me; Almyghty God, mercyful and mylde, ffor my swete son I wurchyp the! I thank the, Lord, with hert ful fre, ffor this fayr frute thou hast me sent. Now, gracyous God, wher so he be, To save my sone evyr more be bent. 

'To save my sone'--that is the petition of his full heart on the eve ofhis trial. Almost at once the command comes, to kill the well-beloved asan offering to his Giver. And Abraham bows low in heartbroken obedience. Well may the child say, as he trots by the old man's side with a bundleof faggots on his shoulder, and looks up wonderingly at the wrinkledface drawn and blanched with anguish, 'ffayr fadyr, ye go ryght stylle;I pray yow, fadyr, speke onto me. ' At such a time a man does well tobind his tongue with silence. Yet when at last the secret is confessed, it finds the lad's spirit brave to meet his fate. Perhaps the writer hadread, not long before, of the steadfastness with which children metpersecution in the days of the Early Christian Church. For he gives us, in Isaac, a boy ready to die if his father wills it so, happy tostrengthen that will by cheerful resignation if God's command is behindit. At the rough altar's side Abraham's resolution fails him; from hislips bursts the half-veiled protest, 'The ffadyr to sle the sone! Myhert doth clynge and cleve as clay'. But the lad encourages him, biddinghim strike quickly, yet adding sympathetically that his father shouldturn his face away as he smites. The conquest is won. Love and dutyconflict no longer. Only two simple acts remain for love's performance:'My swete sone, thi mouth I kys'; and when that last embrace is over, 'With this kerchere I kure (_cover_) thi face', so that the priest maynot see the victim's agony. Then duty raises the knife aloft, and as itpauses in the air before its fearful descent the Angel speaks--andsaves. 

The moving character of the opening, leading up to the suddencatastrophe and, by its tragic contrast with what follows, throwing avivid ray into the very centre and soul of that wonderful trial offaith; the natural sequence and diversity of emotions, love, pride, thankfulness, horror, submission, grief, resolution, and final joy andgratitude following each other like light and shadow; the littletouches, the suggestion to turn the face aside, the last kiss, thehandkerchief to hide the blue eyes of innocence; these are all, howevercrude the technique, of the very essence of the highest art. 

As will be seen from the list, only two scenes more refer to OldTestament history, and then Jesus, whom the author has already intendedto foreshadow in Isaac (whence the lad's submission to his father'swill), begins to loom before us. The writer's religious creed promptedhim to devote considerable space to Mary, the mother of Jesus; for sheis to be the link between her Son and humanity, and therefore must beshown free from sin from her birth. The same motive gives us a clue tothe character of Joseph. That nothing may be wanting to give whitenessto the purity of Mary, she is implicitly contrasted with the cruderusticity and gaffer-like obstinacy of her aged husband. He is just suchan old hobbling wiseacre as may be found supporting his rheumatic jointswith a thick stick in any Dorsetshire village. He is an old man beforehe is required to marry her, and his protests against the proposedunion, accompanied with many a shake of the head, recall to modernreaders the humour of Mr. Thomas Hardy. This is how he receives theannouncement when at length his bowed legs have, with sundry rests bythe wayside, covered the distance between his home and the Temple whereMary and the Priest await him:

 What, xuld I wedde? God forbede! I am an old man, so God me spede, And with a wyff now to levyn in drede, It wore neyther sport nere game. 

He is told that it is God's will. Even the beauty of the bride-elect isdelicately referred to as an inducement. In vain. To all he replies:

 A! shuld I have here? ye lese my lyff: Alas! dere God, xuld I now rave? An old man may nevyr thryff With a yonge wyff, so God me save! Nay, nay, sere, lett bene, Xuld I now in age begynne to dote, If I here chyde she wolde clowte my cote, Blere myn ey, and pyke out a mote, And thus oftyn tymes it is sene. 

Eventually, of course, he is won over; but the author promptly packs himinto a far district as soon as the ceremony is over, nor does he permithim to return to Mary's side until long after the Annunciation. 

'The Adoration of the Magi' (_Scene 17_) introduces us to a very notableperson, no other than Herod, the model of each 'robustious periwig-patedfellow' who on the stage would 'tear a passion to tatters, to veryrags', and so out-herod Herod. He is of old standing, a veteran of theChurch Epiphany plays, and has already learnt 'to split the ears of thegroundlings' with the stentorian sound of his pompous rhetoric. Hear himdeclaim:

 As a lord in ryalté in non regyon so ryche, And rulere of alle remys[11], I ryde in ryal aray; Ther is no lord of lond in lordchep to me lyche, Non lofflyere, non lofsumere[12], --evyr lestyng is my lay: Of bewté and of boldnes I bere evermore the belle; Of mayn and of myght I master every man; I dynge with my dowtynes the devyl down to helle, ffor bothe of hevyn and of herthe I am kynge sertayn. 

In _Scene 19_ we hear him issuing his cruel order for the killing of thechildren. But when the foul deed is done there await the murderer twokings whom he cannot slay, Death and the Devil. A banquet is in fullswing, Herod's officers are about him, the customary rant and bombast ison his lips when those two steal in. 'While the trumpets are sounding, Death slays Herod and his two soldiers suddenly, and the Devil receivesthem'--so runs the terse Latin stage-direction. 

Of the Devil we have more than enough in _Scene 22_, for it opens withan infernal council, Sathanas, Belyalle, and Belsabub debating the bestmeans of testing the divinity of Jesus and of thereby making surewhether or no another lord has been placed over them. The plan decidedupon is the Temptation. But great is Satan's downfall. 'Out, out, harrow! alas! alas!' is the cry (one that had become very familiar tohis audience) as he hastens back to Hell, leaving the Heavenly Herocrowned with glorious victory. This is one of several scenes chosen bythe author for the glorifying of his central character. Perhaps theyculminate in 'The Entry into Jerusalem'. 

The scenes that now succeed each other, marking each stage of thesorrowful descent to death, are notable chiefly for that quality towhich attention has already been drawn, namely, the dignity whichsurrounds the character of the Hero. This dignity is not accidental. Onthe contrary it would have been easy to fall into the error of excitingso much compassion that the sufferer became a pitiably crushed victim ofmisfortune. With much skill the writer places his most pathetic lines inthe mouths of the two Maries, diverts upon them the sharpest edge of ourpity, and never for a moment allows Jesus to appear overwhelmed. When aJew, in 'The Trial of Christ', speaks in terms of low insolence, addressing him as 'thou, fela (_fellow_)' and striking him on the cheek, Jesus replies:

 Yf I have seyd amys, Thereof wytnesse thou mayst bere; And yf I have seyd but weyl in this, Tho dost amys me to dere[13]. 

Again, in answer to Cayphas's outrageous scream of fury, 'Spek man, spek! spek, thou fop!... I charge the and conjure, be the sonne and themone, that thou telle us and (_if_) thou be Goddys sone!', Jesus sayscalmly, 'Goddys sone I am, I sey not nay to the!' Still later in thesame scene, the silence of Jesus before Herod (sustained through fortylines or more of urging and vile abuse, besides cruel beatings) liftsHim into infinite superiority over the blustering, bullying judge andhis wretched instruments. It is true that the Bible gives the facts, butwith the freedom allowed to the dramatist the excellence of the originalmight have been so easily spoilt. 

To Mary is reserved perhaps the deepest note of pathos within the play. The scene is 'The Crucifixion of Christ', and she is represented lyingat the foot of the Cross. Jesus has invoked God's forgiveness for Hismurderers, He has promised salvation to the repentant thief, but to herHe has said nothing, and the omission sends a fear to her heart like theblackness of midnight. Has she, unconsciously, by some chance word ordeed, lost His love at the close of life? The thought is too terrible. 

 O my sone! my sone! my derlyng dere! What[14] have I defendyd[15] the? Thou hast spoke to alle tho[16] that ben here, And not o word thou spekyst to me!

 To the Jewys thou art ful kende, Thou hast forgeve al here[17] mysdede; And the thef thou hast in mende, For onys haskyng mercy hefne is his mede. 

 A! my sovereyn Lord, why whylt thou not speke To me that am thi modyr in peyn for thi wrong? A! hert! hert! why whylt thou not breke? That I were out of this sorwe[18] so stronge!

The remaining scenes bring on the final triumph of the Hero over Deathand Hell, and the culmination of the great theme of the play in theRedemption of Man. Adam is restored, not indeed to the Garden of Eden, but to a supernal Paradise. 

Certain common features of the Miracles remain to be pointed out beforewe close our volume of the _Coventry Play_, for it will provide us withexamples of most of them. 

One of the first things that strike us is the absence of dramatic rules. Not an absence of dramatic cohesion. To its audience, for whom the storyof the Mission of Jesus still retained its freshness, each sceneunfolded a further stage in the rescue of man from the bondage of Hell. It is not a mere matter of chronology. The order may be the order of thesacred chronicle, but to these early audiences it was also the order ofa sacred drama. The 'Sacrifice of Isaac' is not merely the next event ofimportance after the 'Flood': it is a dramatic forecast of the lastsacrifice of all, the Sacrifice of Christ. Even though we admit, as insome cases we must, that the Plays are heterogeneous products of manyhands working separately, and therefore without dramatic regard forother scenes, it is not unreasonable to suppose that when the officialtext was decided upon, the several scenes may have been accommodated tothe interests of the whole. Moreover, the innate relationship of scenesdrawn from the Bible gives of itself a certain dramatic cohesion. Of theso-called Dramatic Unities of Time and Place, however, there is nosuggestion; there is no unity of characters; there is no considerationof what may be shocking, what pleasing as a spectacle. Whoever saw thewhole play through was hurried through thousands of years, was carriedfrom heaven to earth and down to hell; he beheld kings, shepherds, highpriests, executioners, playing their parts with equal effect and onlydistinguished by the splendour or meanness of their apparel; he was awitness to Satan's overthrow, to Abel's death, and was a spectator atthe flogging and crucifixion of Jesus. It is easy for those acquaintedwith the later drama (of Greene especially) to see the direct line ofdescent from these Miracles to the Shakespearian stage. 

One interesting feature of these plays is the frequent appearance ofAngels and Devils on the stage. This accustomed the audience to theentrance of the supernatural, in solid form, into the realm of thenatural; and paved the way for those most substantial ghosts whichshowed themselves so much at home on the Elizabethan stage. We should benot far wrong, perhaps, in describing the later introduction of theSenecan Ghost into English drama as an innovation only in name: thesupernatural had been a familiar factor in heightening dramatic interestlong before _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ or _The Spanish Tragedy_ werewritten. --Of the Devils even more may be said. Their picturesqueattire, [19] their endless pranks (not set down in the text), theirreappearance and disappearance at the most unexpected times, their howlsand familiar 'Harrow and owt! owt and alas!' were a constant delight, and preserved their popularity unexhausted for two hundred years, securing for them a place in the later forms of drama when the Miracleswere supplanted by Moralities and Interludes. The Devil's near cousin, Herod, attained to a similar reputation and longevity. Has even modernmelodrama quite lost that immortal type of the ranting, bombastic tyrantand villain?

The women in the play deserve notice. With the exception of Noah's wife, who was commonly treated in a broadly humorous vein, the principalfemale characters possess that sweet naturalness, depth and constancyof affection, purity and refinement which an age that had not yet lostthe ideals of chivalry accepted as the normal qualities of a good woman. The mothers, wives, and daughters of that day would appear to have beenbefore all things womanly, in an unaffected, instinctive way. Isaac (inthe _Chester Miracle Play_), thinking, in the hour of death, of hismother's grief at home, says, 'Father, tell my mother for no thinge. 'When Mary is married (_Coventry Play_) and must part from her mother, they bid farewell in this wise:

 _Anna. _ I pray the, Mary, my swete chylde, Be lowe[20] and buxhum[21], meke and mylde, Sad and sobyr and nothyng wylde, And Goddys blessynge thou have.... 

 Goddys grace on you sprede, ffarewel, Mary, my swete fflowre, ffareweyl, Joseph, and God you rede[22], ffareweyl my chylde and my tresowre, ffarewel, my dowtere yyng. [23]

 _Maria. _ ffarewel, fadyr and modyr dere, At you I take my leve ryght here, God that sytt in hevyn so clere, Have you in his kepyng. 

The heartbroken words of Mary at the foot of the Cross have already beenquoted. In the reconciliation between Joseph and Mary (_Scene 12_), inMary's patient endurance of Joseph's bad temper on the journey toBethlehem (_Scene 15_), in the mother's unrestrained misery at the lossof the boy Jesus and rapture on finding Him in the Temple (_Scene 20_), in the two sisters' forced cheerfulness by the bedside of the dyingLazarus and their sorrow at his death--nor do these by any means exhaustthe number of favourable instances--there may be seen the basicelements, as it were, which, more deftly handled and blended, gave tothe English stage the world's rarest gallery of noble women. 

Darkness and grief are so woven into the substance of the Biblenarrative that we should indeed have been surprised if the tragic notehad not been sounded often throughout the play. That it could be soundedwell, too, will have been seen from various references and from theScene of Abraham's Sacrifice. Nevertheless, tragedy is a lessinteresting, less original, less English element than the comedy whichpops up its head here, there, and everywhere. It is really a part ofthat absence of dramatic rules already indicated, this easy conjunctionof tragedy and comedy in the same scene. English audiences never couldbe persuaded to forgo their laugh. After all, it was near neighbour totheir tears throughout life; then why not on the stage? A funeral wasnot the less a warning to the living because it was rounded off with afeast. Nor was Jesus on the Cross robbed of any of the majesty andsilent eloquence of vicarious suffering by the vulgar levity of thosewho bade him 'Take good eyd (_heed_) to oure corn, and chare (_scare_)awey the crowe'. The strong sentiment of reverence set limits to theapplication of this humour. Only minor characters were permitted toexpress themselves in this way. The soldiers at the Sepulchre, theJudaeans at the Cross, the 'detractors' in _Scene 14_, certain mockingonlookers in _Scene 40_, these and others of similar stage rank spokethe coarse jests that set free the laugh when tears were too near thesurface. --These common fellows, by the way, are the prototypes of thefamiliar Citizens, Soldiers, Watch, of a later date: the Miracles werefertile in 'originals'. --Some characters there were, however, moreindividual, more of consequence than these, who attained to anestablished reputation for their humour. The Devil's pranks have beenreferred to; Joseph's rusticity also; and the obstinacy of Noah's wifehas been obscurely hinted at. Her gift lay in preferring the company ofher good gossips to the select family gathering assembled in the Ark, and in playing with Noah's ears very soundingly when at length she wasforcibly dragged into safety. Two short extracts from the _ChesterMiracle_ will illustrate her humour. 

 (1)

 _Noye. _ Wyffe, in this vessel we shall be kepte, My children and thou; I would in ye lepte. 

 _Noyes Wiffe. _ In fayth, Noye, I hade as leffe thou slepte! For all thy frynishe[24] fare, I will not doe after thy reade[25]. 

 _Noye. _ Good wyffe, doe nowe as I thee bydde. 

 _Noyes Wiffe. _ Be Christe! not or I see more neede, Though thou stande all the daye and stare. 

 _Noye. _ Lorde, that wemen be crabbed aye, And non are meke, I dare well saye; This is well seene by me to daye, In witnesse of you ichone[26]. 

 (2)

 _Jeffate. _ Mother, we praye you all together, For we are heare, youer owne childer, Come into the shippe for feare of the weither, For his love that you boughte!

 _Noyes Wiffe. _ That will not I, for all youer call, But I have my gossippes all. 

 _Sem. _ In faith, mother, yett you shalle, Wheither thou wylte or [nought]. 

 _Noye. _ Welckome, wiffe, into this botte. 

 _Noyes Wiffe. _ Have thou that for thy note!

 _Noye. _ Ha, ha! marye, this is hotte! It is good for to be still. 

[The reader will easily supply for himself appropriatestage-directions. ]

But of all these comic characters none developed so excellent a geniusfor winning laughter as the Shepherds who 'watched their flocks bynight, all seated on the ground'. To see them at their best we must turnto the _Wakefield_ (or _Towneley_) _Miracle Play_ and read the pastoralscene (or, rather, two scenes) there. Here we come face to face withrustics pure and simple, downright moorland shepherds, homely, grumbling, coarsely clad, warm-hearted, abashed by a woman's tongue, rough in their sports. The real old Yorkshire stock of nearly sixhundred years ago rises into life as we read. 

In the first scene a beginning is made by the entrance of a singleshepherd, grumpy, frost-bitten, and growling rebelliously against theprobably widely resented practice of purveyance whereby a nobleman mightexact from his farm-tenantry provisions and service for his needs, eventhough the farmer's own land should suffer from neglect in consequence. Thus he says, No wonder, as it standys, if we be poore, For the tylthe of oure landys lyys falow as the floore, As ye ken. We ar so hamyd[27], For-taxed[28] and ramyd[29], We ar mayde hand-tamyd, Withe thyse gentlery men. Thus they refe[30] us oure rest, Oure Lady theym wary[31]! These men that ar lord-fest, thay cause the ploghe tary. That men say is for the best we fynde it contrary. Thus ar husbandys opprest, in pointe to myscary, On lyfe. 

By way of excuse for his grumblings he adds in conclusion, It dos me good, as I walk thus by myn oone, Of this warld for to talk in maner of mone. 

The second shepherd, who enters next, has other grounds for discontent. He, poor man, has a vixen for a wife. 

 As sharp as thystille, as rugh as a brere, She is browyd lyke a brystylle, with a sowre loten chere; Had she oones well hyr whystyll she couth syng fulle clere Hyr pater noster. She is as greatt as a whalle She has a galon of galle. 

Conversation opens between the two, but rapidly comes to a dispute. Fortunately the timely arrival of a third shepherd dissipates the cloud, and they are quite ready to hear his complaints--this time ofwide-spreading floods--coupled with further reflections on the hardconditions of a shepherd's lot. By this time the circle is complete, anda good supper and song are produced to ratify the general harmony. Butnow enters the element of discord which forms the pivot of the secondscene. Mak, a boorish fellow shrewdly suspected of sheep stealing, joinsthem, and, after some chaffing, is allowed to share their grassy bed. Inthe night he rises, picks out the finest ram from the flock, drives ithome, and hides it in the cradle. He then returns to his place betweentwo of the shepherds. As he foresaw, morning brings discovery, suspicionand search. The three shepherds proceed to Mak's home, only to beconfronted with the well concocted story that his wife, having justbecome the mother of a sturdy son, must on no account be disturbed. Onthis point apparently a compromise is effected, the search to beexecuted on tip-toe, for the shepherds do somewhat poke and pry about, yet under so sharp a fire of abuse as to render them nervous of pressingtheir investigations too closely. Thus they pass the cradle by, and allwould have gone well with Mak but for that same warm-heartedness ofwhich we spoke earlier. They are already out of the house when a trueChristmas thought flashes into the mind of one of them. 

 _1st Shepherd. _ Gaf ye the chyld any thyng?

 _2nd Shepherd. _ I trow not oone farthyng. 

 _3rd Shepherd. _ Fast agayne wille I flyng, Abyde ye me there. 

 [_He returns to the house, the others following. _]

 Mak, take it no grefe if I com to thi barne. 

 _Mak. _ Nay, thou dos me greatt reprefe, and fowlle has thou farne. [32]

 _3rd Shepherd. _ The child wille it not grefe, that lytylle day starne[33]? Mak, with youre leyfe, let me gyf youre barne Bot vj pence. 

 _Mak. _ Nay, do way: he slepys. 

 _3rd Shepherd. _ Me thynk he pepys. 

 _Mak. _ When he wakyns he wepys. I pray you go hence. 

 _3rd Shepherd. _ Gyf me lefe hym to kys, and lyft up the clowtt. What the dewille is this? he has a long snowte. 

The cat is out of the bag. Mak, with an assurance worthy of a bettercause, declines to believe their report of the cradle's contents, andhis wife comes nimbly to his aid with the startling explanation that itis her son without doubt, for she saw him transformed by a fairy intothis misshapen changeling precisely on the stroke of twelve. Not so, however, are the shepherds to be persuaded to disbelieve their eyes. Instead Mak gets a good tossing in a blanket for his pains, theexertion of which sentence reduces the three to such drowsiness thatsoon they are fast asleep again. From their slumber they are awakened bythe Angel's Song; upon which follows their journey with gifts to thenewborn King. 

Peculiar to the Coventry Miracle Play is the introduction of a new typeof character, unhuman, unreal, a mere embodied quality. In _Scene 9_, where Mary is handed over by her parents to the care of the High Priestat the Temple, she finds provided for her as companions the fivemaidens, Meditation, Contrition, Compassion, Cleanness and Fruition, while near by await her seven teachers, Discretion, Devotion, Dilection, Deliberation, Declaration, Determination and Divination, a goodlycompany of Doctors indeed. Of all these intangible figures one only, Milton's 'cherub Contemplation', speaks, but the rest are quiteobviously represented on the stage, though whether all in flesh andblood may be matter for uncertainty. Much more talkative, on the otherhand, are similar abstractions in _Scene 11_. Here, in the presence ofGod, Contemplation and the Virtues having appealed for an extension ofmercy and forgiveness to man, Truth, Pity and Justice discuss thequestion of Redemption from their particular points of view until Godinterposes with his decision in its favour. Mention of this innovationin the Miracle Play seems advisable at this point, though its bearing onlater drama will be more clearly seen in the next chapter. 

Little need be said of the verse commonly used in Miracles, save topoint out the preference for stanzas and for triple and quadruplerhymes. An examination of the verses quoted will reveal something as tothe variety of forms adopted. Those cited from _Scenes 1_, _4_, and _32_illustrate three types, while another favourite of the Coventry authortakes the following structure (A), with a variant in lines of half thelength (B):

 (A) _Angelus_. 

 Wendyth fforthe, ye women thre, Into the strete of Galylé; Your Savyour ther xul ye se Walkynge in the waye. Your ffleschely lorde now hath lyff, That deyd on tre with strook and stryff; Wende fforthe, thou wepynge wyff, And seke hym, I the saye. (_Scene 36. _)

 (B) _Senescallus_ (_to Herod_). 

 Sere kyng in trone, Here comyth anone By strete and stone Kynges thre. They bere present, -- What thei have ment. Ne whedyr they arn bent, I cannot se. (_Scene 17. _)

Reference to the quotation from the _Wakefield Play_ will discover inthe north country author an even greater propensity to rhyme. 

There remains to be discussed the method of production of these plays. Fortunately we have records to guide us in our suppositions. These datefrom the time when the complete Miracle Play was a fully establishedannual institution. It is of that period that we shall speak. 

Plays had from the first been under official management. When, therefore, the Church surrendered control it was only natural thatsecular officialdom should extend its protection and guidance. Localcorporations, recognizing the commercial advantages of an attractionwhich could annually draw crowds of country customers into the towns, made themselves responsible for the production of the plays. Whiledelegating all the hard work to the trade guilds, as being the chiefgainers from the invasion, they maintained central control, authorizingthe text of the play, distributing the scenes amongst those responsiblefor their presentation, and visiting any slackness with proper pains andpenalties. Under able public management Miracle Plays soon became ayearly affair in every English town. 

When the time came round for the festival to be held--Corpus Christi Daybeing a general favourite, though Whitsuntide also had its adherents, and for some Easter was apparently not too cold--the manuscript of theplay was brought forth from the archives, the probable cost anddifficulties of each scene were considered, the strength or poverty ofthe various guilds was carefully weighed, and finally as just anallocation was made as circumstances would permit. If two guilds werevery poor they were allowed to share the production of one scene. If aguild were wealthy it might be required to manage two scenes, and thosecostly ones. For scenes differed considerably in expense: suchpersonages as God and Herod, and such places as Heaven or the Temple, were a much heavier drain on the purse than, say, Joseph and Mary ontheir visit to Elizabeth. Where there was no difficulty on the score offinance, a guild might be entrusted with a scene--if there was asuitable one--which made special demands on its own craft. Thus, fromthe York records we learn that the Tanners were given the Overthrow ofLucifer and his fellow devils (who would be dressed in brown leather);the Shipwrights, the Building of the Ark; the Fishmongers and Marinersjointly, the scene of Noah and his family in the Ark; the Goldsmiths, the Magi (richly oriental); the Shoers of Horses, the Flight into Egypt;the Barbers, the Baptism by John the Baptist (in camel's hair); theVintners, the Marriage at Cana; the Bakers, the Last Supper; theButchers and Poulterers, the Crucifixion. 

As soon as a Guild had been allotted its scene it appointed a manager tocarry the matter through. The individual expense was not great, somewhere between a penny and fourpence for each member. Out of the sumthus raised had to be paid the cost of dresses and stage-scenery, andthe actors' remunerations (which included food during the period ofrehearsals as well as on the actual playing days). No such crudesimplicity as is made fun of in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ wasadmitted into the plays given in the towns, however natural it may havebeen to villages. Training and expense were not spared by rival guilds. As we saw in the directions for the acting of the old play of _Adam_, propriety in diction and behaviour on the part of the actors wasinsisted upon as early as the tenth century. An interesting record(dated 1462) in the Beverley archives states that a certain member ofthe Weavers' Guild was fined for not knowing his part. It would be quitea mistake, therefore, to suppose that fifteenth-century acting was anunstudied art. Similarly, caution must be used in ridiculing thestage-properties of that day. One has only to peruse intelligently oneof the bald lists of items of expenditure to discover that a placardbearing such an inscription as 'The Ark' or 'Hell' was not the acceptedmeans of giving reality to a scene. The Ark was an elaborate structuredemanding a team of horses for its entrance and exit; while Hell-mouth, copying the traditional representations in mediaeval sculpture, was amost ingenious contrivance, designed in the likeness of gaping jawswhich opened and shut in fearful style, emitting volumes of sulphuroussmoke, not to mention awesome noises. The 'make-ups' too were far frombeing the arbitrary fancies of the wearers. True, they possibly bore nogreat resemblance to the originals. But that was due to an ignorance ofhistory rather than to carelessness about truth. The probability is thatin many cases the images and paintings in the churches were imitated, asbeing faithful likenesses. One has merely to call to mind certainstained-glass windows to guess what sort of realism was reached and tounderstand how it came about that Herod appeared in blue satin, Pilateand Judas respectively in green and yellow, Peter in a wig of solid gilt(with beard to match), and Angels in white surplices. 

For the stage a high platform was used, beneath which, curtained offfrom sight, the actors could dress or await their cues. Above the stage(open on all four sides) was a roof, on which presumably an 'angel'might lie concealed until the moment arrived for him to descend, when aconvenient rope lent aid to too flimsy wings. Contrariwise, the devilwould lurk in the dressing-room, if Hell-mouth were out of repair, untilthe word came for him to thrust the curtains aside, dart out, pull hisvictim off the stage and bear him away to torment. The street itself wasquite freely used whenever conditions seemed to require it: messengers, for example, pushed their way realistically through the crowd; devilsran merrily about in its open space; and when Herod felt the whole stagetoo narrow to contain his fury he sought the ampler bounds of themarket-place to rage in. Sometimes two or more stages were placed inproximity to accommodate actions that must take place at the same time. Thus we read in _Scene 25_ ('The Council of the Jews') of the _CoventryPlay_, 'Here xal Annas, shewyn hymself in his stage, be seyn after abusshop of the hoold lawe, in a skarlet gowne, and over that a blewtabbard furryd with whyte, and a mytere on his hed, after the hooldlawe' (the dress is interesting); and a little further on, 'Here goththe masangere forth, and in the mene tyme Cayphas shewyth himself in hisskafhald arayd lyche to Annas'; while yet a little later appears this, 'Here the buschopys with here (_their_) clerkes and the Phariseus mett, and (? in) the myd place, and ther xal be a lytil oratory with stolysand cusshonys clenly be-seyn, lyche as it were a cownsel-hous'. Again, in _Scene 27_ ('The Last Supper') will be found this direction: 'HereCryst enteryth into the hoûs with his disciplis and ete the Paschallomb; and in the mene tyme the cownsel-hous beforn-seyd xal sodeynlyonclose, schewyng the buschopys, prestys, and jewgys syttyng in hereastat, lyche as it were a convocacyon. ' This last is quoted for theadditional inference that the Coventry stage remained in one placethroughout the play; for the previous reference to the 'cownsel-hous' isthat quoted, two scenes earlier. There was another custom, practised inChester, and probably in other towns where the crowd was great. Therethe whole stage, dressing-room and all, was mounted on wheels and drawnround the town, pausing at appointed stations to present its scene. Bythis means the crowd could be widely scattered (to the more equitableadvantage of shopkeepers), for a spectator had only to remain at one ofthese stations to behold, in due order of procession, the whole playacted. Thus mounted on wheels the stage took the name of a pageant (orpagond, in ruder spelling), --a name soon extended to include not only astage without wheels but even the stage itself. It is used with thelatter meaning in the Prologue to the _Coventry Play_. 

With regard to the time occupied by the play, it is not possible to domuch more than guess, since plays varied considerably in the number oftheir scenes. In one town, as we have said, the whole performance wascrowded into a single day, starting as early as 4. 30 a. M. Chester, onthe other hand, devoted three days to its festival, while at Newcastleacting was confined to the afternoons. Humane consideration for theactors forbade that they should be required to act more than twice aday. They were well paid, as much as fourpence being given for a goodcock-crower (in 'The Trial of Christ'), while the part of God was worththree and fourpence: no contemptible sums at a time when a quart of winecost twopence and a goose threepence. A little uncertainty exists as tothe professional character of the actors, but the generally approvedopinion seems to be that they were merely members of the Guilds, probably selected afresh each year and carefully trained for theirparts. The more professional class, the so-called minstrels or vagrantperformers (descendants of the Norman _jongleurs_), possibly providedthe music, which appears to have filled a large and useful part in theplays. 

 * * * * *

The Saint-plays, the original miracle-plays, continued, and doubtlesswere staged in the same way as the Bible-plays. But the latter socompletely eclipsed them in popularity that they appear never to haveattained to more than a haphazard existence. Their nature was allagainst a dramatic subordination of the different plays to each other. Their subject was fundamentally the same; placed in a series, they couldunroll no larger theme, as could the individual scenes of a Bible-play. For ambitious town festivals, therefore, they were too short. Few publicbodies considered it worth their while to adopt them; and as aconsequence only one or two have been preserved for our reading. 

Those that remain with us, however, contain qualities which may make uswonder why they did not receive greater recognition. It may be that wemisjudge the extent of their popularity, though survival is usually afairly good guide. Certainly they shared, or borrowed, some of the'attractive' features of their rivals: there was not lacking a liberalflavour of the horrible, the satanic, the coarse and the comical. Moreover, they possessed much greater possibilities for purely dramaticeffect. The cohesion of incidents was firmer, the evolution of the plotmore vigorous, the crisis more surprising, the opportunities fororiginality more plentiful. The very fact that they could not easily bewelded together as scenes in a larger play is a testimonial to theirart. They are more complete in themselves. They are, that is to say, afurther stage on the way to that Elizabethan drama which only becamepossible when all idea of a day-long play had been discarded in favourof scenes more single and self-contained. The sacredness, also, of thesaintly narrative was less binding than that of the Bible story. Thosewho had a compunction in caricaturing or coarsening the unholy ornameless people of the Scriptures would feel their liberty immenselywidened in a representation of the secular and heathen world whichsurrounded their saint. This is clearly seen in the _Miracle of theSacrament_, where the figure of Jonathas the Jew is portrayed withdistinct originality. His long recital of his wealth in costly jewels, and the equally lengthy statement by Aristorius, the corruptibleChristian merchant, of his numerous argosies and profitable ventures, are early exercises in the style perfected by Marlowe's Barabas. Thewhole story, from the stealing of the Sacred Host by Aristorius and itssale to Jonathas, right on through the villainous assaults, by the Jewand his confederates, upon its sanctity, and the miraculousmanifestations of its power, to Jonathas's final conversion and therestoration of the sacrament, is a very fair example of the power whichthese Saint Plays possessed in the structure of plots. 

[Footnote 3: go. ]

[Footnote 4: being. ]

[Footnote 5: destroy. ]

[Footnote 6: pleasure. ]

[Footnote 7: might. ]

[Footnote 8: power. ]

[Footnote 9: wrought. ]

[Footnote 10: one. ]

[Footnote 11: realms. ]

[Footnote 12: more worthy. ]

[Footnote 13: injure. ]

[Footnote 14: how. ]

[Footnote 15: offended. ]

[Footnote 16: those. ]

[Footnote 17: their. ]

[Footnote 18: sorrow. ]

[Footnote 19: See the stage-direction at the end of 'The Trial ofChrist', 'Here enteryth Satan into the place in the most orryble wyse, and qwyl (_while_) that he pleyth, thei xal don on Jhesus clothis'. ]

[Footnote 20: lowly. ]

[Footnote 21: obedient. ]

[Footnote 22: counsel. ]

[Footnote 23: young. ]

[Footnote 24: courtly. ]

[Footnote 25: counsel. ]

[Footnote 26: each one. ]

[Footnote 27: crippled. ]

[Footnote 28: overtaxed. ]

[Footnote 29: overreached. ]

[Footnote 30: rob. ]

[Footnote 31: curse. ]

[Footnote 32: done. ]

[Footnote 33: star. ]

CHAPTER III

MORALITIES AND INTERLUDES

Miracle (Bible) Plays had three serious faults, not accidental, butinherent in them. They were far too long. Their story was well known andstrictly confined by the two covers of the Bible. Their characters wereall provided by the familiar narrative. It is true that a few additionsto the canonical list were admitted, such as Cain's servant Garcio, Pilate's beadle, and Mak the sheep-stealer. Lively characters were alsocreated out of nonentities like the various Judaeans and soldiers, andthe shepherds. But these were all minors; they had no influence on thecourse of the action, and the smallness of their part made anything likea full delineation impossible. They were real men, recognizable as akinto local types, but no more; one never knew anything of them beyondtheir simplicity or brutality. Meanwhile their superiors, clothed in thestiff dress of tradition and reverence, passed over the stage withhardly an idea or gesture to distinguish them from their predecessors ofthree centuries before. 

The English nation grew tired of Bible Plays. There can be no doubt ofthis if we consider the kind of play that for a time secured the firstplace in popularity. Only audiences weary of its alternative could havewaxed enthusiastic over _The Castell of Perseverance_ or _Everyman_. Something shorter was wanted, with an original plot and some freshcharacters. To some extent, as has been shown, the Saint Plays suppliedthese requirements, and one is tempted to suspect that in the latterpart of their career there was some subversion of the relative positionsof the two rival types of Miracle. But what was asked for was novelty. Both forms of the Miracle were hundreds of years old, and both had tosuffer the same fate, of relegation to a secondary place in the Drama. In letting them pass from our notice, however, we must not exaggeratetheir decline. The first Moralities appeared as early as the fifteenthcentury, but some of the great Miracles (e. G. Of Chester and York)lasted until near the end of the sixteenth century. For some time, therefore, the latter must have held their own. Indeed the formerprobably met with their complete success only when they had becomemerged in the Interludes. 

In its purest form the Morality Play was simply the subject of theMiracle Play writ small, the general theme of the Fall and Redemption ofMan applied to the particular case of an individual soul. The centralfigure was a Human Being; his varying fortunes as he passed fromchildhood to old age supplied the incidents, and his ultimate destinycrowned the action. Around him were grouped virtues and vices, at hiselbows were his good and his bad angel, while at the end of life waitedHeaven or Hell to receive him, according to his merits and the mercy ofGod. The merits were commonly minimized to emphasize the mercy, withhappy results for the interest of the play. 

It is easy to see how all this harmonized with the mediaeval allegoricalelement in religion and literature. A century earlier Langland hadscourged wickedness in high places in his famous allegory, _PiersPlowman_. A century later Spenser was to weave the most exquisite verseround the defeats and triumphs of the spirit of righteousness in man'ssoul. Nor had allegory yet died when Bunyan wrote, for all time, hisstory of the battling of Christian against his natural failings. Afterall, a Morality Play was only a dramatized version of an inferior_Pilgrim's Progress_; and those of us who have not wholly lost theimagination of our childhood still find pleasure in that book. Injudging the Moralities, therefore, we must not forget the audience towhich they appealed. We shall be the more lenient when we discover howsoon they were improved upon. 

Influenced at first by the comprehensiveness of the plot in the MiraclePlay, the writers of the early Moralities were satisfied with thecompression of action effected by the change from the general to theparticular theme. This had brought about a reduction in the timerequired for the acting; and along with these gains had come the furtheradvantages of novelty and originality. Accordingly the author of _TheCastell of Perseverance_ (almost the only true Morality handed down tous) was quite content to let his play run to well over three thousandlines, seeing that within this space he set forth the whole life of aman from the cradle to the grave and even beyond. But later writers werequick to see that this so-called particular theme was still a great dealtoo general, leaving only the broadest outlines available for charactersand incidents. By omitting the stages of childhood and early manhoodthey could plunge at once into the last stage, where, beneath the shadowof imminent destiny, every action had an intensified interest. Moreover, within such narrowed boundaries each incident could be painted indetail, each character finished off with more realistic traits. It wasdoubtless under such promptings that the original Dutch _Everyman_ waswritten, and the alacrity with which it was translated and adopted amongEnglish Moralities shows that its principle was welcomed as an artisticadvance. An almost imperceptible step led straight from the _Everyman_type of Morality to the Interludes. 

Before tracing further changes, however, it might be well to have beforeus a more definite notion of the contents of _The Castell ofPerseverance_ and _Everyman_ than could be gathered from these generalremarks. For a summary of the former we shall be glad to borrow theoutline given by Ten Brink in his _History of English Literature_. [34]

'_Humanum Genus_ appears as a new-born child, as a youth, as a man, andas a graybeard. As soon as the child appears upon the stage we see theAngel of Good and the Angel of Evil coming and speaking to him. Hefollows the Evil Angel and is led to Mundus (the World), who gives himJoy and Folly, and very soon also Slander, for his companions. By thelatter--or, to stick to the literal expression of the poet, by thislatter female personage--_Humanum Genus_ is introduced to Greed, whosoon presents to him the other Deadly Sins. We see the hero, when ayoung man, choosing Lust as his bed-fellow; and, in spite of theendeavours of his Good Angel, he continues in his sinful career until atlength Repentance leads him to Confession. At forty years of age we seehim in the _Castle of Constancy_ [or _Perseverance_], whither he hasbeen brought by Confession, surrounded by the seven most excellentVirtues.... The castle is surrounded by the three Evil Powers and theSeven Deadly Sins, with the Devil at their head, and with foot and horseis closely besieged. _Humanum Genus_ commends himself to his general, who died on the cross; but the Virtues valiantly defend the Castle; andLove and Patience and their sisters cast roses down on the besiegers, who are thereby beaten black and blue, and forced to retire. But_Humanum Genus_ in the meantime has become an old man, and now yields tothe seductions of Greed, who has succeeded in creeping up to the castlewalls. The old man quits the Castle and follows the seducer. His end isnigh at hand. The rising generation, represented by a Boy, demands ofhim his heaped-up treasures. And now Death and Soul appear upon thescene. Soul calls on Mercy for assistance; but the Evil Angel takes_Humanum Genus_ on its back and departs with him along the road to Hell. In this critical position of affairs the well-known argument begins, where Mercy and Peace plead before God on the one side, and Justice andTruth on the other. God decides in favour of Mercy; Peace takes the soulof _Humanum Genus_ from the Evil Angel, and Mercy carries it to God, whothen pronounces the judgment--and afterwards the epilogue of the play. '

The plot of _Everyman_ is as follows. 

Everyman, in the midst of life's affairs, is suddenly summoned by Death. Astonished, alarmed, he protests that he is not ready, and offers athousand pounds for another twelve years in which to fill up his'Account'. But no delay is possible. At once he must start on hisjourney. Can he among his friends find one willing to bear him company?He tries. But Fellowship and Kindred and Cousin, willing enough forother services, decline to undertake this one. Goods (or Wealth)confesses that, as a matter of fact, his presence would only make thingsworse for Everyman, for love of riches is a sin. Finally Everyman seeksout poor forgotten Good-Deeds, only to find her bound fast by his sins. In this strait he turns to Knowledge, and under her guidance visitsConfession, who prescribes a penance of self-chastisement. Theadministration of this has so liberating an effect on Good-Deeds thatshe is able to rise and join Everyman and Knowledge. To them aresummoned Discretion, Strength, Beauty and Five-Wits--friends ofEveryman--and all journey together until, as they draw near the end, thelast four depart. At the grave Knowledge stays outside, but Good-Deedsenters with Everyman, whose welcome to Heaven is announced directlyafterwards by an angel. The epilogue, spoken by a Doctor, supplies apious interpretation of the play. 

Such are the stories of the two best known Moralities. From them we canjudge how great a change had come over the drama. Nowhere is there anyincident approaching the nature of 'The Sacrifice of Isaac', nowhere isthere any character worthy to stand beside the Mary of the Miracle Play. Those are the losses. On the other hand, we perceive a newcompactness--still loose, but much in advance of what existedbefore--whereby the central figure is always before us, urged along fromone act and one set of surroundings to another, towards a goal which isnever lost sight of. Also there is the invention which provides forthese two plays different plots, as well as some diversity ofcharacters. The superiority of the shorter play--_Everyman_ containsjust over nine hundred lines--to the older one is less readily detectedin a comparison of bare plots, though it becomes obvious as soon as onereads the plays. It lies in a more detailed characterization, in adeliberate attempt to humanize the abstractions, in the substitution ofsomething like real conversation for the orderly succession of debatingsociety speeches. The following extracts will illustrate thisdifference. 

 (1) From _The Castell of Perseverance_. 

 [GOOD ANGEL _and_ BAD ANGEL, _in rivalry, are trying to secure the adherence of the juvenile_ HUMANKIND: GOOD ANGEL _has already spoken. _]

 _Bad Angel. _ Pes aungel, thi wordes are not wyse, Thou counselyst hym not a-ryth[35]. He schal hym drawyn to the werdes[36] servyse, To dwelle with caysere, kynge and knyth, That in londe be hym non lyche. Cum on with me, stylle as ston: Thou and I to the werd schul goon, And thanne thou schalt sen a-non Whow sone thou schalt be ryche. 

 _Good Angel. _ A! pes aungel, thou spekyst folye! Why schuld he coveyt werldes goode, Syn Criste in erthe and hys meynye[37] All in povert here thei stode? Werldes wele[38], be strete and stye, Faylyth and fadyth as fysch in flode, But hevene ryche is good and trye, Ther Criste syttyth, bryth as blode, Withoutyn any dystresse. To the world wolde he not flyt, But forsok it every whytt; Example I fynde in holy wryt, He wyl bere me wytnesse. 

 [BAD ANGEL _replies, and then_ HUMANKIND _speaks. _]

 _Humankind. _ Whom to folwe wetyn[39] I ne may, I stonde in stodye and gynne to rave: I wolde be ryche in gret aray, And fayn I wolde my sowle save. As wynde in watyr I wave. Thou woldyst to the werld I me toke, And he wolde that I it forsoke, Now so God me helpe, and the holy boke, I not[40] wyche I may have. 

 (2) From _Everyman_. 

 [EVERYMAN _has just met_ FELLOWSHIP. ]

 _Felawshyp. _ My true frende, shewe to me your mynde, I wyll not forsake the to thy lyves ende, In the way of good company. 

 _Everyman. _ That was well spoken and lovyngly. 

 _Felawshyp. _ Syr, I must nedes knowe your hevynesse. I have pyte to se you in ony dystresse. If ony have you wronged ye shall revenged be, Though I on the grounde be slayne for the, Though that I knowe before that I sholde dye. 

 _Everyman. _ Veryly, Felawshyp, gramercy. 

 _Felawshyp. _ Tusshe, by thy thankes I set not a strawe, Shewe me your grefe and saye no more. 

 _Everyman. _ If I my herte sholde to you breke, And than you to tourne your mynde fro me, And wolde not me comforte whan ye here me speke, Then sholde I ten tymes soryer be. 

 _Felawshyp. _ Syr, I saye as I wyll do in dede. 

 _Everyman. _ Than be you a good frende at nede, I have founde you true herebefore. 

 _Felawshyp. _ And so ye shall evermore, For, in fayth, and thou go to hell I wyll not forsake the by the waye. 

 [EVERYMAN _now explains his need for a companion along the road to the next world. _]

 _Felawshyp. _ That is mater in dede! Promyse is duty, But and I sholde take suche vyage on me, I knowe it well, it sholde be to my payne; Also it make me aferde, certayne. But let us take counsell here as well as we can, For your wordes wolde fere a stronge man. 

 _Everyman. _ Why, ye sayd, yf I had nede, Ye wolde me never forsake, quycke ne deed, Though it were to hell, truely. 

 _Felawshyp. _ So I sayd certaynely, But suche pleasures be set a syde, the sothe to saye; And also, yf we toke suche a journaye, Whan sholde we come agayne?

 _Everyman. _ Naye, never agayne, tyll the daye of dome. 

 _Felawshyp. _ In fayth, than wyll not I come there. Who hath you these tydynges brought?

 _Everyman. _ In dede, deth was with me here. 

 _Felawshyp. _ Now, by God that all hathe bought, If deth were the messenger, For no man that is lyvynge to daye I wyll not go that lothe journaye, Not for the fader that bygate me. 

 _Everyman. _ Ye promysed other wyse, parde. 

 _Felawshyp. _ I wote well I say so, truely, And yet yf thou wylte ete and drynke and make good chere, Or haunt to women, the lusty company, I wolde not forsake you whyle the day is clere, Trust me veryly. 

 _Everyman. _ Ye, therto ye wolde be redy: To go to myrthe, solas[41] and playe Your mynde wyll soner apply Than to bere me company in my longe journaye. 

The difference between the plays is clearer now. Somewhere we have metsuch a fellow as Fellowship; at some time we have taken part in such aconversation, and heard the gushing acquaintance of prosperous daysexcuse himself in the hour of trouble. But never in daily life was metso dull a creature as one of those angels, nor ever was heardconversation like theirs. 

Let us return to trace the change to the Interlude. Quite a short stepwill carry us to it. 

We have said that Moralities gave to the drama originality in plot andin characters. This statement invites qualification, for its truth isconfined to rather narrow limits, in fact, to the early days of this newkind of play. Let a few Moralities be produced and the rest will befound to be treading very closely in their footsteps. For there are notpossible many divergent variations of a story that must have for itscentral figure Man in his three ages and must express itselfallegorically. Nor is the list of Virtues and Vices so large that it canprovide an inexhaustible supply of fresh characters. However ingeniousauthors may be, the day is quickly reached when parallelism drives theiraudience to a wearisome consciousness that the speeches have all beenheard before, that the next step in the plot can be foretold to anicety. Something of this was perceived by the author of _Everyman_. With bold strokes of the pen he drew a line through two-thirds of theorthodox plot, crossed off from the list of characters the hackneyedGood and Bad Angels, and, against the old names that must still remain, seems to have jotted for himself this reminder, 'Try human types. ' So, at least, we may imagine him doing. The figures that occupy the stage ofthe old Morality are for the most part, like the two Angels, meremouthpieces for pious or wicked counsels. Fellowship and his companions, on the other hand, are selected examples from well-known andclearly-defined classes of mankind. They are not more than that. All weknow of Fellowship is his ready faculty for excusing himself when helpis needed. He has no traits to distinguish him from others of his kind. If we describe to one another the men or women whom he recalls to ourmemory we find that the descriptions differ widely in all but the onecommon characteristic. In other words, he is a type. The step whichbrings us to the Interludes is the conversion of the type into anindividual with special marks about him peculiar to himself. It is aningenious suggestion, that the idea first found expression in an attemptto excite interest by adding to a character one or two of thepeculiarities of a local celebrity (miser, prodigal, or beggar) knownfor the quality typified. If this was so, it was an interestingreversion to the methods of Aristophanes. But it is only a guess. Whatis certain is that in the Interludes we find the 'type' graduallyassuming a greater complexity, a larger measure of those minor featureswhich make the ordinary man interesting. Significantly enough, the lastthing to be acquired was a name such as ordinary men bear. A fewcharacters attained to that certificate of individuality, but evenHeywood, the master of the Interlude, preferred class names, such asPalmer, Pardoner, or Pedlar. This should warn us not to expect too muchfrom the change. To the very end some features of the earliestMoralities are discernible: we shall meet Good Angel and Bad Angel inone of Marlowe's plays. After all, the interval of time is not so verygreat. _The Castell of Perseverance_ was written probably about themiddle of the fifteenth century; _Everyman_ may be assigned to the closeof that century or the beginning of the next; one of the earliestsurviving Interludes, _Hick Scorner_, has been dated 'about 1520-25';and Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_ belongs probably to the year 1588. 

Let us turn to _Hick Scorner_ and see the new principle ofcharacterization at work. How much of the old is blended with it may beseen in the opening speech, which is delivered by as colourless anabstraction as ever advocated a virtuous life in the Moralities. A goodold man, Pity, sits alone, describing himself to his hearers. To himcomes Contemplation, and shortly afterwards Perseverance, both youngermen but just as undeniably 'Virtues'. Each explains his nature to theaudience before discovering the presence of Pity, but they quickly fallinto a highly edifying conversation. Fortunately for us Contemplationand Perseverance have other engagements, which draw them away. Pityrelapses into a corner and silence. Thereupon two men of a verydifferent type take the boards. The first comer is Freewill, a careless, graceless youth by his own account; Imagination, who follows, is worse, being one of those hardened, ready-witted, quick-tempered rogues whomprovidence saves from drowning for another fate. He is sore, this secondfellow, with sitting in the stocks; yet quite unrepentant, boasting, rather, of his skill in avoiding heavier penalties. That others come tothe gallows is owing to their bad management. As he says, For, and they could have carried by craft as I can, In process of years each of them should be a gentleman. Yet as for me I was never thief; [i. E. _was never proved one. _] If my hands were smitten off, I can steal with my teeth; For ye know well, there is craft in daubing[42]: I can look in a man's face and pick his purse, And tell new tidings that was never true, i-wis, For my hood is all lined with lesing[43]. 

Nevertheless once he was very nearly caught. And he narrates theincident with so much circumstantial detail that it would be a pity notto have his own words. 

 _Imagination. _ Yes, once I stall a horse in the field, And leapt on him for to have ridden my way. At the last a baily me met and beheld, And bad me stand: then was I in a fray[44]. He asked whither with that horse I would gone; And then I told him it was mine own. He said I had stolen him; and I said nay. This is, said he, my brother's hackney. For, and I had not excused me, without fail, By our lady, he would have lad me straight to jail. And then I told him the horse was like mine, A brown bay, a long mane, and did halt behine; Thus I told him, that such another horse I did lack; And yet I never saw him, nor came on his back. So I delivered him the horse again. And when he was gone, then was I fain[45]: For and I had not excused me the better, I know well I should have danced in a fetter. 

 _Freewill. _ And said he no more to thee but so?

 _Imagination. _ Yea, he pretended me much harm to do; But I told him that morning was a great mist, That what horse it was I ne wist: Also I said, that in my head I had the megrin, That made me dazzle so in mine eyen, That I might not well see. And thus he departed shortly from me. 

By this time a third party has approached; for an impatient inquiry forHick Scorner immediately brings that redoubtable gentleman upon thestage, possibly slightly the worse for liquor, seeing that his firstwords are those of one on a ship at sea. They may, however, indicatemerely a seafaring man, for he has been a great traveller in his time, 'in France, Ireland, and in Spain, Portingal, Sevile, also in Almaine, 'and many places more, even as far as 'the land of Rumbelow, three mileout of hell'. He is acquainted with the names of many vessels, of which'the _Anne_ of Fowey, the _Star_ of Saltash, with the _Jesus_ ofPlymouth' are but a few. With something of a chuckle he adds that afleet of these ships bound for Ireland with a crowded company of all thegodly persons of England--'piteous people, that be of sin destroyers', 'mourners for sin, with lamentation', and 'good rich men that helpethfolk out of prison'--has been wrecked on a quicksand and the wholecompany drowned. Next he has an ill-sounding report of his own lastvoyage to give. When that is finished Imagination proposes anadjournment for pleasures more active than conversation, where pursesmay be had for the asking. 

 Every man bear his dagger naked in his hand, And if we meet a true man, make him stand, Or else that he bear a stripe; If that he struggle, and make any work, Lightly strike him to the heart, And throw him into Thames quite. 

This suggestion meets with the approval of Freewill, who, however, takesthe opportunity to ask after Imagination's father in such unmannerlyterms as at once to rouse his friend's quick temper. In a moment aquarrel is assured, nor does Hick Scorner's attempted mediation produceany other reward than a shrewd blow on the head. At this preciseinstant, however, old Pity, who has remained unnoticed, and who isunwarned by the fate of Hick Scorner, pushes forward with an idea ofintervention. As might have been foreseen, the three rascals promptlyunite in rounding upon him. They insult him, they threaten him, theyraise malicious lying charges against him, and finally they clap him inirons and leave him--Imagination being the ringleader throughout. Leftalone once more Pity sings a lament over the wickedness of the times, whereof the doleful refrain is 'Worse was it never'. A ray of light inhis affliction comes with the return of Contemplation and Perseverance, who, releasing him, send him off to fetch his persecutors back. Fortuneis on their side, for scarcely has Pity gone when Freewill enters byhimself with a wonderful account of his latest roguery--the robbing of atill--for the ears of his audience. Contemplation and Perseverance, stout enough of limb when they have a mind to use force, listen quietlyto the end and then calmly inform him that he is their prisoner, a factwhich no amount of blustering defiance can alter. Nevertheless, thoughhe has thus openly confessed his own guilt, they have no wish to proceedto extremes. If only he will give up his wicked life they will becontent, made happy by the knowledge of his salvation. It is a strangesort of conversion, Freewill's tongue running constantly, with anobvious relish, on the various punishments he has endured; but at lengthhe capitulates, accepting Perseverance as his future guide, and donningthe uniform of virtuous service. 

 Huff, huff, huff! who sent after me? I am Imagination, full of jollity. Lord, that my heart is light! When shall I perish? I trow, never. 

In such a manner does the bolder sinner leap to the front. He scans thelittle group in search of his friend and stares wonderingly onperceiving him in his new dress. Now begins a second tussle for thewinning of a soul. The fashion of it can be inferred from the followingfragment. 

 _Perseverance. _ Imagination, think what God did for thee; On Good Friday He hanged on a tree, And spent all His precious blood; A spear did rive His heart asunder, The gates He brake up with a clap of thunder, And Adam and Eve there delivered He. 

 _Imagination. _ What devil! what is that to me? By God's fast, I was ten year in Newgate, And many more fellows with me sat, Yet he never came there to help me ne my company. 

 _Contemplation. _ Yes, he holp thee, or thou haddest not been here now. 

 _Imagination. _ By the mass, I cannot show you, For he and I never drank together, Yet I know many an ale stake[46]. 

In the end, mainly through the personal appeal of his friend, Imagination too yields and accepts the guidance of Perseverance, Freewill transferring his allegiance to Contemplation. As Hick Scornernever returns, the double conversion brings the play to a close. 

Rising from the perusal of _Hick Scorner_ we confess that we have made anew acquaintance: we have met Imagination and have not left him until wehave learnt a good deal about him; how he fled from a catchpole but losthis purse in the flight, how he and Hick Scorner were shackled togetherin Newgate without money to pay for an upper room, how brazen-faced hislies were, how near he was to hanging, how ingenious were his excuses, and many other facts besides. We have seen him, too, as the ringleaderin mischief and the arrantest rogue in the play. Freewill and HickScorner make less impression on us; they are more cloudy in outline, more like types. As for Pity, Contemplation and Perseverance, they aremerely talking-machines. We must keep an eye on Imagination, aspossessing a dramatic value likely to be needed again. 

We shall have been disappointed in the plot. That part of the dramaseems to be getting worse. Humankind was at least gaining freshexperience in _The Castell of Perseverance_; he was even besieged in afortress and had the narrowest escape in the world from being carriedoff to Hell. Everyman's startling doom, his eager quest for a companionon his journey, and his zealous self-discipline keep us to the end in astate of concern for his ultimate fate. But what interest have we inContemplation, Freewill and the rest, apart from what they say? Nosuggestion is thrown out at the beginning that two of the rogues are tobe reclaimed: their fate concerns us not at all. The quarrel, and theill-treatment of poor old Pity, are the merest by-play, with noimportance whatsoever as a step in the evolution of a plot. Indeed it isopen to question whether there is a plot. There are speeches, there isconversation, there is some scuffling, and there is a happy ending, butthere is no guiding thread running through the story, no discernibleobjective steadily aimed at from the start. It looks as though the newinterest in drawing (or seeing) a real human individual has monopolizedthe whole attention; that for the time being characterization has drivenplot-building completely into the shade. 

A curious, yet not unnatural, thing has happened. In _The Castell ofPerseverance_ Humankind was more acted upon than acting. The real forceof the action lay in the antagonism between the Virtues and Vices, theGood Angel and the Bad Angel, an antagonism so inveterate that even ifthe temporary object of their struggle were removed, the strife wouldstill break out again from the sheer viciousness of the Vices. Thisinstinctive hostility between Virtues and Vices supplies the groundworkof the Interludes. They dismiss Humankind from the stage. He was alwaysa weak, oscillating sort of creature. Sound, forceful Abstractions andTypes were wanted, which could be worked up into thoroughgoing rascalsor heroes, rascality having all the preference. Any underlying thread, therefore, that there may be in _Hick Scorner_ is this rivalry andembitterment between the wicked sort and the virtuous. We shall observethat already one of the rogues is taking precedence of the others indramatic importance, in fullness of portraiture, and, of course, invillany. 

_Like Will to Like_--of an uncertain date prior to 1568 (when it wasprinted) but almost certainly a later production than many Interludeswhich we omit here, notably Heywood's--illustrates the development ofsome of these changes. In brief outline its story is as follows. 

Nichol Newfangle receives a commission from Lucifer to go through theworld bringing similar persons together, like to like. Accordingly heacts as arbiter between Ralph Roister and Tom Tosspot in a dispute as towhich of the two is the greater knave, and, deciding that both areequal, promises them equal shares in certain property he has atdisposal. Next, meeting Cuthbert Cutpurse and Pierce Pickpurse, he givesthem news of a piece of land which has fallen to them by unexpectedsuccession. He then adjourns with his friends to an alehouse, leavingthe stage to Virtuous Living, who has already chidden him for his sinswho now, after a long monologue or chant, is rewarded by Good Fame andHonour, the servants of God's Promise. On the departure of theseVirtues, Newfangle returns, shortly followed by Ralph and Tom, pennilessfrom a game of dice, and more than ever anxious for the property. Thislast proves to be no more than a beggar's bag, bottle and staff, suitable to their present condition, but so little satisfying, thatNewfangle receives a terrible drubbing for his trick. Judge Severityarrives on the scene conveniently to lecture him severely and witnesshis second knavish device, which is no other than to hand over to theJudge the two fugitives from justice, Cutpurse and Pickpurse, for thepiece of land of which he spoke is the gallows. Hankin Hangman takespossession of his victims, and the Devil, entering with a 'Ho, ho, ho!', carries Newfangle away with him on his back. Virtuous Life, Honour andGood Fame bring the play to a proper conclusion with prayers for theQueen, Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, this customaryexhibition of loyalty being rounded off with a hymn. 

This play, though so much later in date than _Hick Scorner_, shows noimprovement in plot. Nor, perhaps, ought we to expect that it should. AnInterlude, as its name implies, was originally only a kind of stop-gap, an entrée of light entertainment between other events; and what sowelcome for this purpose as the inconsequential dialogue, by-play, andmutual trickery of sundry 'lewd fellows of the baser sort'? When itextended its sphere from the castle banqueting-hall to the street orinn-yard no greater excellence was expected from it. Its brevity savedit from tediousness, and the Virtues, whom the lingering influence ofreligion upon the drama saved from the wreck of the Morality Plays, weregiven a more and more subordinate place. In this play they serve topoint the moral by showing the reward that comes to righteousness insharp contrast to the poverty and vile death that are the meed ofwickedness. But it is noticeable that they are quite apart from theother group, much more so than was the case in _Hick Scorner_. 

Instead of a plot we find an increasing admixture of buffoonery, withoutwhich no Interlude could be regarded as complete. Herein we see theinfluence of certain farcical entertainments brought over by the Norman_jongleurs_ (or travelling minstrel-comedians). Just as the French_fabliaux_ inspired Chaucer's coarser tales, so the French _farce_stimulated the natural inclination of the English taste to broad humourand rough-and-tumble buffoonery on the stage. Held in some restraint bythe dominant religious element, it grew stronger as the latter weakened. Thus, in _Like Will to Like_ a certain Hance enters half-intoxicated, roaring out a drinking song until the sudden collapse of his voicecompels him to recite the rest in the thick stutter of a drunken man. Hecarries a pot of ale in his hand, from which he drinks to the health ofTom Tosspot, giving the toast with a 'Ca-ca-carouse to-to-to thee, go-go-good Tom'--which is but an indifferent hexameter. At thesuggestion of Newfangle 'he danceth as evil-favoured as may be demised, and in the dancing he falleth down, and when he riseth he must groan', according to the stage-direction. When he does rise, doubtless withunlimited comicality of effort, he staggers into a chair and proceeds tosnore loudly. All this is accompanied by a fitting fashion ofconversation. We can only hope that the author's attempts at humour metwith the applause he clearly expected. We believe they did, for he wasonly copying a widespread custom. 

Of far more importance than Hance, however, are the two characters, theDevil and Nichol Newfangle. They invite joint treatment by their owndeclared relationship and by the close union which stage traditionquickly gave to them. Most of us will remember Shakespeare's song from_Twelfth Night_ bearing on these two notorious companions, their quaintgarb, and their laughter-raising antics. 

 I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I'll be with you again, In a trice, Like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who, with dagger of lath, In his rage and his wrath, Cries, ah, ha! to the devil: Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad; Adieu, goodman devil. 

Newfangle is the 'Vice' of the play; 'Nichol Newfangle, the Vice, ' saysthe list of dramatis personae. We noticed in our consideration of _HickScorner_ that one of the Vices, Imagination, was eminent for his moredetailed character and readier villany. The trick has been adopted; thefavourite has grown fast. He has become _the_ Vice. Compared with himthe rest of the Vices appear foolish fellows whom it is his delight toplague and lead astray. So supreme is he in wickedness that he has evenbeen given the Devil himself as his godfather, uncle, playmate. It ishis duty to keep alive the natural wickedness in man, to set snares andevil mischances before the feet of simpler folk, to teach youth to beidle and young men to be quarrelsome, to lure rogues to their ruin; but, above all, to import wit into prosy dialogues, merriment into dullsituations. Such is 'the Vice'. Hear him speak for himself:

 What is he calls upon me, and would seem to lack a Vice? Ere his words be half spoken, I am with him in a trice Here, there, and everywhere, as the cat is with the mice: True _Vetus Iniquitas_. Lack'st thou cards, friend, or dice? I will teach thee to cheat, child, to cog, lie, and swagger, And ever and anon to be drawing forth thy dagger. 

 (Ben Jonson's _The Devil is an Ass_. )

Then what a universal favourite, too, is the Devil, our old friend fromthe Miracles! 'My husband, Timothy Tattle, God rest his poor soul!' saysgood Gossip Tattle, 'was wont to say, there was no play without a fooland a devil in 't; he was for the devil still, God bless him! The devilfor his money, would he say, I would fain see the devil. ' And GossipMirth adds a description of the Devil as she knew him: 'As fine agentleman of his inches as ever I saw trusted to the stage, or any whereelse; and loved the commonwealth as well as ever a patriot of them all;he would carry away the Vice on his back, quick to hell, in every playwhere he came, and reform abuses' (Ben Jonson's _The Staple of News_). But our present purpose is with Nichol Newfangle and his arch-prompter. Nevertheless these few general remarks will save us from the necessityof returning to the subject later. The truth of the matter is that here, in _Like Will to Like_, we have as full a delineation of these twopopular characters as may be found in any of the Interludes. Ourattention will not be misplaced if we pry a little closer into themethod of presentation. 

The Vice must be merry; that above all. Accordingly the stage-directionat the opening of the play reads thus, 'Here entereth Nichol Newfanglethe Vice, laughing, and hath a knave of clubs in his hand which, as soonas he speaketh, he offereth unto one of the men or boys standing by. ' Heis apparently on familiar terms already with the 'gallery' (or, in theterm of that day, 'groundlings'); as intimate as the modern clown withhis stage-asides for the exclusive benefit of 'the gods'. When we readthe first two lines we perceive the wit of the card trick:

 Ha, ha, ha, ha! now like unto like; it will be none other: Stoop, gentle knave, and take up your brother. 

We can almost hear the shout of laughter at the expense of the fellowwho unwittingly took the card. The audience is with Newfangle at once. He has scored his first point and given a capital send-off to the playby this comically-conceived illustration of the meaning of its strangetitle. Forthwith he rattles along with a string of patter about himself, who he is, what sciences he learnt in hell before he was born, and soon, until arrested by the abrupt entrance of another person. Thisnewcomer somersaults on to the stage and cuts divers uncouth capersexactly as our 'second clown' does at the pantomime. Newfangle stares, grimaces, and, turning again to the audience, continues:

 _Sancte benedicite_, whom have we here Tom Tumbler, or else some dancing bear? Body of me, it were best go no near: For ought that I see, it is my godfather Lucifer, Whose prentice I have been this many a day: But no more words but mum: you shall hear what he will say. 

By the time he has finished speaking the other has unrolled himself andpresents a queer figure, clothed in a bearskin and bearing in largeprint on his chest and back the name Lucifer. He too commences with alaugh or a shout, 'Ho!'. That is the hall-mark of the Devil and theVice, the herald's blare of trumpets, so to speak, before the speech ofHis High Mightiness. We have not forgotten that other cry:

 Huff, huff, huff! who sent after me? I am Imagination, full of jollity. 

It is the same trick; the older rascal is, bone, flesh, and blood, thevery kin of Newfangle; both have the same godfather. So the dialogueopens between Old Nick and Nichol in the approved fashion:

 _Lucifer. _ Ho! mine own boy, I am glad that thou art here!

 _Newfangle_ (_pointing to one standing by_). He speaketh to you, sir, I pray you come near. 

 _Lucifer. _ Nay, thou art even he, of whom I am well apaid. 

 _Newfangle. _ Then speak aloof, for to come nigh I am afraid. 

We need not trouble ourselves here with their further conversation, noryet with Tom Collier of Croydon, who joins them in a jig and a song. Hesoon goes off again, followed by Lucifer, so we can turn over the pages, guided by our outline, until we are near the end. 

 [_The_ DEVIL _entereth. _]

 _Lucifer. _ Ho, ho, ho! mine own boy, make no more delay, But leap up on my back straightway. 

 _Newfangle. _ Then who shall hold my stirrup, while I go to horse?

 _Lucifer. _ Tush, for that do thou not force! Leap up, I say, leap up quickly. 

 _Newfangle. _ Woh, Ball, woh! and I will come by and by. Now for a pair of spurs I would give a good groat, To try whether this jade do amble or trot. Farewell, my masters, till I come again, For now I must make a journey into Spain. 

 [_He rideth away on the_ DEVIL'S _back. _]

The reader must use his imagination, stimulated by recollections of theChristmas pantomime, if this episode is to have its full meaning. Briefin words, it may quite easily have occupied five minutes and more inacting. 

As related more or less distantly to the noisy element, the many songsin this Interlude call for notice. The practice of introducing lyricswas in vogue long before the playwrights of Shakespeare's time displayedtheir use so perfectly. From this point onwards the drama rings with therough drinking songs, pious hymns, and sweet lyrics of the buffoon, thepreacher, and the lover. Thus, turning haphazard to _The Trial ofTreasure_, the Interlude immediately preceding _Like Will to Like_ inthe volume of Dodsley's _Old English Plays_, we find no less than eightsongs. _Like Will to Like_ has also eight. _New Custom_, the otherInterlude in the same volume, has only two; but it may be added that, asthe author of _New Custom_ was writing with a very special and soberpurpose in view, he may have felt that much singing would beinappropriate. That these lyrics went with a good swing may be judgedfrom two of those in _Like Will to Like_. 

 (1) Tom Collier of Croydon hath sold his coals, And made his market to-day; And now he danceth with the Devil, For like will to like alway. 

 Wherefore let us rejoice and sing, Let us be merry and glad; Sith that the Collier and the Devil This match and dance hath made. 

 Now of this dance we make an end With mirth and eke with joy: The Collier and the Devil will be Much like to like alway. 

 (2) Troll the bowl and drink to me, and troll the bowl again, And put a brown toast in [the] pot for Philip Fleming's brain. And I shall toss it to and fro, even round about the house-a: Good hostess, now let it be so, I brink them all carouse-a. 

More than once reference has been made to the lingering religiouselement in the Interludes. Probably 'moral element' would describe itbetter, though in those days religion and morality were perhaps lessseparable than they are to-day. In the midst of so much comicalwickedness and naughty wit, with a decreasing use of the old MoralityVirtues, it might be thought that this element would be crowded out. Butit was not so. The downfall of the unrighteous was never allowed to passwithout the voice of the preacher, frequently the reprobate himself, pointing the warning to those present. Cuthbert Cutpurse makes a 'godlyend' in this fashion:

 O, all youth take example by me: Flee from evil company, as from a serpent you would flee; For I to you all a mirror may be. I have been daintily and delicately bred, But nothing at all in virtuous lore: And now I am but a man dead; Hanged I must be, which grieveth me full sore. Note well the end of me therefore; And you that fathers and mothers be, Bring not up your children in too much liberty. 

The episode of the crowning of Virtuous Life owes its existence to thissame element of moral teaching. Take up what Interlude we will, thepreacher is always to be found uttering his short sermon on the folly ofsin. Our merry friend, the Vice, usually gets caught in his own toils atlast; even if he is spared this defeat, he must ultimately be borne offby the Devil. 

But there are lessons to be learnt other than the elementary one thatvirtue is a wiser guide than vice: many an Interlude was written tocastigate a particular form of laxity or drive home a needed reform, inthose years when the Stage was the Cinderella of the Church; one atleast, _The Four Elements_, was written to disseminate schoolroomlearning in an attractive manner. _Nice Wanton_ (about 1560) traces thedownward career of two spoilt children, paints the remorse of theirmother, and sums up its message at the end thus:

 Therefore exhort I all parents to be diligent In bringing up their children; aye, to be circumspect. Lest they fall to evil, be not negligent But chastise them before they be sore infect. 

_The Disobedient Child_ (printed 1560), of which the title is asufficient clue to its purpose, permits a boy to refuse to go toschool, and, as a young man, to flout his father's advice in regard tomatrimony, only to bring him to the bottom rung of miserable drudgeryand servitude under a scolding wife. Of some interest is the lad'sreport of a schoolboy's life, voicing, as it possibly does, a neededcriticism of the excessive severity of sixteenth-century pedagogues. Speaking of the boys he says:

 For as the bruit goeth by many a one, Their tender bodies both night and day Are whipped and scourged and beat like a stone, That from top to toe the skin is away. 

A slightly fuller outline of _The Marriage of Wit and Science_ (1570approx. ) will show how pleasantly, yet pointedly, the younger generationof that day was taught the necessity of sustained industry ifscholarship was to be acquired. It has been suggested, with good reason, that the play was written by a schoolmaster for his pupils' performance. The superior plot-structure, and the rare adoption of subdivision intoacts and scenes, indicate an author of some classical knowledge. 

Wit, a promising youth, son of Nature, decides to marry Science, thedaughter of Reason and Experience. Nature approves of his intention, butwarns him that 'travail and time' are the only two by whose help he canwin the maid. For his servant and companion, however, she gives himWill, a lively boy, full of sprightly fire. Science is now approached. But it appears that only he who shall slay the giant, Tediousness, maybe her husband. To this trial Wit volunteers. He is advised first toundergo long years of training under Instruction, Study, and Diligence;but, soon tiring of them, he rashly goes to the fight, trusting that hisown strength, backed by the courage of Will and the half-hearted supportof Diligence, will prove sufficient. Too self-confident, he isoverthrown and his companions are put to flight. Will soon returns withRecreation, by whose skill Wit is restored to vigour and betterresolution. Nevertheless, directly afterwards, he accepts the gentleministrations of the false jade, Idleness, who sings him to sleep andthen transforms him into the appearance of Ignorance. In this plight heis found by his lady-love and her parents, who do not at first recognizehim. Shame is called in to doctor him. On his recovery he returns veryrepentantly to the tuition of his three teachers, until, by their helpand Will's, he is able to slay the giant. As his reward he marriesScience. 

As one of several good things in this pleasant Interlude may be quotedWill's speech on life before and after marriage, from the point of viewof a favoured servant:

 I am not disposed as yet to be tame, And therefore I am loth to be under a dame. Now you are a bachelor, a man may soon win you, Methinks there is some good fellowship in you; We may laugh and be merry at board and at bed, You are not so testy as those that be wed. Mild in behaviour and loth to fall out, You may run, you may ride and rove round about, With wealth at your will and all thing at ease, Free, frank and lusty, easy to please. But when you be clogged and tied by the toe So fast that you shall not have pow'r to let go, You will tell me another lesson soon after, And cry _peccavi_ too, except your luck be the better. Then farewell good fellowship! then come at a call! Then wait at an inch, you idle knaves all! Then sparing and pinching, and nothing of gift, No talk with our master, but all for his thrift. Solemn and sour, and angry as a wasp, All things must be kept under lock and hasp; All that which will make me to fare full ill. All your care shall be to hamper poor Will. 

The liberty and, we may infer, good hearing extended to theseunblushingly didactic Interludes attracted into authorship writers withpurposes more aggressive and debatable than those pertaining to wiseconduct. Zealous reformers, earnest proselytizers, fierce dogmatiststurned to the drama as a medium through which they might effectivelyreach the ears and hearts of the people. Kirchmayer's _Pammachius_, translated into English by Bale (author of _King John_), contained anattack on the Pope as Antichrist. In 1527 the boys of St. Paul's acted aplay (now unknown) in which Luther figured ignominiously. Here then wereRoman Catholics and Protestants extending their furious battleground tothe stage. This style of thing came to such a pitch that it was actuallyjudged necessary to forbid it by law. Similar plays, however, stillcontinued to be produced; and even King Edward VI is credited with theauthorship of a strongly Protestant comedy entitled _De MeretriceBabylonica_. 

A very fair example of these political and controversial Interludes is_New Custom_, printed in 1573, and possibly written only a year or twobefore that date. Here, for instance, are a few of the players' namesand descriptions as given at the beginning: Perverse Doctrine, an oldPopish Priest; Ignorance, another, but elder; New Custom, a Minister;Light of the Gospel, a Minister; Hypocrisy, an old Woman. Then, as tothe matter, here is an extract from Perverse Doctrine's opening speech, the writer's intention being to expose the speaker to the derision ofhis enlightened hearers. 

 What! young men to be meddlers in divinity? it is a goodly sight! Yet therein now almost is every boy's delight; No book now in their hands, but all scripture, scripture, Either the whole Bible or the New Testament, you may be sure. The New Testament for them! and then too for Coll, my dog. This is the old proverb--to cast pearls to an hog. Give them that which is meet for them, a racket and a ball, Or some other trifle to busy their heads withal, Playing at quoits or nine-holes, or shooting at butts: There let them be, a God's name. 

Or here again is a bold declaration from New Custom, the Reformationminister:

 I said that the mass, and such trumpery as that, Popery, purgatory, pardons, were flat Against God's word and primitive constitution, Crept in through covetousness and superstition Of late years, through blindness, and men of no knowledge, Even such as have been in every age. 

It is with some surprise certainly that we find King John of Englandglorified, for purposes of Protestant propaganda, as a sincere and godly'protestant'. So it is, however. In his play, _King John_ (about 1548), Bishop Bale depicts that monarch as an inspired hater of papisticaltyranny and an ardent lover of his country, in whose cause he suffereddeath by poisoning at the hands of a monk. Stephen Langton, the Pope andCardinal Pandulph figure as Sedition, Usurped Power and Private Wealth. A summary of the play, provided by an Interpreter, supplies us with thefollowing explanation of John's quarrel with Rome. 

 This noble King John, as a faithful Moses, Withstood proud Pharaoh for his poor Israel, Minding to bring it out of the land of darkness; But the Egyptians did against him so rebel, That his poor people did still in the desert dwell, Till that duke Joshua, which was our late King Henry, Closely brought us into the land of milk and honey. As a strong David, at the voice of verity, Great Goliah, the pope, he struck down with his sling, Restoring again to a Christian liberty His land and people, like a most victorious king; To his first beauty intending the Church to bring From ceremonies dead to the living word of the Lord. This the second act will plenteously record. 

As put into the mouth of the king himself, these other lines are hard tobeat for deliberate partisan misrepresentation. The king feels himselfabout to die. 

 I have sore hungered and thirsted righteousness For the office sake that God hath me appointed, But now I perceive that sin and wickedness In this wretched world, like as Christ prophesied, Have the overhand: in me it is verified. Pray for me, good people, I beseech you heartily, That the Lord above on my poor soul have mercy. Farewell noblemen, with the clergy spiritual, Farewell men of law, with the whole commonalty. Your disobedience I do forgive you all, And desire God to pardon your iniquity. Farewell, sweet England, now last of all to thee: I am right sorry I could do for thee no more. Farewell once again, yea, farewell for evermore. 

Prompted by a different motive, yet not far removed in actual effectfrom the politico-religious class of play represented by _New Custom_, are the early Interludes of John Heywood. It is quite impossible to readsuch a play as _The Pardoner and the Friar_ and believe that its authorwrote under any such earnest and sober inspiration as did the author of_New Custom_. His intention was frankly to amuse, and to paint life ashe saw it without the intrusion of unreal personages of highly virtuousbut dull ideas. Yet he swung the lash of satire as cuttingly and asmerrily about the flanks of ecclesiastical superstition as ever did thecreator of Perverse Doctrine. [47]

The simplest plot sufficed Heywood, and the minimum of characters. _ThePardoner and the Friar_ (possibly as early as 1520) demands only fourpersons, while the plot may be summed up in a few sentences, thus: APardoner and a Friar, from closely adjoining platforms, are endeavouringto address the same crowd, the one to sell relics, the other to begmoney for his order. By a sort of stichomythic alternation each for atime is supposed to carry on his speech regardless of the other, so thatto follow either connectedly the alternate lines must be read insequence. But every now and then they break off for abuse, and finallythey fight. A Parson and neighbour Prat interfere to convey them to jailfor the disturbance, but are themselves badly mauled. Then the Pardonerand the Friar go off amicably together. There is no allegory, no moral;merely satire on the fraudulent and hypocritical practices of pardonersand friars, together with some horseplay to raise a louder laugh. Thefashion of that satire may be judged from the following exchange of hometruths by the rival orators. 

 _Friar. _ What, should ye give ought to parting pardoners?--

 _Pardoner. _ What, should ye spend on these flattering liars, --

 _Friar. _ What, should ye give ought to these bold beggars?--

 _Pardoner. _ As be these babbling monks and these friars, --

 _Friar. _ Let them hardly labour for their living;--

 _Pardoner. _ Which do nought daily but babble and lie--

 _Friar. _ It much hurteth them good men's giving, --

 _Pardoner. _ And tell you fables dear enough at a fly, --

 _Friar. _ For that maketh them idle and slothful to wark, --

 _Pardoner. _ As doth this babbling friar here to-day?--

 _Friar. _ That for none other thing they will cark. --

 _Pardoner. _ Drive him hence, therefore, in the twenty-devil way!--

_The Four P. P. _ (? 1540), similarly, requires no more than a palmer, apardoner, a 'pothecary and a pedlar, and for plot only a singleconversation, devoid even of the rough play which usually enliveneddiscussions on the stage. In the debate arises a contest as to who cantell the biggest lie--won by the palmer's statement that he has neverseen a woman out of patience--and that is the sole dramatic element. Nevertheless, by sheer wit interest is maintained to the end, every onesmiling over the rival claims of such veteran humbugs as the old-timepardoner and apothecary; scant reverence does 'Pothecary vouchsafe toPardoner's potent relics, his 'of All Hallows the blessed jaw-bone', his'great toe of the Trinity', his 'buttock-bone of Pentecost', and therest. One of the raciest passages occurs in the Pardoner's relation ofthe wonders he has performed in the execution of his office. Amongstother deeds of note is the bringing back of a certain woman from hell toearth. For this purpose the Pardoner visited the lower regions inperson--so he says--and brought her out in triumph with the full andjoyful consent of Lucifer. 

 [_The_ PARDONER _has entered hell and secured a guide. _]

 _Pardoner. _ This devil and I walked arm in arm So far, till he had brought me thither, Where all the devils of hell together Stood in array in such apparel As for that day there meetly fell. Their horns well-gilt, their claws full clean, Their tails well-kempt, and, as I ween, With sothery[48] butter their bodies anointed; I never saw devils so well appointed. The master-devil sat in his jacket, And all the souls were playing at racket. None other rackets they had in hand, Save every soul a good firebrand, Wherewith they played so prettily That Lucifer laughed merrily, And all the residue of the fiends Did laugh thereat full well like friends. 

 [_He interviews_ LUCIFER _and asks if he may take away_ MARGERY CORSON. ]

 Now, by our honour, said Lucifer, No devil in hell shall withhold her; And if thou wouldest have twenty mo, Wert not for justice, they should go. For all we devils within this den Have more to-do with two women Than with all the charge we have beside; Wherefore, if thou our friend will be tried, Apply thy pardons to women so That unto us there come no mo. 

_Johan Johan_, or, at greater length, _The Merry Play between JohanJohan the Husband, Tyb his Wife, and Sir Jhon the Priest_ (printed1533), contains only the three characters mentioned, but possesses atheme more nearly deserving the name of plot than do the other two, namely, the contriving and carrying out of a plan by Tyb for exposingher boastful husband's real and absolute subjection to her rule. Yet, even so, it is extremely simple. Johan Johan is first heard alone, declaring how he will beat his wife for not being at home. The tuggingsof fear and valour in his heart, however, give his monologue anargumentative form, in which first one motive and then the other gainsthe upper hand, very similar to the conflict between Launcelot Gobbo'sconscience and the Devil. He closes in favour of the beating andthen--Tyb comes home. Oh the difference! Johan Johan suspects his wifeof undue friendliness with Sir Jhon the Priest, but he dare not say so. Tyb guesses his doubts, and in her turn suspects that he is inclined torebel. So she makes the yoke heavier. Johan Johan has to invite Sir Jhonto eat a most desirable pie with them; but throughout the meal, withjealousy at his heart and the still greater pangs of unsatisfied hungera little lower, he is kept busy by his wife, trying to mend a leakybucket with wax. Surely never did a scene contain more 'asides' than areuttered and explained away by the crushed husband! Finally overtaxedendurance asserts itself, and wife and priest are driven out of doors;but the play closes with a very pronounced note of uncertainty from thevictor as to what new game the vanquished may shortly be at if he be notthere to see. 

The all-important feature to be noticed in Heywood's work is that herewe have the drama escaping from its alliance with religion into theregion of pure comedy. Here is no well planned moral, no sententiousmouthpiece of abstract excellence, no ruin of sinners and crowning ofsaints. Here, too, is no Vice, no Devil, although they are the chiefmedia for comedy in other Interludes, nor is there any buffoonery; evenof its near cousins, scuffling and fighting, only one of the three playshas more than a trace. Hence the earlier remark, that Heywood was beforehis time. It is not devils in bearskins and wooden-sworded vices thatcreate true comedy; they belong to the realm of farce. Yet theycontinued to flourish long after Heywood had set another example, andwith them the cuffing of ears and drunken gambolling which we may see, in the works of other men, trying to rescue prosy scenes from dullness. In _Johan Johan_ is simple comedy, the comedy of laughter-raisingdialogue and 'asides'. We do not say it is perfect comedy, far from it;but it is comedy cleared of its former alloys. It is the comedy whichShakespeare refined for his own use in _Twelfth Night_ and elsewhere. 

[Footnote 34: Translation by W. C. Robinson, Ph. D. (Bohn's StandardLibrary). ]

[Footnote 35: aright. ]

[Footnote 36: world's. ]

[Footnote 37: company. ]

[Footnote 38: wealth. ]

[Footnote 39: know. ]

[Footnote 40: know not. ]

[Footnote 41: solace. ]

[Footnote 42: stealing. ]

[Footnote 43: lying. ]

[Footnote 44: fright. ]

[Footnote 45: glad. ]

[Footnote 46: alehouse sign. ]

[Footnote 47: The reader is warned against chronological confusion. Inorder to follow out the various dramatic contributions of the Interludesone must sometimes pass over plays at one point to return to them atanother. Care has been taken to place approximate dates against theplays, and these should be duly regarded. The treatment of so early anInterlude writer as Heywood (his three best known productions may bedated between 1520 and 1540) thus late is justified by the fact that heis in some ways 'before his time', notably in his rejection of theMorality abstractions. ]

[Footnote 48: sweet. ]

CHAPTER IV

RISE OF COMEDY AND TRAGEDY

No great discernment is required to see that, after the appearance of_Johan Johan_, all that was needed for the complete development ofcomedy was the invention of a well-contrived plot. For reasons alreadyindicated, Interludes were naturally deficient in this respect. Nor werethe Moralities and Bible Miracles much better: their length andcomprehensive themes were against them. There were the Saint Plays, ofwhich some still lingered upon the stage; these offered greaterpossibilities. But here, again, originality was limited; the_dénouement_ was more or less a foregone conclusion. Clearly, one of twothings was wanted: either a man of genius to perceive the need and tosupply it, or the study of new models outside the field of Englishdrama. The man of genius was not then forthcoming, but by good fortunethe models were stumbled upon. 

We say stumbled upon, because the absence of tentative predecessors andof anything approaching an eager band of successors, suggests anunpreparedness for the discovery when it came. Thus _Calisto andMelibaea_ (1530), an imitation of a Spanish comedy of the same name, though it contained a definitely evolved plot, sent barely a ripple overthe surface of succeeding authorship. It represents the steadfastness ofthe maiden Melibaea against the entreaties of her lover Calisto and themuch more crafty, indeed almost successful, wiles of the procuress, Celestine. True, the play is dull enough. But if dramatists had beenawake to their defects, the value of the new importation from a foreignliterature would have been noticed. The years passed, however, withoutproducing imitators, until some time in the years between 1544 and 1551a Latin scholar, reading the plays of Plautus, decided to write a comedylike them. Latin Comedies, both in the original tongue and intranslation, had appeared in England in previous years, but only asstrayed foreigners. Nicholas Udall, the head master of Eton School, proposed a very different thing, namely, an English comedy which shouldrival in technique the comedies of the Latins. The result was _RalphRoister Doister_. He called it an Interlude. Posterity has given it thetitle of 'the first regular English comedy'. 

Divided into five acts, with subordinate scenes, this play develops itsstory with deliberate calculated steps. Acts I and II are occupied byRalph's vain attempts to soften the heart of Dame Christian Custance bygifts and messages. In Act III come complications, double-dealings. Matthew Merrygreek plays Ralph false, tortures his love, misreads--bythe simple trick of mispunctuation--his letter to the Dame, and thus, under a mask of friendship, sets him further than ever from success. Still deeper complexities appear with Act IV, for now arrives, withgreetings from Gawin Goodluck, long betrothed to Dame Custance, acertain sea-captain, who, misled by Ralph's confident assurance, misunderstands the relations between the Dame and him, suspectsdisloyalty, and changes from friendliness to cold aloofness. This, byvexing the lady, brings disaster upon Ralph, whose bold attempt, on thesuggestion of Merrygreek, to carry his love off by force is repulsed bythat Dame's Amazonian band of maid-servants with scuttles and brooms. Inthis extraordinary conflict Ralph is horribly belaboured by themalicious Matthew under pretence of blows aimed at Dame Custance. ActV, however, brings Goodluck himself and explanations. That worthy manfinds his lady true, friendship is established all round, and Ralph andMerrygreek join the happy couple in a closing feast. 

This bald outline perhaps makes sufficiently clear the great advance inplot structure. Within the play, however, are many other good things. The character of Ralph Roister Doister, 'a vain-glorious, cowardlyblockhead', as the list of dramatis personae has it, is thoroughly welldone: his heavy love-sighs, his confident elation, his distrust, hisgullibility, his ups and downs and contradictions, are all in the bestcomic vein. Only second in fullness of portraiture, and truer to Nature, is Dame Custance, who--if we exclude Melibaea as not native to Englishshores--may be said to bring into English secular drama honourablewomanhood. Her amused indifference at first, her sharp reproof of hermaids who have allowed themselves to act as Ralph's messengers, hergathering vexation at Ralph's tiresome wooing, her genuine alarm whenshe sees that his boastful words are accepted by the sea-captain astruth--these are sentiments and emotions copied from a healthy andworthy model. Matthew Merrygreek, an unmistakable 'Vice' ever at Ralph'selbow, is of all Vices the shrewdest striker of laughter out of a blockof stupidity: it is from his ingenious brain that almost every absurdscene is evolved for the ridiculing of Ralph. Thoroughly human, andquite assertive, are the lower characters, the maid-servants andmen-servants, Madge Mumblecrust, Tibet Talkapace, Truepenny, DobinetDoughty and the rest. Need it be added that the battle in Act IV is purefooling? or that jolly songs enliven the scenes with their rousingchoruses (e. G. 'I mun be married a Sunday')? _Ralph Roister Doister_ isan English comedy with English notions of the best way of amusingEnglish folk of the sixteenth century. With all its improvements it hasno suggestion of the alien about it, as has the classically-flavoured_Thersites_ (also based, like Udall's play, on Plautus's _MilesGloriosus_), or _Calisto and Melibaea_ with its un-English names. Perhaps that is why it had to wait fifteen years for a successor. Quitepossibly its spectators regarded it as merely a better Interlude thanusual, without recognizing the precise qualities which made it differentfrom _Johan Johan_. 

Two quotations will be sufficient to illustrate the opposing characters. 

 (1)

 _Merrygreek_ (_alone_). But now of Roister Doister somewhat to express, That ye may esteem him after his worthiness, In these twenty towns, and seek them throughout, Is not the like stock whereon to graff a lout. All the day long is he facing and craking[49] Of his great acts in fighting and fray-making; But when Roister Doister is put to his proof, To keep the Queen's peace is more for his behoof. If any woman smile, or cast on him an eye, Up is he to the hard ears in love by and by: And in all the hot haste must she be his wife, Else farewell his good days, and farewell his life!

 (2)

 [TRISTRAM TRUSTY, _a good friend and counsellor to_ DAME CUSTANCE, _is consulted by her on the matter of the sea-captain's_ (SURESBY'S) _misunderstanding of her attitude towards_ RALPH ROISTER DOISTER. ]

 _T. Trusty. _ Nay, weep not, woman, but tell me what your cause is. As concerning my friend is anything amiss?

 _C. Custance. _ No, not on my part; but here was Sim. Suresby--

 _T. Trusty. _ He was with me, and told me so. 

 _C. Custance. _ And he stood by While Ralph Roister Doister, with help of Merrygreek, For promise of marriage did unto me seek. 

 _T. Trusty. _ And had ye made any promise before them twain?

 _C. Custance. _ No, I had rather be torn in pieces and slain. No man hath my faith and troth but Gawin Goodluck, And that before Suresby did I say, and there stuck; But of certain letters there were such words spoken--

 _T. Trusty. _ He told me that too. 

 _C. Custance. _ And of a ring and token, That Suresby, I spied, did more than half suspect That I my faith to Gawin Goodluck did reject. 

 _T. Trusty. _ But was there no such matter, Dame Custance, indeed?

 _C. Custance. _ If ever my head thought it, God send me ill speed! Wherefore I beseech you with me to be a witness That in all my life I never intended thing less. And what a brainsick fool Ralph Roister Doister is Yourself knows well enough. 

 _T. Trusty. _ Ye say full true, i-wis. 

In 1566 was acted at Christ's College, Cambridge, 'A Ryght Pithy, Pleasaunt, and merie Comedie, intytuled _Gammer Gurton's Needle_. ' Theauthorship is uncertain, recent investigation having exalted a certainStevenson into rivalry with the Bishop Still to whom former scholarswere content to assign it. Possibly as the result of a perusal ofPlautus, possibly under the influence of the last play--for in subjectmatter it is even more perfectly English than _Ralph RoisterDoister_--this comedy is also built on a well-arranged plan, the plotdeveloping regularly through five acts with subsidiary scenes. Let usglance through it. 

Gammer Gurton and her goodman Hodge lose their one and only needle, anarticle not easily renewed, nor easily done without, seeing that Hodge'sgarments stand in need of instant repair. Gib, the cat, is stronglysuspected of having swallowed it. Into this confusion steps Diccon, abedlam beggar, whose quick eye promptly detects opportunities formischief. After scaring Hodge with offers of magic art, he goes to DameChat, an honest but somewhat jealous neighbour, unaware of what hashappened, with a tale that Gammer Gurton accuses her of stealing herbest cock. To Gammer Gurton he announces that he has seen Dame Chat pickup the needle and make off with it. Between the two dames ensues ameeting, the nature of which may be guessed, the whole trouble lying inthe fact that neither thinks it necessary to name the article underdispute. No wonder that discussion under the disadvantage of so great amisunderstanding ends in violence. Doctor Rat, the curate, is now calledin; but again Diccon is equal to the occasion. Having warned Dame Chatthat Hodge, to balance the matter of the cock, is about to creep inthrough a breach in the wall and kill her chickens, he persuades DoctorRat that if he will creep through this same opening he will see theneedle lying on Dame Chat's table. The consequences for the curate aresevere. Master Bailey's assistance is next requisitioned, and him friendDiccon cannot overreach. The whole truth coming out, Diccon is requiredto kneel and apologize. In doing so he gives Hodge a slap which elicitsfrom that worthy a yell of pain. But it is a wholesome pang, for itfinds the needle no further away than in the seat of Hodge's breeches. 

If we compare this play with _Ralph Roister Doister_ three ideas willoccur: first, that we have made no advance; second, that, in giving thepreference to rough country folk, the author has deliberately abandonedthe higher standard of refinement in language and action set in Udall'smajor scenes; third, that whereas the earlier work bases its comedy oncharacter, educing the amusing scenes from the clash of vanity, constancy and mischief, the later play relies for its comic effects onsituations brought about by mischief alone. These are three rather heavycounts against the younger rival. But in the other scale may be placed avery fair claim to greater naturalness. Taking the scenes and charactersin turn, mischief-maker, churchman and all, there is none so open to thecharge of being impossible, and therefore farcical, as the battlebetween the forces of Ralph and Dame Custance, or the incrediblyself-deceived Ralph himself. In accompanying Ralph through hisadventures we seem to be moving through a fantastic world in which SirAndrew Aguecheek and Malvolio might feel at home; but with Dame Chat, Gammer Gurton and Hodge we feel the solid earth beneath our feet andaround us the strong air which nourished the peasantry and yeomen ofTudor England. 

The first extract is a verse from this comedy's one and famous song; thesecond is taken from Act I, Scene 4. 

 (1)

 I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold: But belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. 

 (2)

 [HODGE _hears of the loss of the needle on his return home from the fields. _]

 _Hodge. _ Your nee'le lost? it is pity you should lack care and endless sorrow. Gog's death, how shall my breeches be sewed? Shall I go thus to-morrow?

 _Gammer. _ Ah, Hodge, Hodge, if that ich could find my nee'le, by the reed, Ch'ould sew thy breeches, ich promise thee, with full good double thread, And set a patch on either knee should last this moneths twain. Now God and good Saint Sithe, I pray to send it home again. 

 _Hodge. _ Whereto served your hands and eyes, but this your nee'le to keep? What devil had you else to do? ye keep, ich wot, no sheep. Cham[50] fain abroad to dig and delve, in water, mire and clay, Sossing and possing in the dirt still from day to day. A hundred things that be abroad cham set to see them well: And four of you sit idle at home and cannot keep a nee'le!

 _Gammer. _ My nee'le, alas, ich lost it, Hodge, what time ich me up hasted To save milk set up for thee, which Gib our cat hath wasted. 

 _Hodge. _ The devil he burst both Gib and Tib, with all the rest; Cham always sure of the worst end, whoever have the best. Where ha' you been fidging abroad, since you your nee'le lost?

 _Gammer. _ Within the house, and at the door, sitting by this same post; Where I was looking a long hour, before these folks came here. But, wellaway! all was in vain; my nee'le is never the near. 

 _Hodge. _ Set me a candle, let me seek, and grope wherever it be. Gog's heart, ye be foolish (ich think), you know it not when you it see. 

 _Gammer. _ Come hither, Cock: what, Cock, I say!

 _Cock. _ How, Gammer?

 _Gammer. _ Go, hie thee soon, and grope behind the old brass pan, Which thing when thou hast done, There shalt thou find an old shoe, wherein, if thou look well, Thou shalt find lying an inch of white tallow candle: Light it, and bring it tite away. 

 _Cock. _ That shall be done anon. 

 _Gammer. _ Nay, tarry, Hodge, till thou hast light, and then we'll seek each one. 

_Ralph Roister Doister_ and _Gammer Gurton's Needle_ mark the end of theInterlude stage and the commencement of Comedy proper. Leaving thelatter at this point for the present, we shall return in the nextchapter to study its fortunes at the hands of Lyly. 

 * * * * *

Morality Plays, though theoretically quite as suitable for tragic effectas for comic, since the former only required that Mankind shouldsometimes fail to reach heaven, seem nevertheless to have developedmainly the lighter side, setting the hero right at the finish and in themeantime discovering, to the relief of otherwise bored spectators, thatwickedness, in some unexplained way, was funny. As long as proprietyforbade that good should be overcome by evil it is hard to see howtragedy could appear. Had Humankind, in _The Castell of Perseverance_, been fought for in vain by the Virtues, or had Everyman found nocompanion to go with him and intercede for him, there had been tragedyindeed. But religious optimism was against any conclusion sodiscouraging to repentance. The lingering Miracles, it is true, stillpresented the sublimest of all tragedies in the Fall of Man and theapparent triumph of the Pharisees over Jesus. Between them, however, andthe kind of drama that succeeded the Moralities, too great a gulf wasfixed. Contemporaries of those original spirits, Heywood and Udall, could hardly revert for inspiration to the discredited performances ofvillages and of a few provincial towns. Tragedy had to wait until therewas matured and made popular an Interlude from which the conflict ofVirtues and Vices, with the orthodox triumph of the former, had beenpurged away, leaving to the author complete liberty alike in characterand action. When that came, Tragedy returned to the stage, a strangerwith strange stories to tell. Persia and Ancient Rome sent their tyrantsand their heroines to contest for public favour with home-born knavesand fools. Nor were the newcomers above borrowing the services of thosesame knaves and fools. The Vice was given a place, low clownish fellowswere admitted to relieve the harrowed feelings, and our oldacquaintance, Herod, was summoned from the Miracles to lend his aid. 

Yet even so--and probably because it was so--Tragedy was ill at ease. She had called in low comedy and rant to please the foolish, only tofind herself infected and degraded by their company. Moreover, thebustle of incident, the abrupt changes from grave to gay and to graveagain, jangled her sad majestic harmonies with shrill interruptingdiscords. It had not been so in Greece. It had not been so even inItaly, where Roman Seneca, fearing the least decline to a lower plane ofdignity and impressiveness, had disciplined tragedy by an imposition ofartificial but not unskilful restraints. In place of the strongunbroken sweep of a resistless current, which characterized theevolution of an Aeschylean drama, he had insisted on an orderly divisionof a plot into acts and scenes, as though one should break up the sheerplunge of a single waterfall into a well-balanced group of cascades. Yethe was wise in his generation, securing by this means a carefullyproportioned development which, in the absence of that genius whichinspired the Greek dramatists, might otherwise have been lost. Oncestrong and free in the plays of Aeschylus and his compeers, hampered andconstantly under guidance but still dignified and noble in the Senecandrama, Tragedy now found herself debased and almost caricatured in theEnglish Interlude stage. Fortunately the danger was seen in time. English writers, face to face with self-conscious tragedy, realized thathere at least was more than unaided native art could compass. Despairingof success if they persisted in the old methods, they fell backawkwardly upon classical imitation and, by assiduous study tempered by awise criticism, achieved success. 

Only two plays with any claim to the designation of tragedies havesurvived to us from the Interludes, neither of them of much interest. _Cambyses_ (1561), by Thomas Preston, has all the qualities of animperfect Interlude. There are the base fellows and the clowns, Huff, Ruff, Snuff, Hob and Lob; the abstractions, Diligence, Shame, Common'sComplaint, Small Hability, and the like; the Vice, Ambidexter, whoenters 'with an old capcase on his head, an old pail about his hips forharness, a scummer and a potlid by his side, and a rake on hisshoulder'; and the same scuffling and horseplay when the comic elementis uppermost. Incident follows incident as rapidly and with as triflingmotives as before. In the course of a short play we see Cambyses, kingof Persia, set off for his conquests in Egypt; return; executeSisamnes, his unjust deputy; prove a far worse ruler himself; shootthrough the heart the young son of Praxaspes, to prove to that too-frankcounsellor that he is not as drunk as was supposed; murder his ownbrother, Smirdis, on the lying report of Ambidexter; marry, contrary tothe law of the Church and her own wish, a lovely lady, his cousin, andthen have her executed for reproaching him with the death of hisbrother; and finally die, accidentally pierced by his own sword whenmounting a horse. All these horrors, except the death of the lady, takeplace on the stage. Thus we have such stage-directions as, 'Smite him inthe neck with a sword to signify his death', 'Flay him with a falseskin', 'A little bladder of vinegar pricked', 'Enter the King without agown, a sword thrust up into his side, bleeding. ' Of real tragedy thereis little, the hustle of crime upon crime obliterating the impressionwhich any one singly might produce. Yet even in this crude orgy ofbloodshed the melancholy voice of unaffected pathos can be heardmourning the loss of dear ones. It speaks in the farewells of Sisamnesand his son Otian, and of Praxaspes (the honest minister) and his littleboy; throughout the whole incident of the gentle lady whose fate meltseven the Vice to tears; and in the outburst of a mother's grief over herchild's corpse. We quote the last. 

 O blissful babe, O joy of womb, heart's comfort and delight, For counsel given unto the king, is this thy just requite? O heavy day and doleful time, these mourning tunes to make! With blubb'red eyes into my arms from earth I will thee take, And wrap thee in my apron white: but O my heavy heart! The spiteful pangs that it sustains would make it in two to part, The death of this my son to see: O heavy mother now, That from thy sweet and sug'red joy to sorrow so shouldst bow! What grief in womb did I retain before I did thee see; Yet at the last, when smart was gone, what joy wert thou to me! How tender was I of thy food, for to preserve thy state! How stilled I thy tender heart at times early and late! With velvet paps I gave thee suck, with issue from my breast, And danced thee upon my knee to bring thee unto rest. Is this the joy of thee I reap? O king of tiger's brood, O tiger's whelp, hadst thou the heart to see this child's heart-blood? Nature enforceth me, alas, in this wise to deplore, To wring my hands, O wel-away, that I should see this hour. Thy mother yet will kiss thy lips, silk-soft and pleasant white, With wringing hands lamenting for to see thee in this plight. My lording dear, let us go home, our mourning to augment. 

The second play, _Appius and Virginia_ (1563), by R. B. (not furtheridentified), is, in some respects, weaker; though, by avoiding thecrowded plot which spoilt _Cambyses_, it attains more nearly to tragedy. The low characters, Mansipulus and Mansipula, the Vice (Haphazard), andthe abstractions, Conscience, Comfort and their brethren, reappear withas little success. But the singleness of the theme helps towards thatelevation of the main figures and intensifying of the catastrophe whichtragic emotion demands. Unfortunately, from the start the author seemsto have been obsessed with the notion that the familiar rant of Herodwas peculiarly suited to his subject. In such a notion there lay, ofcourse, the half-truth that lofty thoughts and impassioned speech aremore befitting the sombre muse than the foolish chatter of clowns. But, except where his own deliberately introduced mirth-makers are speaking, he will have nothing but pompous rhetoric from the lips of hischaracters. His prologue begins his speech with the sounding line:

 Who doth desire the trump of fame to sound unto the skies--

Virginius's wife makes her début upon the stage with this encouragingremark to her companion:

 The pert and prickly prime of youth ought chastisement to have, But thou, dear daughter, needest not, thyself doth show thee grave. 

To which Virginia most becomingly answers:

 Refell your mind of mournful plaints, dear mother, rest your mind. 

After this every one feels that the wicked judge, Appius, has done nomore than his duty when he exclaims, at his entrance:

 The furrowed face of fortune's force my pinching pain doth move. 

Virginius slays his daughter on the stage and serves her head up in acharger before Appius, who promptly bursts into a cataclysm of C's ('Ocurst and cruel cankered churl, O carl unnatural'); but there is not asuggestion of the pathos noticed in _Cambyses_. Instead there is in oneplace a sort of frantic agitation, which the author doubtless thoughtwas the pure voice of tragic sorrow. It is in the terrible moment when, after the heroic strain of the sacrifice is over, Virginius realizes themeaning of what he has done. Presumably wild with grief, he raves inlanguage so startlingly akin to the ludicrous despairs of Pyramus andThisbe that the modern reader, acquainted with the latter, is almostjarred into laughter. 

 O cruel hands, O bloody knife, O man, what hast thou done? Thy daughter dear and only heir her vital end hath won. Come, fatal blade, make like despatch: come, Atropos: come, aid! Strike home, thou careless arm, with speed; of death be not afraid. 

Of such eloquence we might truly say with Theseus, 'This passion, andthe death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. '

In 1562 Tragedy, as we have said, took refuge in an imitation of theSenecan stage: translations of Seneca's tragedies had begun to appear in1559. _The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex_, or _Gorboduc_, as it wasoriginally and is now most commonly named, marks a new departure forEnglish drama. To understand this we ought perhaps to say somethingabout the essential features of a Greek tragedy (Seneca's own model), and make a note of any special Senecan additions. What strikes one mostin reading a play of Aeschylus is the prominence given to a compositeand almost colourless character known as the Chorus (for though itconsists of a body of persons, it speaks, for the most part, as one), the absence of any effective action from the stage, the limited numberof actors, and the tendency of any speaker to expand his remarks into aset speech of considerable length. This tendency, especially noticeablein the Chorus, whose speeches commonly take the form of chants, encouraged the faculty of generalizing philosophically, so that one isconstantly treated to general reflections expressive rather of broadwisdom and piety than of feelings directly and dramatically aroused;much also is made of retrospection and relation, whether the topic isancient history, the events of a recent voyage, or a barely completedcrime. The sage backward glance of the Chorus is quick to discover inpresent ruin a punishment for past crime; so that the plot becomes in amanner a picture of the resistless laws of moral justice. Speeches, amoralizing Chorus, actions not performed but reported in detail, a senseof divine retribution for sin, these are perhaps the qualities which, apart from the poetry itself, we recall most readily as typical of aGreek tragedy. These Seneca modified by the introduction of acts andscenes, a subordination of the Chorus, and an exaggerated predilectionfor long sententious speeches; he also added a new stage character knownas the Ghost. Seneca's elevation, to the dogmatic position of laws, ofthe unities of Time, Place and Action, rules by no means invariableamong his older and greater masters, has been the subject of muchdebate, but, on the whole, the verdict has been hostile. According tothese unities, the time represented in the play should not greatlyexceed the time occupied in acting it, the scene of the action shouldnot vary, and the plot should be concerned only with one event. Thislast law was generally accepted, by Elizabethans, in Tragedy at least. The other two, though much insisted on by English theorists, such as SirPhilip Sidney, met with so much neglect in practice that we need devoteno space to the discussion of them. 

Having thus hastily summarized the larger superficial characteristics ofclassical drama, we may return to _Gorboduc_ and inquire which of thesewere adopted in it and with what modifications. We find it divided intofive acts and nine scenes. A Chorus, though it takes no other part, sings its moralizing lyrics at the end of each act except the last. Speeches of inordinate length are made--three consecutive speeches inAct I, Scene 2, occupy two hundred and sixty lines--the subject-matterbeing commonly argumentative. Only through the reports of messengers andeye-witnesses do we learn of the cold-blooded murder and many violentdeaths that take place. Everywhere hurried action and unreasoninginstinct give place to deliberation and debate. Between this play andits predecessors no change can be more sweeping or more abrupt. In aninstant, as it were, we pass from the unpolished _Cambyses_, savage andreeking with blood, to the equally violent events of _Gorboduc_, coldbeneath a formal restraint which, regulating their setting in thegeneral framework, robs them of more than half their force. Had thissevere discipline of the emotions been accepted as for ever binding uponthe tragic stage Elizabethan drama would have been forgotten. The truthis that the germ of dissension was sown in _Gorboduc_ itself. Consciousthat the banishment of action from the stage, while natural enough inGreece, must meet with an overwhelming resistance from the popularcustom in England, the authors, Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton, invented a compromise. Before each act they provided a symbolical DumbShow which, by its external position, infringed no classical law, yetsatisfied the demand of an English audience for real deeds andmelodramatic spectacles. It was an ingenious idea, the effect of whichwas to keep intact the close link between stage and action until thenative genius should be strong enough to cast aside its swaddlingclothes and follow its own bent without hurt. As illustrating thisinnovation--the reader will not have forgotten that both Dumb Show andChorus are to be found in _Pericles_--we may quote the directions forthe Dumb Show before the second act. 

 First, the music of cornets began to play, during which came in upon the stage a king accompanied with a number of his nobility and gentlemen. And after he had placed himself in a chair of estate prepared for him, there came and kneeled before him a grave and aged gentleman, and offered up unto him a cup of wine in a glass, which the king refused. After him comes a brave and lusty young gentleman, and presents the king with a cup of gold filled with poison, which the king accepted, and drinking the same, immediately fell down dead upon the stage, and so was carried thence away by his lords and gentlemen, and then the music ceased. Hereby was signified, that as glass by nature holdeth no poison, but is clear and may easily be seen through, ne boweth by any art; so a faithful counsellor holdeth no treason, but is plain and open, ne yieldeth to any indiscreet affection, but giveth wholesome counsel, which the ill advised prince refuseth. The delightful gold filled with poison betokeneth flattery, which under fair seeming of pleasant words beareth deadly poison, which destroyeth the prince that receiveth it. As befel in the two brethren, Ferrex and Porrex, who, refusing the wholesome advice of grave counsellors, credited these young parasites, and brought to themselves death and destruction thereby. 

But it is time to set forth the plot in more detail. The importance of_Gorboduc_ as an example of English 'classical' tragedy prompts us tofollow it through, scene by scene. 

_Act I, Scene 1. _--Queen Videna discovers to her favourite and elderson, Ferrex, the king's intention, grievous in her eyes, of dividing hiskingdom equally between his two sons. _Scene 2. _--King Gorboduc submitshis plan to the consideration of his three counsellors, whose wise andlengthy reasonings he listens to but elects to disregard. 

_Act II, Scene 1. _--The division having been carried out, Ferrex, in hispart of the kingdom, is prompted by evil counsel to suspect aggressiverivalry from his brother, and decides to collect forces for his owndefence. _Scene 2. _--Ferrex's misguided precautions having beenmaliciously represented to Porrex as directed against his power, thatprince resolves upon an immediate invasion of his brother's realm. 

_Act III. _--The news of these counter-moves and of the imminentprobability of bloodshed is reported to the king. To restore the courageof the despairing Gorboduc is now the labour of his counsellors, but thelater announcement of the death of Ferrex casts him lower than before. At this point the Chorus, recalling the murder of a cousin in an earliergeneration of the royal race, points, in true Aeschylean fashion, to thehatred of an unsated revenge behind this latest blow:

 Thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race, Whose murderous hand, imbru'd with guiltless blood, Asks vengeance still before the heaven's face, With endless mischiefs on the cursed brood. 

_Act IV, Scene 1. _--Videna alone, in words of passionate vehemence, laments that she has lived so long to see the death of Ferrex, renounceshis brother as no child of hers, and concludes with a threat ofvengeance. _Scene 2. _--Bowed down with remorse, Porrex makes his defencebefore the king, pleading the latter's own act, in dividing the kingdom, as the initial cause of the ensuing disaster. Before he has been longgone from his father's presence, Marcella, a lady-in-waiting, rushesinto the room, in wild disorder and grief, to report his murder at hismother's hand. In anguished words she tells how, stabbed by Videna inhis sleep, he started up and, spying the queen by his side, called toher for help, not crediting that she, his mother, could be hismurderess. Again, in tones of solemn warning, the Chorus reminds theaudience that

 Blood asketh blood, and death must death requite: Jove, by his just and everlasting doom, Justly hath ever so requited it. 

_Act V, Scene 1. _--This warning is proved true by a report of the deathof the king and queen at the hands of their subjects in revolt againstthe blood-stained House. Certain of the nobles, gathered together, resolve upon an alliance for the purpose of restoring a stronggovernment. The Duke of Albany, however, thinks to snatch power tohimself from this opportunity. _Scene 2. _--Report is made of thesuppression of the rebellion, but this news is immediately followed by areport of Albany's attempted usurpation of the throne. Coalition for hisdefeat is agreed upon, and the play ends with the mournful soliloquy ofthat aged counsellor who first opposed the division of the throne andnow sees, as the consequence of that fatal act, his country, torn topieces by civil strife, left an easy prize for an ambitious conqueror. 

 Hereto it comes when kings will not consent To grave advice, but follow wilful will. This is the end, when in fond princes' hearts Flattery prevails, and sage rede[51] hath no place: These are the plagues, when murder is the mean To make new heirs unto the royal crown.... And this doth grow, when lo, unto the prince, Whom death or sudden hap of life bereaves, No certain heir remains, such certain heir, As not all only is the rightful heir, But to the realm is so made known to be; And troth thereby vested in subjects' hearts, To owe faith there where right is known to rest. 

This last quotation, interesting in itself as containing arecommendation to Queen Elizabeth to marry, or at least name hersuccessor, will also serve as a specimen of the new verse, Blank Verse, which here, for the first time, finds its way into English drama. Meeting with small favour from writers skilful in the stringing togetherof rhymes, it suffered comparative neglect for some years until Marlowetaught its capacities to his own and future ages. With Sackville's stifflines before us we shall be better able to appreciate the laterplaywright's genius. But we shall also be reminded that the credit ofintroducing blank verse must lie with the older man. 

The chief question of all remains to be asked. Does _Gorboduc_, with allits borrowed devices, _and because of them_, rise to a higher level oftragedy than _Cambyses_ and _Appius and Virginia_? To answer thisquestion we must examine the effect of those devices, and understandwhat is precisely meant by the term tragedy. Let it be first understoodthat the arrangement of acts and scenes is comparatively unimportant inthis connexion, though most helpful in giving clearness to the action. Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_ (in the earlier edition) dispenses with it;so does Milton's _Samson Agonistes_; and we have just seen that thegreat Greek dramatists knew nothing of it. What is important is theexclusion of that comic element which, in some form or another, hadhitherto found a place in almost every English play; the removal of allaction from the stage--for the Dumb Shows stand apart from the play--;and the substitution of stately speeches for natural conversation anddialogue. Of all three the purpose is the same, namely, to impress theaudience with a sense of greater dignity and awe than would be impartedby a more familiar style. The long speeches give importance to thedecisions, and compel a belief that momentous events are about tohappen or have happened. In harmony with this effect is the absence ofall comic relief--although Shakespeare was to prove later that this hasa useful place in tragedy. A smile, a jest would be sacrilege in theprevailing gloom. Two effects alone are aimed at; an impression ofloftiness in the theme, and a profound melancholy. Not warm gushingtears. Those are the outcome of a personal sorrow, small and ignoblebeside an abstract grief at 'the falls of princes', 'the tumbling downof crowns', 'the ruin of proud realms'. What does the reader orspectator know of Ferrex that he should mingle his cries with Videna'slamentations? The account of Porrex appealing, with childlike faith inhis mother, to the very woman who has murdered him, may, for the moment, bring tears to the eyes. But it is an accidental touch. The tragedy liesnot there but in the great fact that with him dies the last heir to thethrone, the last hope of avoiding the miseries of a disputed succession;and that in her revengeful fury the queen, as a woman, has committed theblackest of all crimes, a mother's slaughter of her child. We are notasked to weep but to gasp at the horror of it. It is in order to protectthe loftier, broader aspects of the catastrophe from the influence ofthe particular that action is excluded. This cautions us againstconfusing tragedy and pathos. To perceive the difference is to recognizethat English Tragedy really begins with _Gorboduc_. Until its advent thestress laid on the pathetic partially obscured the tragic. This may beseen at once in the Miracles, though a little thought will reveal theintensely tragic nature of the complete Miracle Play. In _Cambyses_ wefind the same obscuration: there is tragedy in the sudden ending ofthose young lives, but the pathos of the mother's anguish and the sweetgirl's pleadings prevent us from thinking of it. _Appius and Virginia_maintains a much truer tragic detachment, the effect being heightened byits opening picture of virtuous happiness destined to abrupt andtyrannous ruin. But it expresses itself so ill, shatters our hearing sounmercifully with its alliterative mouthing, and hurls us down sosteeply with its low comedy, that we refuse to give its characters thegrandeur or excellence claimed for them by the author. _Gorboduc_ alonepresents tragedy unspoiled by extraneous additions. In its triplecatastrophe of princes, crown and realm we perceive the awful figure ofthe Tragic Muse and shrink back in reverent fear of what more may liehid from us in the folds of her black robe. Darker, much darker and moreterrible things have come since from that gloomy spirit. What has beenwritten here should not be misinterpreted as an exaggerated appreciationof _Gorboduc_. We wish only to insist that this play did give to Englishdrama for the first time (if we exclude translations) an example, however weak in execution, of pure tragedy; and was able to do solargely, if not entirely, by reason of its reversion to classicalprinciples and devices. 

We have insisted on the difference between Tragedy and Pathos, andcriticized the weakening effect of the latter upon the former. To escapethe penalty that awaits general criticism we may add here that Tragedyis never greater than when her handmaid is ready to do her _modest_service. Sophocles puts into the mouth of Oedipus, at the moment of hisdeparture into blind and desolate exile, tender injunctions regardingthe care of his young daughters:

 But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn, Who never had a meal apart from mine, But ever shared my table, yea, for them Take heedful care; and grant me, though but once, Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel, Thou noble heart! the forms I love so well, And weep with them our common misery. Oh, if my arms were round them, I might seem To have them as of old when I could see. [52]

Shakespeare, too, knew well how to kindle the soft radiance which, fading again, makes the ensuing darkness darker still. Ophelia, thesleeping Duncan, Cordelia rise to our minds. Nor need we quote thefamous words of Webster's Ferdinand. It is enough that the greatestscene in _Gorboduc_ is precisely that scene where pathos softens by amomentary dimness of vision our horror at a mother's crime. 

_The Misfortunes of Arthur_ (1587), by Thomas Hughes, though twenty-fiveyears later, may be placed next to _Gorboduc_ in our discussion of therise of tragedy. It will serve as an illustration of the kind of tragedythat was being evolved from Senecan models by plodding uninspiredEnglishmen before Marlowe flung his flaming torch amongst them. Tounderstand the story a slight introduction is necessary. Igerna, thewife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, was loved by King Uther, who foullyslew her husband and so won her for himself. As a result of this unionwere born Arthur and Anne, who, in their youth, perpetuated theinherited taint of sin by becoming the parents of a boy, Mordred. Afterwards Arthur married Guenevera, and some years later went to Franceon a long campaign of conquest. In his absence Mordred gained the loveof Guenevera. The play begins with the contemplated return of Arthur, glorious from victory, the object being to concentrate attention uponthe swift fall from glory and power to ruin and death. Guenevera, havinglearnt to hate her husband, debates in her mind his death or hers, finally deciding, however, to become a nun. Her interview with Mordredends in his resolving to resist Arthur's landing. Unsuccessful in thisattempt, and defeated in battle, he spurns all thought of submission, challenging his father to a second conflict, in Cornwall. Arthur, feeling that his sins have found him out, would gladly make peace; but, stung by Mordred's defiance, he follows him into Cornwall. There botharmies are destroyed and Mordred is slain, though in his death hemortally wounds his father. After the battle his body is brought beforeArthur, in whom the sight awakens yet more fiercely the pangs ofremorse. The play closes immediately before Arthur's own mysteriousdeparture. 

Here is all the material for a great tragedy. The point for beginningthe story is well chosen, though in obvious imitation of _Agamemnon_. Attention is concentrated on the catastrophe, no alien element beingadmitted to detract from the melancholy effect. It is sought tointensify the gloom by recourse to Seneca's stage Ghost; thus, thedeparted spirit of the wronged Gorlois opens the play with horridimprecations of evil upon the house of Uther, and, at the close, exultsin the fullness of his revenge. From his mouth, as well as from the lipsof Arthur, and again from the Chorus (which closes the acts, as in_Gorboduc_) we learn the great purpose beneath this overwhelming ruin ofa king and kingdom--to show that the day and the hour do come, howeverlong deferred, when

 Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears. 

As before, all action is rigorously excluded from the stage, to bereported, at great length and with tremendous striving after vividnessand effect, by one who was present. Dumb Shows before each act continuethe attempt to balance matters spectacularly. Clearly the only hope ofdramatic advance for disciples of the Senecan school lay in improveddialogue. This was possible in four directions, namely, in more stirringtopics, in more personal feeling, in shorter speeches, and in a changein the style of language and verse. Unfortunately for Thomas Hughes, itis just here that he fails, and fails lamentably. What is more, he failsbecause of his methods. The dominant desire of the English 'classical'school was to be impressive. Hence the adoption by Hughes of a ghostlyintroduction and conclusion. His conversations, therefore, must reflectthe same idea. He saw, indeed, that long speeches, except at rareintervals, were tedious, and reduced his to reasonable proportions, evenmaking extensive use--as, we shall see, the author of _Damon andPythias_ did before him--of the Greek device of stichomythia. He wasmost anxious, also, to provide stirring topics for his characters tospeak on, the queen's uncertainty between crime and religion in thesecond scene being a notable example. But of necessity the distance oftime and space imposed by his methods between an event and the reportingof it gives a measure of detachment to its discussion. In the matter ofpersonal feeling, too, he was hampered by this same unavoidabledetachment, and by the need of being impressive; for he and his friendsseem to have been convinced that the wider and less particular thesubject the greater would be the hearer's awe. We need only compareArthur's speech over Mordred's body with the lamentation of the motherin _Cambyses_ to perceive how the new methods compel the king to hastenfrom the thought of the 'hapless boy' to a consideration of their jointfate as 'a mirror to the world'. Because, in _Cambyses_, we know solittle more of the boy and his mother than her grief, his murder failsas tragedy; but had Arthur indulged a little in such grief as her's, howmuch more moving would have been the tragedy of _The Misfortunes ofArthur_! But this was not the way of the Senecan school. Everywhere wefind the same preference, as in _Gorboduc_, for broad argument andeasily detachable expressions of philosophic wisdom. What shall be saidof the style of language and verse? This much in praise, that BlankVerse is retained. But--and the thoughtful reader will discern that thesame fatal influence is at work here as elsewhere--Hughes relapses, deliberately, into the artificial speech of _Appius and Virginia_. Alliteration charms him with its too artful aid. Nowhere has R. B. Suchrant as falls from the pen of Hughes. In the last battle between Arthurand Mordred 'boist'rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick', whilethe younger leader rages over the field 'all fury-like, frounc'd up withfrantic frets'. Guenevera revives her declining wrath with thisinvocation of supernatural aid:

 Come, spiteful fiends, come, heaps of furies fell, Not one by one, but all at once! my breast Raves not enough: it likes me to be fill'd With greater monsters yet. My heart doth throb, My liver boils: somewhat my mind portends, Uncertain what; but whatsoever, it's huge. 

A fairer example, however, of Hughes's style may be taken from Cador'sspeech urging Arthur to adopt severe measures against Mordred (_Act III, Scene 1_):

 No worse a vice than lenity in kings; Remiss indulgence soon undoes a realm. He teacheth how to sin that winks at sins, And bids offend that suffereth an offence. The only hope of leave increaseth crimes, And he that pardoneth one, embold'neth all To break the laws. Each patience fostereth wrong. But vice severely punish'd faints at foot, And creeps no further off than where it falls. One sour example will prevent more vice Than all the best persuasions in the world. Rough rigour looks out right, and still prevails: Smooth mildness looks too many ways to thrive. Wherefore, since Mordred's crimes have wrong'd the laws In so extreme a sort, as is too strange, Let right and justice rule with rigour's aid, And work his wrack at length, although too late; That damning laws, so damned by the laws, He may receive his deep deserved doom. So let it fare with all that dare the like: Let sword, let fire, let torments be their end. Severity upholds both realm and rule. 

One feature remains to be spoken of, a feature which redeems the playfrom an otherwise deserved obscurity. We refer to the author's creationof characters fit for tragedy. Sackville's royalties are dull folk, great only by rank. Arthur and Mordred are men of a grander breed, menworthy to rise to heights and win the attention of the world by theirfall. Nor does the author forget the artistic strength achieved bycontrast. Arthur is depicted as a veteran warrior, contented with hisconquests, and anxious to establish peace within his kingdom. He isremorseful, too, for past sins, and is ready to make amends by yieldingup to Mordred the coveted throne--until that prince's insolence makescompromise impossible. Mordred, on the other hand, stands before us asthe young, ambitious, dauntless aspirant to power, scorning cautiousfears, flinging back every overture for peace, reaching forward to thegoal of his hate even across the confines of life. At the risk ofquoting too much we append (with the omission of two interruptions)Mordred's speech in favour of resisting his father:

 He falleth well, that falling fells his foe. Small manhood were to turn my back to chance. I bear no breast so unprepar'd for harms. Even that I hold the kingliest point of all, To brook afflictions well: and by how much The more his state and tottering empire sags, To fix so much the faster foot on ground. No fear but doth forejudge, and many fall Into their fate, whiles they do fear their fate. Where courage quails, the fear exceeds the harm: Yea, worse than war itself is fear of war. 

From the brief list of other tragedies preserved from this period ofdevelopment, and including such plays as _Tancred and Gismunda_ (1568)and Whetstone's _Promos and Cassandra_ (printed 1578)--the latterchiefly interesting on account of the criticism of contemporary dramacontained in its Dedication--we select _Damon and Pythias_ (before 1567)by Richard Edwards as an example of native tragedy influenced but notsubjugated by classical models. To be exact, it is a tragi-comedy, butit is very improbable that the method of presentment would have beendifferent had it ended tragically; therefore it will suit our purpose. Of importance is the date, some three or four years later than_Gorboduc_ and seventy years earlier than _The Misfortunes of Arthur_. When we call to mind the form finally adopted for tragedy byShakespeare, we shall find this play an illuminating beacon, lightingthe first steps along the right path. The author was well acquaintedwith classical drama, as may be seen in his use of stichomythia, amongstother things, and possibly in his preference for a Grecian story. Heprobably knew _Gorboduc_ quite well, and learned much from its faults. Backed by this knowledge he selected, adapted, and rejected methods atdiscretion, and stood finally and definitely by the fundamentalprinciples of the native English drama, placing all his action on thestage and fearlessly admitting light humorous elements to relieve thestrain of too insistent emotion or suspense. That in one place he wenttoo far in this direction cannot be denied: the episode of the shavingof Grim the Collier is a bad error of judgment, founded on a rightmotive but horribly mismanaged. That mistake, however, is so glaringthat it must have been obvious to all succeeding writers; it could notseriously affect their judgment of the methods employed in the rest ofthe play. It is these methods that we must understand. 

First, to sketch the plot. Damon and Pythias with their servant Stephanoarrive in Syracuse in the reign of the tyrant, Dionysius. There Damon isarrested on the denunciation of the informer Carisophus, and issentenced to death as a spy. Reprieve for six months is allowed him onthe pledge of Pythias's life as bail, and at the last minute he returns, just in time to save the life of his devoted and willing friend. Suchsignal proofs of the sincerity of their affection win for both of themnot only life but royal favour, the king turning from his evil ways tofollow their counsel. A character of importance not mentioned here isAristippus, 'a pleasant gentleman' and a successful courtier, whosefriendship with Carisophus, an alliance hollow, suspicious, and mostunloving on one side at least, forms an admirable foil for the truefriendship of Damon and Pythias. 

There is no division into acts and scenes, but the omission amounts tolittle more than the absence of those words from the printed copy, sincethe plot is most carefully arranged--witness the gradual introduction ofthe characters and preparation for the arrest of Damon--and the stageis frequently cleared. In fact it is perfectly easy to insert thecustomary labels of acts and scenes at these latter points, in themanner employed, for example, in the 1616 edition of Marlowe's_Faustus_. There are no Dumb Shows, there is no Chorus, there is noGhost. But our old friend the Vice is there--without his Devil; theclown too, and Herod; and we note with interest the modifications whichwere considered necessary before they could figure creditably on thetragic stage. Herod needed small alteration: the plot demands a tyrantof ferocious injustice, who can 'fall in dump and foam like a boar' at amoment's notice, or Damon cannot be judged worthy of death for hisoffence. The clown, whose sins, when he committed any, were alwaysrather the product of evil influence than of original sin, is ennobledto the standing of an honest faithful slave, simple in his notions, shrewd to save his own skin, overjoyed at being made a freed man, andwithal one who keeps good time by his stomach; in a word, Stephano. TheVice (of whom Will and Jack are lighter adaptations), the source of allmischief, the Newfangle of _Like Will to Like_ and the Diccon of _GammerGurton's Needle_, is Carisophus, the disappointed courtier, whoendeavours to creep back to favour by double-dealing with Aristippus andby practising the base treachery of a common informer, and who finallyis kicked out of court and off the stage by Eubulus, the goodcounsellor. These adaptations, then, of the stock Interlude characters, are merely a continuation of the changes initiated by Heywood and othersof his day and amplified in the first regular comedies; they owe nothingto classical influence. But the same feeling after naturalness whichmakes Stephano and Carisophus such well-defined realities influences forgood the portraits of the other characters. Aristippus is a thoroughlywell drawn likeness of the easy-going, gracefully selfish, polishedcourtier; and Damon and Pythias weary us only by reason of the weight ofvirtue thrust upon them by the original story, and not to be avoided, therefore, if the plot was to hold. Even the verse reflects the healthydesire to avoid artificiality. We shall not attempt to praise it: theroughness in the flow of lines constantly and quite irregularly varyingin length can find little to defend it and many sensitive critics todenounce it. But there is hardly any doubt that this unevenness was due, not to a false ear for metre, but to a deliberate attempt to get rid ofthe unnatural formalism of correct rhymed verse. Rhyme is retained; butblank verse had only recently appeared and was still in ill favour. Edwards's device was another experiment in the same direction. Needlessto say, alliteration is not called in to reinforce weak sentiments. 

Possibly attributable to classical influence is the adoption of theserious, half-philosophical tone noticed in _Gorboduc_ and _TheMisfortunes of Arthur_. This quality the author judged to be aharmonious element in tragedy, and judged aright, though, as was naturalat so early a stage, he tended to exaggerate it. Shakespeare's greatesttragedies abound in passages of deep reflexion upon life, death, and theproblems of right and wrong. We may choose to place the origin of thisgrave spirit in the 'classics', but it may be pointed out, with reason, that the persistent traditions of the Moralities, the pious moralizingsretained in such Interludes as _Like Will to Like_, may just as easilyhave passed over naturally into Edwards's work along with the Vice. Insupport of this other source may be cited the absence from this play ofthe long speeches which went hand in hand with the learned reasoning andsoliloquies of Sackville and Norton. Quite undeniably of classicalinfluence, however, is the refinement and restraint noticeablethroughout the play. These we welcome. They prune the tree of nativedrama without hacking off its stoutest limbs. Under their controltragedy steps upon the stage in an English dress to prove herself worthyof her Roman sister and ultimately capable of far greater achievements. 

To select details in proof of the success of _Damon and Pythias_ as apioneer in tragedy is made difficult by the fact that it ends happily. But attention may be called to the very praiseworthy treatment of thecomic characters--notably Stephano and the gruff but kind-heartedhangman, Gronno--and to the humanity which vitalizes the majorpersonages, Carisophus in particular; to the dignity also, maintainedthroughout the play (the Collier episode alone excepted), and to theadmirably dramatic suspense secured just before Damon's return. Thefollowing extract is drawn from Pythias's farewell speech at that time, delivered on the scaffold in accordance with the best English customs:

 But why do I stay any longer, seeing that one man's death May suffice, O king, to pacify thy wrath? O thou minister of justice, do thine office by and by, Let not thy hand tremble, for I tremble not to die. Stephano, the right pattern of true fidelity, Commend me to thy master, my sweet Damon, and of him crave liberty When I am dead, in my name; for thy trusty services Hath well deserved a gift far better than this. O my Damon, farewell now for ever, a true friend, to me most dear; Whiles life doth last, my mouth shall still talk of thee, And when I am dead, my simple ghost, true witness of amity, Shall hover about the place, wheresoever thou be. 

Before this chapter closes a word remains to be said about the rise ofHistory Plays. Pre-eminently they are the outcome of a patriotism thatwas growing stronger and stronger as each year increased the glory ofQueen Elizabeth's reign. Nothing in them is more noteworthy than thepride in England, in England's kings, and in England's defiance andconquest of her foes. Whether we read _The Famous Victories of Henry theFifth_ (acted before 1588) or _The Troublesome Reign of King John_(printed 1591) we find the same joyous presentment of courageousvictory. Unfortunately for the author of the latter play, his royalsubject fell away sadly in his submission to the Pope; yet the writerwould not entirely concede the victory to Rome, and having made the verymost of his king's campaign in France and his defiant rejection of thePapal demands, he attempts to redeem the situation, even in the dreadfulmoment of John's kneeling supplication to Pandulph, by putting into theformer's mouth 'asides' expressing a heart completely at variance withthe formal penitence; in fact this scene might be understood as a cleverhoodwinking of the enemy to circumvent the Dauphin. With true artisticand patriotic instinct the author creates the redoubtable Faulconbridgeto demonstrate that Englishmen were stout of heart and loyal to thethrone in its worst perils, whatever might be the temporary failings ofthe king and a few nobles. In _The Famous Victories_ the earlier authorhad for his central figure a type of character that will always appealto an English audience. Here we find in fullest expression that freeintroduction of the comic by the side of the serious, and that love forjovial intercourse between royalty and subjects which are so frequent inour History Plays. The roistering of Prince Hal among his booncompanions in the tavern, his boxing of the Judge's ears, and hisconsequent arrest; these hold the stage for the first six scenes (thereare no acts, in this play or in the other), and contain several touchesand incidents borrowed afterwards by Shakespeare for his _Falstaff_. Indeed it is surprising to observe how extensively that great geniusappropriated the work of other men. While commonly refining thelanguage, he was not above borrowing thought as well as incident--evenfor the famous lines by the Bastard, Faulconbridge, closing _King John_. 

The form of the History Plays is a direct continuation of the methods ofthe old Miracles, and does not differ in essentials from that found inShakespeare's 'Histories'. Such differences as do occur are due, as arule, to minor differences of arrangement and length. The author of _TheTroublesome Reign of King John_ extended his theme into two plays, andso found room for much that had to be omitted in a single play;Shakespeare, on the other hand, spread over three plays the royalcharacter--Henry V--which his predecessor comprehended in one. Thehistorical method had, however, a certain effect on the English drama. It made extremely popular, by its patriotic subjects, a form whichdisregarded the skilful evolution of a plot, contenting itself with asuccession of scenes, arranged merely in order of time, that shouldcarry a comprehensive story to its finish. We shall see this influenceoperating disastrously in plays other than History, and must mark it asa retrograde movement in the development of perfect drama. One extremelyvaluable contribution of these History Plays was their insistence uponabsolute humanness in the characters. To present a Prince Hal, a KingJohn or a Faulconbridge, a Queen Elinor or a Constance, as meremouthpieces or merely royal persons would have been to court immediatefailure before an audience of Englishmen imbued with intense pride inthe life and vigour of their country, their countrymen, and their Queen. 

Of the three following extracts from _The Troublesome Reign of KingJohn_ the first is a speech which might well have found a place inShakespeare's first scene, where Faulconbridge is questioned as to hisparentage, the inheritance depending on his answer; the second is fromone of John's dying speeches, full of remorse for his bad government, and may be compared dramatically with the better known speeches, fullonly of outcry against his bodily affliction; the third illustrates thespirit of patriotic pride which glows in every scene. 

 [PHILIP (_the_ BASTARD), _fallen into a trance of thought, speaks aside to himself. _]

 _Quo me rapit tempestas?_ What wind of honour blows this fury forth? Or whence proceed these fumes of majesty? Methinks I hear a hollow echo sound That Philip is the son unto a king. The whistling leaves upon the trembling trees Whistle in consort I am Richard's son: The bubbling murmur of the water's fall Records _Philippus Regis Filius_: Birds in their flight make music with their wings, Filling the air with glory of my birth: Birds, bubbles, leaves, and mountain's echo, all Ring in mine ears that I am Richard's son. Fond man! ah, whither art thou carried? How are thy thoughts ywrapt in honour's heaven? Forgetful what thou art, and whence thou camest. Thy father's land cannot maintain these thoughts; These thoughts are far unfitting Fauconbridge: And well they may; for why, this mounting mind Doth soar too high to stoop to Fauconbridge. 

 2. 

 [KING JOHN, _feeling the near approach of death, is filled with remorse. _]

 Methinks I see a catalogue of sin Wrote by a fiend in marble characters, The least enough to lose my part in heaven. Methinks the devil whispers in mine ears And tells me 'tis in vain to hope for grace, I must be damned for Arthur's sudden death. I see, I see a thousand thousand men Come to accuse me for my wrong on earth, And there is none so merciful a God That will forgive the number of my sins. How have I liv'd but by another's loss? What have I lov'd but wreck of other's weal? When have I vow'd and not infring'd mine oath? Where have I done a deed deserving well? How, what, when and where have I bestow'd a day That tended not to some notorious ill? My life, replete with rage and tyranny, Craves little pity for so strange a death; Or who will say that John deceas'd too soon? Who will not say he rather liv'd too long?

 3. 

 [ARTHUR _warns the_ KING OF FRANCE _not to expect ready submission from_ JOHN. ]

 I rather think the menace of the world Sounds in his ears as threats of no esteem; And sooner would he scorn Europa's power Than lose the smallest title he enjoys; For questionless he is an Englishman. 

[Footnote 49: boasting. ]

[Footnote 50: I am. ]

[Footnote 51: counsel. ]

[Footnote 52: _Oedipus Tyrannus_ (Lewis Campbell's translation). ]

CHAPTER V

COMEDY: LYLY, GREENE, PEELE, NASH

The term 'University Wits' is the title given to a group of scholarlyyoung men who, from 1584 onwards, for about ten years, took upplay-writing as a serious profession, and by their abilities and geniusraised English drama to the rank of literature. Previous dramatists hadalso been men of good education and fair wit; Sackville, to name butone, was a man of great gifts and sound learning. But tradition hasrestricted the name to seven men whom time, circumstances, mentalqualities and mutual acquaintanceship brought together as one group. Themajority stood to each other almost in the relation of friends; theywere rivals for public favour, were well acquainted with each other'swork, and were quick to follow one another along improved paths. Takingup comedy at the stage of _Ralph Roister Doister_ and tragedy at that of_The Misfortunes of Arthur_, they transformed and refined both, liftingthem to higher levels of humour and passion, gracing them with manywitty inventions, and, above all, pouring into the pallid arteries ofdrama the rich vitalizing blood of a new poetry. The seven men wereLyly, Greene, Peele, Nash, Lodge, Kyd and Marlowe--named not inchronological sequence but in the order of their discussion in thesepages. 

 * * * * *

Perhaps no dramatist is more out of touch with modern taste than JohnLyly. The ordinary reader, taking up one of his plays by chance, willprobably set it down wearily after the perusal of barely one or twoacts. And yet Lyly excels any of his contemporaries in witty invention, and is the creator of what has been called High Comedy. His importance, therefore, in the history of the growth of the drama is considerable. Nor is his fancy found to be so dull when approached in the rightspirit. True, it requires an effort to step back into the shoes of anElizabethan courtier. But the effort is worth making, since the mind, assoon as it has realized what not to expect, is better able to appreciatewhat is offered. The essential requirement is to remember that Lyly thedramatist is the same man as Lyly the euphuist, and that his audiencewas always a company of courtiers, with Queen Elizabeth in their midst, infatuated with admiration for the new phraseology and mode of thoughtknown as Euphuism. If we consider the manner in which these lords andladies spent their time at court, filling idle hours with compliment, love-making, veiled jibe and swift retort; if we read our _Euphues_again, renewing our acquaintance with its absurdly elaborated andstilted style, its tireless winding of sentences round a topic withoutany advance in thought, its affectation of philosophy and classicallearning; if we remember that to speak euphuistically was a coveted andstudiously cultivated accomplishment, and that to pun, to utter causticjests, to let fall neat epigrams were the highest ambition of wit; if wetake this trouble to prepare ourselves for reading Lyly's plays, we maystill find them dull, but we shall at least understand why they took theform they did, and shall be in a position to recognize the substantialservice rendered to Comedy by the author. Lyly's work was just theapplication of the laws of euphuism to native comedy, and it wrought achange curiously similar to the effect of Senecan principles upon nativetragedy, transferring the importance from the action to the words. Itmay be remarked that this redistribution of the interest must always beof great value in the early stage of any literature. The popular tastefor action and incident is sure to be gratified sooner or later; thedemand for elegant and appropriate diction, usually confined to thecultured few, is more apt to be passed over. Euphuism never did the harmto comedy which tragedy suffered at the hands of the late Elizabethanswho, in their pursuit of moving incident, lost themselves in a recklesslicence of language and verse. Action, therefore, fell into thebackground. Refinement, elevation was aimed at. In the place of Hodge, Dame Chat and their company, there now appeared gracious beings ofperfect manners and speech; and since things Greek and mythological hadbecome the fashion, Arcadian nymphs and swains, beauteous goddesses andAthenian philosophers were judged the most fitting to stand before theEnglish court. In scene after scene fair ladies talk of love, reverendsages display their readiness in solving knotty problems, lovers sighinto the air long rhapsodies over the charms of their mistresses, sharp-tongued (but rarely coarse) serving-boys lure fools into greaterfolly or exchange amusing badinage at the expense of their absentmasters. The story does not advance much, but that is of small accountso long as the dialogue tickles ears taught to find delight inwell-spoken euphuism. It is like listening to a song in a language onedoes not understand: provided that the harmony is beautiful one is notdistressed about the verbal message. Besides, there is some plot, slightthough it be, and its theme is love, chiefly of the languishing, half-hopeless kind which was supposed to be cherished by every bachelorcourtier for the queen. There is, too, for those who can read it, anallegory often concealed in the story of disappointed love or ambitionwhich moves round Cynthia or Diana or Sapho. Was there no lover whoaspired as Endymion aspired, no Spanish king meriting the fate of Mydas, no man favoured as was Phao by Sapho? Even at this distance of time wecan amuse ourselves by guessing names, and so catch something of theinterest which, at the time of the play's appearance, would set eyebrowsarching with surprise, and send, at each daring reference or well-aimedcompliment, a nod of approving intelligence around the audience. 

Lyly wrote eight comedies: _Campaspe_ (printed 1584), _Sapho and Phao_(printed 1584), _Endymion_ (printed 1591), _Gallathea_ (printed 1592), _Mydas_ (printed 1592), _Mother Bombie_ (printed 1594), _The Woman inthe Moon_ (printed 1597), _Love's Metamorphoses_ (printed 1601). Allthese, with the exception of the seventh--which is in regular andpleasing, though not vigorous, blank verse--were written in prose, as weshould expect from the founder of so famous a prose style; but as _TheSupposes_, a translation by Gascoigne of Ariosto's _I Suppositi_, hadpreviously appeared in prose, Lyly's claim as an innovator is weakened. The fact, however, that Ariosto wrote a prose, as well as a poetic, version of his play, and that Gascoigne made use of both in histranslation, gives to the latter's prose a borrowed quality, and leavesLyly fully entitled to whatever credit belongs to the earliest nativeproductions of this kind. He was the first to announce, by practice, thetheory that English comedy could find fuller expression in prose than inverse, for, beginning with verse, he deliberately set it aside in favourof prose, and, having proved the superiority of prose for this purpose, persisted in it to the end. Of his eight plays, the more interestingonly will be dealt with here; the rest we leave to the curiosity of thereader. 

_Campaspe_, his first prose comedy, is perhaps the most perfect exampleof the new euphuistic method at work. The plot is of the slightest. Alexander the Great is in love with the beauty of Campaspe, a Thebancaptive; but Apelles, the artist, who is ordered to paint her picture, having also fallen in love with her, and won her love, Alexander in theend graciously resigns his claim upon her. This is the plot, but it isvery little guide to the contents of the play, which is crowded withcharacters. There are, in addition to the three leading persons, fourWarriors to discuss the condition of the army, seven Philosophers topuzzle each other with disputation and metaphysical conundrums, threeServants to deride their masters behind their backs, a General to act asAlexander's confidant and counsellor, beside some nine others and acompany of citizens. One of the chief characters, Diogenes, stands quiteapart from the plot, his office being to provide an inexhaustible fundof shrewd, biting retorts for such as dare to question him. He is evenelevated to the centre of a major episode in which the Athenianpopulace, credulous of a report that he is about to fly, is deceivedinto hearing a very sharp sermon as, on the wings of criticism, Diogenesexecutes an oratorical flight over their many failings. The followingscene between him and a beggar reveals the nature of his wit. 

 _Alexander_ (_aside_). Behold Diogenes talking with one at his tub. 

 _Crysus. _ One penny, Diogenes; I am a Cynic. 

 _Diogenes. _ He made thee a beggar, that first gave thee anything. 

 _Crysus. _ Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give thee. 

 _Diogenes. _ I want nothing, till the springs dry and the earth perish. 

 _Crysus. _ I gather for the Gods. 

 _Diogenes. _ And I care not for those Gods which want money. 

 _Crysus. _ Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt give nothing. 

 _Diogenes. _ Thou art not, that wilt beg anything. 

 _Crysus. _ (_seeing Alexander_). Alexander, King Alexander, give a poor Cynic a groat. 

 _Alexander. _ It is not for a king to give a groat. 

 _Crysus. _ Then give me a talent. 

 _Alexander. _ It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. Away!

The charm of the play lies in the romance of Apelles' love for Campaspe, and in the delicacy of his wooing. Here is pure Romantic Comedy, such asGreene imitated and Shakespeare made delightful. Not at first willCampaspe yield the gates of her heart, nor does the artist press theattack with heated fervour. So gentle a besieger is he, that we perceivethe young couple drifting into love on the stream of destiny, almostreluctant to betray their growing feelings through fear of the wrath ofAlexander. Apelles is already smitten but Campaspe is still 'fancy free'when, in the artist's studio, she questions him about his pictures. 

 _Campaspe. _ What counterfeit is this, Apelles?

 _Apelles. _ This is Venus, the Goddess of love. 

 _Campaspe. _ What, be there also loving Goddesses?

 _Apelles. _ This is she that hath power to command the very affections of the heart. 

 _Campaspe. _ How is she hired? by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes?

 _Apelles. _ By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes. 

 _Campaspe. _ What prayer?

 _Apelles. _ Vows irrevocable. 

 _Campaspe. _ What sacrifice?

 _Apelles. _ Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling. 

 _Campaspe. _ What bribes?

 _Apelles. _ Roses and kisses. But were you never in love?

 _Campaspe. _ No, nor love in me. 

 _Apelles. _ Then have you injured many. 

 _Campaspe. _ How so?

 _Apelles. _ Because you have been loved of many. 

 _Campaspe. _ Flattered perchance of some. 

 _Apelles. _ It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love. 

 _Campaspe. _ If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip your pencil in colours; and fall to that you must do, not that you would do. 

Thus she sets him aside. Poor Apelles, alone, in a later scene lamentshis fate in loving her whom Alexander desires, ending his mournfulsoliloquy with a song, the most beautiful of all that Lyly has scatteredso lavishly through his plays. 

 Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then, down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek, (but none knows how) With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin: All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O love! has she done this to thee? What shall (alas!) become of me?

But when the picture is nearly finished, when the sittings are almostover and with them the intimacy of artist and model, then we discoverthat the tender sighs of Apelles have sweetened the friendship ofCampaspe into love, and the secret of each soul is known to the other. 

 _Apelles. _ I have now, Campaspe, almost made an end. 

 _Campaspe. _ You told me, Apelles, you would never end. 

 _Apelles. _ Never end my love, for it shall be eternal. 

 _Campaspe. _ That is, neither to have beginning nor ending. 

 _Apelles. _ You are disposed to mistake: I hope you do not mistrust. 

 _Campaspe. _ What will you say if Alexander perceive your love?

 _Apelles. _ I will say it is no treason to love. 

 _Campaspe. _ But how if he will not suffer thee to see my person?

 _Apelles. _ Then will I gaze continually on thy picture. 

 _Campaspe. _ That will not feed thy heart. 

 _Apelles. _ Yet shall it fill mine eye: besides, the sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith, will cause me to embrace thy shadow continually in mine arms, of the which by strong imagination I will make a substance. 

 _Campaspe. _ Well, I must be gone. But of this assure yourself, that I had rather be in thy shop grinding colours than in Alexander's court, following higher fortunes. 

By a happy stroke of wit Alexander, guessing the truth of the matter, makes Apelles confess indirectly and unconsciously what discretion wouldenjoin him to keep concealed. Apelles and Alexander are talking togetherwhen a servant rushes up, crying out that the former's studio is onfire. 'Aye me!' exclaims the horrified artist; 'if the picture ofCampaspe be burnt I am undone!' Alexander smiles, for the servant'salarm is false and pre-arranged, but the alarm of Apelles is too genuineto have less than the one meaning. 

For its own sake, as too choice an example of euphuistic prose to bemissed, we add an extract from the speech of Hephestion, Alexander'sfriend and adviser, urging that king to shake off the fetters of lovethat bind his arms from further conquest. 

 Beauty is like the blackberry, which seemeth red when it is not ripe, resembling precious stones that are polished with honey, which the smoother they look the sooner they break. It is thought wonderful among the seamen that Mugill, of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the Bret, of all the slowest: and shall it not seem monstrous to wise men, that the heart of the greatest conqueror of the world should be found in the hands of the weakest creature of nature? of a woman? of a captive? Ermines have fair skins but foul livers; sepulchres, fresh colours but rotten bones; women, fair faces but false hearts. Remember, Alexander, thou hast a camp to govern, not a chamber; fall not from the armour of Mars to the arms of Venus, from the fiery assaults of war to the maidenly skirmishes of love, from displaying the eagle in thine ensign to set down the sparrow. I sigh, Alexander, that, where fortune could not conquer, folly should overcome. 

In _Endymion_ we find a much more complex plot, but less that is naturaland attractive. Historical tradition and the unchanging habits of loversgive their sanction to most of the scenes in _Campaspe_. But _Endymion_carries us into the realm of mythology, where all is unreal and wherethe least heaviness in the pencil of fancy must convert things thatshould appear golden into dull lead. Lyly's wit strives gallantly tomaintain the light tints, pressing fairies and moonbeams into hisservice, and ransacking the stores of improbability in despair ofmingling the impossible and the possible effectively; but the gilt, ifnot entirely lost, wears very thin in places. 

Endymion is in love with Cynthia, the Moon, though aware that hisaspiration must remain for ever hopeless. Tellus, the Earth, herselfenamoured of Endymion, jealously resolves to punish his indifference toher by deep melancholy. Accordingly she visits the witch, Dipsas, bywhose magic aid the youth, found resting on a bank of lunary, isbewitched to sleep until old age. Not for this crime but for a minorone, Tellus is sentenced by Cynthia to imprisonment under the care ofCorsites. Eumenides, the loyal friend of Endymion, seeks everywhere forthe means to awaken his comrade, until he finds a clue in the magicfountain of Geron, husband to old Dipsas, but banished by her wickedpower. With this clue, which is interpreted as requiring the moon tokiss the sleeper, Eumenides hastens to Cynthia. Meanwhile Tellus, finding that her beauty has taken Corsites captive, and wishing to berid of his attentions, sets him, as a trial of his affection, theimpossible, though apparently easy, task of removing Endymion from thebank of lunary. Corsites fails, and fairies send him to sleep, dancingaround him with a song and pinching his unresisting body black and blue. A chance visit of Cynthia and her train fortunately arouses him, butEndymion still sleeps his forty years of manhood away undisturbed. Atlast Eumenides returns with his oracular clue and persuades Cynthia toattempt the cure. Very graciously the queen kisses the pale forehead. Atonce consciousness returns, and as a white-haired old man the oncehandsome young courtier arises. He has two dreams to tell (shown in DumbShow in an earlier scene) but can offer no explanation of hisbewitchment. Then Bagoa, the servant of Dipsas, betrays the secret ofher mistress's crime. Dipsas and Tellus are summoned before Cynthia, whonow hears for the first time the story of Endymion's devotion to her. The fact is pleasing. So far from visiting the presumption withdispleasure she bids him love on, not in any hope of marriage, sincethat is impossible, but in the assurance of her special favour. Withthat she smiles kindly upon him; like mists before the sunrise his whitehairs and wrinkles vanish, his pristine beauty being restored by hergenial condescension. Matters hasten to a close. Tellus is willing tomarry Corsites, Eumenides wins the consent of sharp-tongued Semele to behis bride, Dipsas and Geron agree to reconciliation, and Bagoa, savedfrom the blasting curse of her angry mistress, weds Sir Tophas, theeccentric and ludicrous knight whose folly is thrust into the playwhenever there is a danger of the main plot becoming tedious. 

Certainly one cannot complain of a want of incident here. Nor is thereany lack of that complex subordination of scene to scene, that buildingof one event upon another which is the foundation of skilfulplot-structure. In this play Lyly justifies himself against those whowould conclude from others of his plays that he could not construct aplot. Yet it is a disappointing comedy. Nor is the reason hard todiscover. The first dozen pages show that, apart from the caricaturedSir Tophas and the inevitable Pages (or Servants), all the charactersspeak in exactly the same way, in fact are the same persons in all butcondition. The well-managed contrast noticed in _Damon and Pythias_ hasno place in Lyly's arrangement of characters. Were the relation ofcircumstance and individual hidden, no one would know from a givenspeech whether Cynthia, Tellus, or Dipsas was speaking; nor wouldEndymion, Eumenides and Geron be better distinguished. This, forexample, is from the lips of the old hag, Dipsas, as, spreading herenchantments around her victim, she mutters over his head the curse of ablasted life. 

 Thou that layest down with golden locks shalt not awake until they be turned to silver hairs; and that chin, on which scarcely appeareth soft down, shall be filled with bristles as hard as broom: thou shalt sleep out thy youth and flowering time, and become dry hay before thou knewest thyself green grass; and ready by age to step into the grave when thou wakest, that was youthful in the court when thou laidest thee down to sleep. 

There is one scene in the main plot which invites special mention, namely, that in which the fairies appear. This, their first entranceinto English drama, must have created a mild sensation amongst thesurprised and delighted spectators, as, in shimmering dress and gossamerwings, these airy sprites danced around the astonished Corsites and sangthe lyrical decree of punishment for his intrusion upon their domain. The incident is worth quoting in full, from the point where Corsites'labours are suddenly interrupted. 

 [_Enter_ FAIRIES. ]

 _Corsites. _ But what are these so fair fiends that cause my hairs to stand upright, and spirits to fall down? Hags, out alas, Nymphs, I crave pardon. Aye me, but what do I hear?

 [_The_ FAIRIES _dance, and with a Song pinch him, and he falleth asleep. They kiss_ ENDYMION _and depart. _]

 _Omnes. _ Pinch him, pinch him, black and blue; Saucy mortals must not view What the Queen of Stars is doing, Nor pry into our fairy wooing. 

 _1 Fairy. _ Pinch him blue. 

 _2 Fairy. _ And pinch him black. 

 _3 Fairy. _ Let him not lack Sharp nails to pinch him blue and red, Till sleep has rock'd his addle head. 

 _4 Fairy. _ For the trespass he hath done, Spots o'er all his flesh shall run. Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes, Then to our midnight heidegyes. [_Exeunt. _]

An additional interest of allegorical meaning attaches to the story ofEndymion and Cynthia as told by Lyly, curious students tracing behind itall the details of the _affaire_ between the Earl of Leicester and QueenElizabeth. To learn the extent to which the inquiry has been pursued wemay turn to Professor Ward's _English Dramatic Literature_ and read thefollowing: 'Mr. Halpin has examined at length the question of the secretmeaning of Lyly's comedy, and has come to the conclusion that it is adramatic representation of the disgrace brought upon Leicester(Endymion) by his clandestine marriage with the Countess of Sheffield(Tellus), pending his suit for the hand of his royal mistress (Cynthia). Endymion's forty years' sleep upon the bank of lunary is hisimprisonment at Elizabeth's favourite Greenwich; the friendlyintervention of Eumenides is that of the Earl of Sussex; and thesolution of the difficulty in Tellus's marriage to Corsites is themarriage of the Countess of Sheffield to Sir Edward Stafford. I needpursue this solution no further, except to note that under the threeheads of "highly probable", "probable", and "not improbable", Mr. Halpinhas assigned originals to all the important characters of the piece. Iam inclined to think the attempt successful. '

More entertaining to the reader than either the devotion of Endymion orthe mischievous jealousy of Tellus is the character of Sir Tophas. Hisposition in the play is that of Diogenes in _Campaspe_, and we observethe same tendency to eccentric speech and action. When we pursue thecomparison further, however, we discover a marked decline in wit in thesecond creation. Lyly had a tradition of truth to help him in hisconception of the crusty philosopher. In his picture of the foolish, boastful knight he followed the author of _Thersites_ in hisexaggerated caricature until the least semblance of truth to nature isbanished from the portrait. It is interesting to compare him with RalphRoister Doister. Nevertheless if we project Sir Tophas upon the stage, and by our imagination dress him and make him strut and gesticulateafter such a fashion as the text seems to indicate, we shall probablydiscover ourselves smiling over puns and remarks which, on casualperusal, we might pronounce flavourless imbecilities. Indeed, for sheerlaughable absurdity on the stage, Sir Tophas would be hard to beat. Thefollowing scene will also show the decent quality of wit which Lylybestowed upon his Pages--lineal descendants of the old Vice throughthose younger sons, Will and Jack. [53]

 [SIR TOPHAS _and his page_, EPITON, _have just met_ SAMIAS _and_ DARES. ]

 _Tophas. _ What be you two?

 _Samias. _ I am Samias, page to Endymion. 

 _Dares. _ And I Dares, page to Eumenides. 

 _Tophas. _ Of what occupation are your masters?

 _Dares. _ Occupation, you clown! Why, they are honourable and warriors. 

 _Tophas. _ Then are they my prentices. 

 _Dares. _ Thine! And why so?

 _Tophas. _ I was the first that ever devised war, and therefore by Mars himself had given me for my arms a whole armoury; and thus I go as you see, clothed with artillery; it is not silks (milksops), nor tissues, nor the fine wool of Ceres, but iron, steel, swords, flame, shot, terror, clamour, blood and ruin that rocks asleep my thoughts, which never had any other cradle but cruelty. Let me see, do you not bleed?

 _Dares. _ Why so?

 _Tophas. _ Commonly my words wound. 

 _Samias. _ What then do your blows?

 _Tophas. _ Not only wound, but also confound. 

 _Samias. _ How darest thou come so near thy master, Epi? Sir Tophas, spare us. 

 _Tophas. _ You shall live. You, Samias, because you are little; you, Dares, because you are no bigger; and both of you, because you are but two; for commonly I kill by the dozen, and have for every particular adversary a peculiar weapon.... 

 _Samias. _ What is this? Call you it your sword?

 _Tophas. _ No, it is my scimitar; which I, by construction often studying to be compendious, call my smiter. 

 _Dares. _ What, are you also learned, sir?

 _Tophas. _ Learned? I am all Mars and Ars. 

 _Samias. _ Nay, you are all mass and ass. 

 _Tophas. _ Mock you me? You shall both suffer, yet with such weapons as you shall make choice of the weapon wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a mass or lump? Is there no proportion in me? Am I all ass? Is there no wit in me? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter. 

 _Samias. _ I pray, sir, hear us speak! We call you mass, which your learning doth well understand is all man, for _Mas maris_ is a man. Then _As_ (as you know) is a weight, and we for your virtues account you a weight. 

 _Tophas. _ The Latin hath saved your lives, the which a world of silver could not have ransomed. I understand you, and pardon you. 

 _Dares. _ Well, Sir Tophas, we bid you farewell, and at our next meeting we will be ready to do you service. 

A happy combination of the romance of _Campaspe_ with the mythology of_Endymion_ is found in the graceful and charming comedy, _Gallathea_. Its plot is really double, though happily blended, while yet a third andindependent thread of lower comedy is drawn through it. On the shores ofthe Humber in Lincolnshire dwell two shepherds, Tyterus and Melebeus, each the possessor of a beautiful daughter, by name Gallathea andPhillida. Every year the god Neptune is accustomed to exact thesacrifice of the fairest girl of the country to his pet monster, theAgar (the Humber eagre), and this year each fond father dreads lest hisdaughter will be chosen for the victim. To save them the girls aredisguised as boys. Strangers to each other, they meet and fall in love, each believing the other to be what she appears, though many a doubt israised by replies which seem more befitting a maid than a youth. In aneighbouring forest range Diana and her chaste nymphs, amongst whomCupid, out of pure mischief, lets fly his golden-headed arrows. At oncethe nymphs feel strange emotions within them, which quicken intouneasiness and longing at the sight of Gallathea and Phillida. But Dianadetects the change, guesses at the cause, and promptly makes capture ofCupid. His wings clipped, his bow burnt, all his arrows broken, he isbeaten and set to a task. Meanwhile the day of sacrifice has arrivedand, in default of a better, a victim is found. But Neptune will have nosecond-best: what promises to be a tragedy changes to joy on the god'srefusal to accept the proffered girl. However, the sacrifice is onlypostponed. Moreover the delay has given rise to a stricter search, whichmeans increased peril for the disguised maidens. Fortunatelyintervention arrives before discovery. Venus, having learnt of Cupid'scaptivity, and not being powerful enough to effect his release unaided, invokes the help of Neptune against Diana. Instead of the use of force, however, a compact is arrived at; Cupid is released on condition thatNeptune remits his claim upon a yearly victim. Thus are Gallathea andPhillida saved; but for a harder fate of hopeless love--for theirconstancy is irrevocable--were it not that Venus interposes with apromise that one of them shall be changed into a boy in reality. Happyin this future they depart to prepare for marriage. --The thread of lowercomedy introduces the customary three merry lads, but deals mainly withthe fortunes of one of them, Raffe, who finds employment successivelywith an alchemist and an astronomer, only to find their promises out ofall proportion to their performances. The wonderful prospects held outbefore him, and his disillusionment, afford scope for much sarcastic witat the expense of quackery. 

The pre-eminent feature of the play is the delicate handling of theromantic plot. We see the same fine brush at work as limned the pictureof Apelles and Campaspe, while this time the artist has chosen a moreharmonious background of meadow and woodland and river, of shepherds andforest nymphs. To Peele the priority in the use of pastoralism in dramamust doubtless be assigned; but the play of _Gallathea_ loses none ofits merit on that account. Coupled with a pretty ambiguity of sex, thispastoral setting completes the model from which _As You Like It_ was yetto be moulded. Probably Peele, in his _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, preceded Lyly also in the introduction of sex-disguise, but his Neronisstirs up no serious difficulties by her appearance as a shepherd boy anda page, whereas in _Gallathea_ the disguise is the core of the plot. ToLyly, therefore, may be given all the credit for the discovery of thedramatic value of this simple device. With his return to the mutualloves of ordinary human beings (for they are that, however extraordinarythe conditions) he happily restores to his characters the naturalnesswhich they enjoyed in the earlier play. The machinery of gods andgoddesses is perhaps to be regretted, though euphuistic drama couldhardly spare it; but if we boldly swallow it as inevitable, the motivefor the disguises at once becomes perfectly reasonable, while the wholeconsequent behaviour of the girls is charged with most amusing anddelightful _naïveté_. Less natural, of course, is the story of Cupid'smischief; yet mythology never gave to the stage a prettier piece oflove-moralizing than is found in the scene of Cupid at his penal task ofuntying love-knots. --The very opening lines of the play announce thepresence of Nature with her sunshine and grass and good substantialoaks. 

 _Tyterus. _ The sun doth beat upon the plain fields; wherefore let us sit down, Gallathea, under this fair oak, by whose broad leaves being defended from the warm beams, we may enjoy the fresh air which softly breathes from Humber floods. 

 _Gallathea. _ Father, you have devised well; and whilst our flock doth roam up and down this pleasant green, you shall recount to me, if it please you, for what cause this tree was dedicated unto Neptune, and why you have thus disguised me. 

It is hard to do justice to such a play as this except by considerablegenerosity in the matter of quotations. Accordingly we offer threepassages illustrative of the delicacy of our author's art. 

 (1)

 [GALLATHEA _and_ PHILLIDA, _in disguise, meet for the first time. _]

 _Gallathea_ (_at the close of a soliloquy_). But whist! here cometh a lad. I will learn of him how to behave myself. 

 _Phillida_ (_entering_). I neither like my gate nor my garments, the one untoward, the other unfit, both unseemly. O Phillida! But yonder stayeth one, and therefore say nothing. But O, Phillida!

 _Gallathea. _ I perceive that boys are in as great disliking of themselves as maids; therefore, though I wear the apparel, I am glad I am not the person. 

 _Phillida. _ It is a pretty boy and a fair; he might well have been a woman. But because he is not I am glad I am, for now, under the colour of my coat, I shall decipher the follies of their kind. 

 _Gallathea. _ I would salute him, but I fear I should make a curtsey instead of a leg. 

 _Phillida. _ If I durst trust my face as well as I do my habit I would spend some time to make pastime, for say what they will of a man's wit, it is no second thing to be a woman. 

 _Gallathea. _ All the blood in my body would be in my face if he should ask me (as the question among men is common), 'Are you a maid?'

 _Phillida. _ Why stand I still? Boys should be bold. But here cometh a brave train that will spill all our talk. 

 [_Enter_ DIANA, _&c. _]

 (2)

 [GALLATHEA _and_ PHILLIDA _endeavour to sound the affection of each other, but only succeed in raising disturbing doubts. _]

 _Phillida. _ Suppose I were a virgin (I blush in supposing myself one) and that under the habit of a boy were the person of a maid, if I should utter my affection with sighs, manifest my sweet love by my salt tears, and prove my loyalty unspotted and my griefs intolerable, would not then that fair face pity this true heart?

 _Gallathea. _ Admit that I were as you would have me suppose that you are, and that I should with entreaties, prayers, oaths, bribes, and whatever can be invented in love, desire your favour, --would you not yield?

 _Phillida. _ Tush! you come in with 'admit'!

 _Gallathea. _ And you with 'suppose'!

 _Phillida_ (_aside_). What doubtful speeches be these? I fear me he is as I am, a maiden. 

 _Gallathea_ (_aside_). What dread riseth in my mind? I fear the boy to be as I am, a maiden. 

 _Phillida_ (_aside_). Tush! it cannot be: his voice shows the contrary. 

 _Gallathea_ (_aside_). Yet I do not think it--for he would then have blushed. 

 _Phillida. _ Have you ever a sister?

 _Gallathea. _ If I had but one, my brother must needs have two; but, I pray, have you ever a one?

 _Phillida. _ My father had but one daughter, and therefore I could have no sister. 

 _Gallathea_ (_aside_). Aye me! he is as I am, for his speeches be as mine are. 

 _Phillida_ (_aside_). What shall I do? Either he is subtle, or my sex simple.... (_to Gallathea_) Come, let us into the grove and make much one of another, that cannot tell what to think one of another. [_Exeunt. _]

 (3)

 [CUPID, _in captivity, is set to his task by four nymphs. _]

 _Telusa. _ Come, sirrah! to your task! First you must undo all these lovers' knots, because you tied them. 

 _Cupid. _ If they be true love knots 'tis unpossible to unknit them; if false, I never tied them. 

 _Eurota. _ Make no excuse, but to it. 

 _Cupid. _ Love knots are tied with eyes, and cannot be undone with hands; made fast with thoughts, and cannot be unloosed with fingers. Had Diana no task to set Cupid to but things impossible? I will to it. 

 _Ramia. _ Why, how now? you tie the knots faster. 

 _Cupid. _ I cannot choose; it goeth against my mind to make them loose. 

 _Eurota. _ Let me see;--now 'tis unpossible to be undone. 

 _Cupid. _ It is the true love knot of a woman's heart, therefore cannot be undone. 

 _Ramia. _ That falls in sunder of itself. 

 _Cupid. _ It was made of a man's thought, which will never hang together. 

 _Larissa. _ You have undone that well. 

 _Cupid. _ Aye, because it was never tied well. 

 _Telusa. _ To the rest; for she will give you no rest. These two knots are finely untied!

 _Cupid. _ It was because I never tied them. The one was knit by Pluto, not Cupid, by money, not love; the other by force, not faith, by appointment, not affection. 

 _Ramia. _ Why do you lay that knot aside?

 _Cupid. _ For death. 

 _Telusa. _ Why?

 _Cupid. _ Because the knot was knit by faith, and must only be unknit of death. 

The plot of _Mother Bombie_ must be briefly sketched because it is theonly one in which Lyly dispenses with the aid of classical tradition andmythology and attempts a Comedy of Intrigue. As such it has a certainhistorical interest. --The scene is Rochester, Kent. Memphio and Stellio, the fathers respectively of son Accius and daughter Silena, separatelyand craftily resolve to bring about by fraud the wedding of these twoyoung people, for the reason that each knows his child to beweak-minded, and, believing his neighbour's child to be sound-witted andof good heritage, perceives that only deceit can accomplish the union. In this attempt to overreach each other they employ their servants, Dromio and Riscio, as principal agents. Not far away live two youngpeople, Livia and Candius, whose mutual love is made unhappy by theopposition of their fathers, Prisius and Sperantius, since these lattercovet rather their children's marriage with Accius and Silena. Inpursuit of this other object these two countrymen send their servants, Lucio and Halfpenny, to spy out the land. By the ordinary chance of goodcomradeship the four servants meet and make known to each other theirerrands, when the opportunity of a mischievous entangling of the threadsat once becomes apparent. Disguises are used, with the result that theloving couple, Livia and Candius, marry under the unconscious benisonsof their parents. The trick being discovered, there is general trouble, especially at the exposure of the hitherto concealed imbecility ofAccius and Silena; but a certain woman, Vicina, now comes forward, withher two children, Maestius and Serena, to explain that the imbeciles arereally her own offspring and that the son and daughter of Memphio andStellio are Maestius and Serena. The willing alliance of these twobrings the original plans to a happy conclusion. Mother Bombie herselfis a fortune-teller to whom recourse is had at various times by theyoung folk, and whose oracular statements provide mysterious clues tothe final events. 

As a consequence of the meaner nature of its characters this play isless tainted with euphuism than the rest, while its dialogue is aslively as ever, the four servants finding in their masters excellentfoils to practise their wit upon. Deception and cross purposes areconducted with much skill to their conclusion, though the elaboratebalance of households rather oppresses one by its artificiality. As oneof the earliest Comedies of Intrigue, if not actually the first, itpresents possibilities in that direction which were eagerly developed bylater writers. Thus again we observe the originality of the authorpreparing the way for his successors. 

In summing up the contributions of Lyly to drama we naturally lay stressupon three points, namely, his creation of lively prose dialogue, hisuplifting of comedy from the level of coarse humour and buffoonery tothe region of high comedy and wit, and his painting of pure romanticlove. We attach value, also, to his discovery of the dramaticpossibilities of sex disguises, to his introduction of fairies upon thestage, to his persistence in the good fashion of interspersing songsamongst the scenes, and to his use of pastoralism as a background forromance. Nor may his efforts in Comedy of Intrigue be overlooked. On theother hand, we lament as a grievous failing his inability to draw realmen and women, or indeed to differentiate his characters at all exceptby gross caricature or the copying of traditional eccentricities. SirTophas and Diogenes we remember as distinct personalities only for theirpeculiar and very obvious traits: the rest of his characters either stayin our memory solely through the charm of particular scenes in whichthey take part, or fade from it altogether. As less regrettable faults, because hardly avoidable if euphuism was to bring its benefits, may beremembered the weakness of his plots (notably in _Campaspe_, _Sapho andPhao_ and _Mydas_), the stilted, flowery talk that does duty for so manyconversations, and the unreality brought in the train of hisdearly-loved Greek mythology. Not unfittingly we may conclude ourcriticism of his plays with his own description of his art, given in thefirst prologue to _Sapho and Phao_. 

 Our intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward lightness, and to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud laughing; knowing it to the wise to be as great pleasure to hear counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish to have sport mingled with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtesans with immodest words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from unkind reports, to make our cheeks blush. 

 * * * * *

Unlike Lyly, Robert Greene is the dramatizer of actions rather thanspeeches. Primarily a writer of romances, he carries the same principlewith him to the stage, providing a throng of characters and an abundanceof incident, with rapid transition from place to place, regardless oftime and the technicalities of acts and scenes. The result is acontinuous flow of pictures, in subject darting about from one set ofcharacters to another lest any section of the narrative drag behind therest, hardly ever dull yet rarely impressive, bearing the complexity ofmany issues to its appointed end in general content. This isplot-structure in its elementary yet ambitious form: an abounding wealthof material is condensed within the limits of a play, but itsarrangement reveals no attempt at a gradual and subtle evolution ofevents to a climax. It succeeds in maintaining interest by its variety, leaving the pleased spectator with the sense of having looked on at anumber of very entertaining scenes. Unfortunately the bustle of actioninvites superficiality of treatment: the end is attained by the use ofbold splashes of colour rather than by accurate drawing. Spaniards, Italians, Turks, Moors fill the stage like a pageant; in the best knownplay, _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, magicians perform wonders, countrysquires kill each other for love, prince and fool exchange places, simple folk go a-fairing, kings pay state visits, devils fly off withpeople, all to hold the eye by their rapidly interchanging diversity;but few of them pause to be painted in detail as individuals. Only thewomen steal from the author's gift-box a few qualities not hackneyed byother writers, and, decked in these, make rich return by bestowing upontheir master a reputation which no other part of his work could have wonfor him. 

Probably we have not all the plays that Greene wrote. Evidence points tothe loss of his earlier ones. Those preserved are (the order isapproximately that in which they were written)--_Alphonsus, King ofArragon_, _A Looking-Glass for London and England_, _Orlando Furioso_, _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, _James the Fourth_, and_George-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield_. The authorship of the lastis not certain, and that of the second was shared with Lodge. Withregard to the dates it is hardly safe to be more definite than to allotthem to the period 1587-92. In all we see a preference for ready-madestories. The writer rarely invents a plot, choosing instead to dramatizethe history, romance, epic or ballad of another. Where he does invent, as in the love plot in _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, the result isnotable. Blank verse is his medium, but in all except the first prose isfreely used for the speech of the uncultured persons. Most of the verseis quite good, modelled on the form of Marlowe's; it is commonly leastsatisfactory where the imitation is most deliberate. The prose, adoptedfrom Lyly's 'servants' and 'pages', not from his courtly 'goddesses', isclear and vigorous. Euphuism asserts itself occasionally in the verse, and the affectation of scholarship, customary in that day, isresponsible for a superabundance of classical allusions in unexpectedplaces. 

Since Greene was at first much under the influence of Marlowe it isnecessary to say something here of that dramatist's work. For a fullconsideration of the essential qualities of Marlowe the reader must beasked to wait. Perhaps he has already discovered them in the ordinarycourse of his reading, for Marlowe is too widely known to needintroduction through any text-book. Briefly, _Tamburlaine_--the playwhich made the greatest impression on the playwrights of its time--maybe described as a magniloquent account of the career of aworld-conqueror whose resistless triumph over kingdoms and potentates, signalized by acts of monstrous insolence, provides excuse for outburstsof extravagant vainglory. Such a description is intended to indicate thetraditional Marlowesque qualities: it is a very inadequate criticism ofthe play as a whole. This kind of loud, richly coloured drama leaptinto instant popularity, and it was in direct imitation of it thatGreene wrote the first of the plays credited to him. 

_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_, shares with _James the Fourth_ thedistinction of a division into five acts, and adheres throughout toblank verse. Alphonsus, the conqueror, begins his career as an exiledclaimant to the throne of Arragon. Fighting as a common soldier, underan agreement that he shall hold all he wins, he slays the Spanishusurper in battle and at once demands the crown. On this being grantedhim he as promptly turns upon the donor to claim from him feudal homage. This, however, can only be insisted upon by force, and war ensues, withcomplete overthrow of his enemies. Grandly bestowing upon his threechief supporters all his present conquests, namely, the thrones ofArragon, Naples and Milan, as too trifling for himself, Alphonsusfollows his opponents to their refuge at the court of Amurack, the greatTurk. Through a misleading oracle of Mahomet they rashly engage inbattle without their ally and are slain. With their heads impaled at thecorners of his canopy Alphonsus now confronts Amurack, just such anotherbold and arrogant conqueror as himself. In the conflict that follows heis temporarily put to flight by Amurack's daughter, Iphigena, and herband of Amazons; but, smitten with sudden love, he turns to offer hishand and heart on the battlefield. She spurns his overtures, and a veryungallant hand-to-hand combat follows, in which he proves victor anddrives his lovely foe to flight in her turn. The conquest is complete, and with all his enemies captives Alphonsus carries things with a highhand, threatening to add Amurack's head to those on his canopy unlessthat monarch consent to his marriage with Iphigena. FortunatelyAlphonsus's old father, who has gained entrance in a pilgrim's garb, intervenes with parental remonstrance and by the exercise of a littletact brings about both the marriage and general happiness. 

A noticeable feature, which shows the closeness of the imitation, is theabsence of all intentionally humorous scenes, in spite of Greene's veryconsiderable natural aptitude for comic by-play. Everywhere theinfluence of _Tamburlaine_ is markedly visible, in the subject, inparticular scenes, in such staging as the gruesome canopy, and above allin the incessant bombast. Euphuism also is more pronounced than in hisother plays: Venus recites the prologues to the acts. All the malecharacters are drawn on the same pattern, in differing degrees accordingto their condition, and the two women, Iphigena and her mother, Fausta, are without attractive qualities. Marlowe, as we know, rarely expendedany care on his female characters; Greene, however, proved capable inhis later, independent plays, of very different work. Utter disregard ofnormal conceptions of time and distance produces occasional confusion inthe reader's mind as to his supposed imaginary whereabouts. From almostevery point of view, then, the play is a poor production. A redeemingtrait is the occasional vigour of the verse. For an illustrative passageone may turn to the meeting of Alphonsus and Amurack:

 _Amurack. _ Why, proud Alphonsus, think'st thou Amurack, Whose mighty force doth terrify the gods, Can e'er be found to turn his heels and fly Away for fear from such a boy as thou? No, no! Although that Mars this mickle while Hath fortified thy weak and feeble arm, And Fortune oft hath view'd with friendly face Thy armies marching victors from the field, Yet at the presence of high Amurack Fortune shall change, and Mars, that god of might, Shall succour me, and leave Alphonsus quite. 

 _Alphonsus. _ Pagan, I say, thou greatly art deceiv'd. I clap up Fortune in a cage of gold, To make her turn her wheel as I think best; And as for Mars, whom you do say will change, He moping sits behind the kitchen door, Prest[54] at command of every scullion's mouth, Who dares not stir, nor once to move a whit, For fear Alphonsus then should stomach[55] it. 

_A Looking-Glass for London and England_ shows less bondage to_Tamburlaine_, but falls into a worse error by a recurrence to thedeliberate didacticism of the old Moralities. The lessons for London, drawn from the sins of Nineveh, are formally and piously announced bythe prophets Oseas and Jonas after the exposure of each offence. Devoidof any proper plot, the play merely brings together various incidents toexhibit such social evils as usury, legal corruption, filialingratitude, friction between master and servant. Intermingled, withonly the slightest connexion, are the widely different stories of KingRasni's amours, of the thirsty career of a drunken blacksmith, and ofthe prophet Jonah--his disobedience, strange sea-journey, mission inNineveh and subsequent ill-temper being set forth in full. VaingloriousRasni talks like Alphonsus, and his ladies are even less charming thanIphigena. Ramilia boasts as outrageously as her brother, and is onlyprevented by sudden death from an incestuous union with him; Alvida, after poisoning her first husband to secure Rasni, shamelessly attemptsto woo the King of Cilicia. Quite the most successful character, perhapsthe most amusing of all Greene's clowns, is Adam, the blacksmith. Hisloyal defence of his trade against derogatory aspersions, his raredrunkenness, his detection and beating of the practical joker who comesdisguised as a devil to carry him off like a Vice on his back, histactful replenishings of his cup at the king's table, and hisdissemblings to avoid being discovered in possession of food during thefast are most entertaining. Poor fellow, he ends on the gallows, butgoes to his death with a stout heart and a full stomach. No betterexample is needed of the prose which Greene puts into the mouths of hislow characters than that which Adam uses. The following incident occursduring the fast proclaimed by Rasni after Jonah's denunciations:

 _Adam_ (_alone_). Well, Goodman Jonas, I would you had never come from Jewry to this country; you have made me look like a lean rib of roast beef, or like the picture of Lent painted upon a red-herring-cob. Alas, masters, we are commanded by the proclamation to fast and pray! By my faith, I could prettily so-so away with praying; but for fasting, why, 'tis so contrary to my nature that I had rather suffer a short hanging than a long fasting. Mark me, the words be these, 'Thou shalt take no manner of food for so many days'. I had as lief he should have said, 'Thou shalt hang thyself for so many days'. And yet, in faith, I need not find fault with the proclamation, for I have a buttery and a pantry and a kitchen about me; for proof, _ecce signum_! This right slop (_leg of his garments_) is my pantry--behold a manchet [_Draws it out_]; this place is my kitchen, for, lo, a piece of beef [_Draws it out_]: O, let me repeat that sweet word again! for, lo, a piece of beef! This is my buttery; for see, see, my friends, to my great joy, a bottle of beer [_Draws it out_]. Thus, alas, I make shift to wear out this fasting; I drive away the time. But there go searchers about to seek if any man breaks the king's command. O, here they be; in with your victuals, Adam. [_Puts them back into his slops. Enter two_ Searchers. ]

 _First Searcher. _ How duly the men of Nineveh keep the proclamation! how are they armed to repentance! We have searched through the whole city, and have not as yet found one that breaks the fast. 

 _Second Searcher. _ The sign of the more grace. --But stay! here sits one, methinks, at his prayers; let us see who it is. 

 _First S. _ 'Tis Adam, the smith's man. --How now, Adam!

 _Adam. _ Trouble me not; 'Thou shalt take no manner of food, but fast and pray. '

 _First S. _ How devoutly he sits at his orisons! But stay, methinks I feel a smell of some meat or bread about him. 

 _Second S. _ So thinks me too. --You, sirrah, what victuals have you about you?

 _Adam. _ Victuals! O horrible blasphemy! Hinder me not of my prayer, nor drive me not into a choler. Victuals! why, heardest thou not the sentence, 'Thou shalt take no food, but fast and pray'?

 _Second S. _ Truth, so it should be; but methinks I smell meat about thee. 

 _Adam. _ About me, my friends! these words are actions in the case. About me! No, no! hang those gluttons that cannot fast and pray. 

 _First S. _ Well, for all your words, we must search you. 

 _Adam. _ Search me! Take heed what you do: my hose are my castles; 'tis burglary if you break ope a slop; no officer must lift up an iron hatch; take heed, my slops are iron. [_They search_ Adam. ]

 _Second S. _ O villain!--See how he hath gotten victuals, bread, beef, and beer, where the king commanded upon pain of death none should eat for so many days!

_Orlando Furioso_, a dramatized version of an incident in Ariosto'spoem, need not delay us long. It is the story of Orlando's madness (dueto jealousy) and the sufferings of innocent, patient Angelica. In thisheroine we have the first of several pictures from the author's hand ofa gentle, constant, ill-used maiden, but she is very little seen. Mostof the play is taken up with warfare, secret enmities, and Orlando'smadness. The evil genius, Sacripant, may be the first, as Iago is thegreatest, of that school of villains whose treachery finds expression inthe deliberate undermining of true love by forged proofs of infidelity. There is less rodomontade than in the previous plays, but again we haveto record an absence of humour. In the following lines Orlando ismeditating on his love:

 Fair queen of love, thou mistress of delight, Thou gladsome lamp that wait'st on Phoebe's train, Spreading thy kindness through the jarring orbs That, in their union, praise thy lasting powers; Thou that hast stay'd the fiery Phlegon's course, And mad'st the coachman of the glorious wain To droop, in view of Daphne's excellence; Fair pride of morn, sweet beauty of the even, Look on Orlando languishing in love. Sweet solitary groves, whereas the Nymphs With pleasance laugh to see the Satyrs play, Witness Orlando's faith unto his love. Tread she these lawnds, kind Flora, boast thy pride: Seek she for shade, spread, cedars, for her sake: Fair Flora, make her couch amidst thy flowers: Sweet crystal springs, Wash ye with roses when she longs to drink. Ah, thought, my heaven! ah, heaven, that knows my thought! Smile, joy in her that my content hath wrought. 

Hitherto Greene had yielded to the popular demand for plays of the_Tamburlaine_ class, full of oriental colour and martial sound, withtitanic heroes and a generous supply of kings, queens, and greatcaptains: no less than twenty crowned heads compete for places on thelist of dramatis personae in his first three plays. The character ofAngelica, however, and stray touches of pastoralism in the last play, hint at an impending change. The author's mind, tired of subservience, was beginning to trace out for itself new paths, leading him from campsto the fresh countryside. To the end Greene retained his kings, possiblyfor their spectacular effect. But he abandoned warfare as a theme. 

_Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_ was written under the new inspiration. Wehave already referred to the motley nature of this drama. No other ofthe writer's plays exhibits so many and such rapid changes of scene, some situations actually demanding the presentation of two scenes at thesame time. In spite of this the different sections of the story remaintolerably clear as we proceed, and the interest never flags for longerthan the brief minutes when prosy Oxford dons talk learnedly. Fourgroups of characters attract attention in turn; the young noblemen andMargaret, the three kings and the Spanish princess, the country yokelsand squires, and the magicians. By careful interweaving all four groupsare related to one another and none but the Margaret plot is permittedto develop any complexity. In this way something like unity is attained. 

The play begins with Prince Edward in love with the country girl, Margaret of Fressingfield. He, Earl Lacy, and others have takenrefreshment at her father's farm after a hunt, and the prince has fallena captive to her beauty and simplicity. It is decided that a doubleattack must be made upon her heart, Prince Edward invoking the magic aidof Bacon, while Lacy stays behind to woo her on his behalf. Lacy's partis not easy. Disguised as a farmer he meets Margaret at a village fairand does his best to plead for 'the courtier all in green', only to behimself pierced by the arrow that struck his prince. When, therefore, Prince Edward arrives at the friar's cell and peers into his marvellouscrystal, he sees Lacy and Margaret exchanging declarations of love, with Friar Bungay standing by ready to wed them. The power of FriarBacon prevents the ceremony by whisking his cowled brother away, and thefurious prince hurries back to Fressingfield. He is resolved to slayLacy; nor does that remorseful earl ask for other treatment; Margaret, however, offers so brave and noble a defence of her lover, taking allblame upon herself and avowing that his death will be instantly followedby her own, that at length more generous impulses rise in the royalbreast, and instead of death a blessing is bestowed. Together the princeand the earl repair to Oxford to meet the King, the Emperor of Germany, the King of Castile, and the latter's daughter, Elinor, who is to bePrince Edward's wife. In their absence other admirers appear upon thescene, a squire and a farmer being rivals for Margaret's hand. Quarrelling over the matter, they put it to the test of a duel and killeach other. By an unhappy coincidence their absent sons are looking intoBacon's magic crystal at that very time, and, seeing the fatalconsequences of the conflict, turn their weapons hastily against eachother, with the result that their fathers' fate becomes theirs. Margaretremains loyal to Lacy, but mischief prompts the latter to send her onehundred pounds and a letter of dismissal on the plea of a wealthiermatch being necessary for him. Unhappy Margaret, rejecting the money, prepares to enter a convent. Fortunately Lacy himself comes down to setmatters in order for their marriage before she has taken the vows, andthough his second wooing is done in a very peremptory, cavalier fashion, she returns to his arms. Their wedding is celebrated on the same day asthat of Prince Edward and Elinor of Castile. --Independent of thisromance, but linked to it through the person of Prince Edward, are thevisit of the kings to Oxford, the wonder-workings of Friar Bacon, andthe mischievous fooling of such light-headed persons as the king'sjester, Ralph Simnell, and the friar's servant, Miles. Friar Bacon'spower is exercised in the spiriting hither and thither of desirable andundesirable folk, the most notable victim being a much vaunted andself-confident German magician who has been brought over by the emperorto outshine his English rivals. There is some fun when Miles is set towatch for the first utterance of the mysterious brazen head, and, delaying to wake his master, lets the supreme moment pass unused. Thecurses which this mistake calls upon him from Friar Bacon bring abouthis ultimate removal to hell on a devil's back. 

Here then is a slight but charming story of romance, supported throughthe length of a whole play by all the adventitious aids which Greene cancommand. One of the minor characters, Ralph Simnell, invites passingnotice as the rough sketch of a type which Shakespeare afterwardsperfected, the Court Fool: his jesting questions and answers may becompared with those of Feste in _Twelfth Night_. Disguised as theprince, to conceal the identity of the real prince at Oxford, he isserved by the merry nobles and proves himself humorously unprincely. Butthat which has given most fame to the author is the love-plot. TheFressingfield scenes bring upon the stage a direct picture of simplecountry life--of a dairy-maid among her cheeses, butter and cream, andof a country fair with farm-lads eager to buy fairings for theirlassies. Unfortunately, under the influence of the fashionableaffectation, Margaret is unusually learned in Greek mythology, citingJove, Danaë, Phoebus, Latona and Mercury within the compass of a barefive lines. The indebtedness of Greene to Lyly's _Campaspe_ for the ideaof a simple love romance as plot has been acknowledged. In the use ofpastoralism, too, he borrowed a hint, perhaps, from Peele. Yet, whenboth debts have been allowed, the reader of Greene's comedy is stillleft with the conviction that his author had the secret of it all inhimself. He had a hint from others, but he needed no more. 

Our quotations illustrate the story of Margaret. 

 (1)

 [_Enter_ PRINCE EDWARD _malcontented, with_ LACY, WARREN, _&c. _]

 _Lacy. _ Why looks my lord like to a troubled sky When heaven's bright shine is shadow'd with a fog? Alate we ran the deer, and through the lawnds Stripp'd with our nags the lofty frolic bucks That scudded 'fore the teasers like the wind: Ne'er was the deer of merry Fressingfield So lustily pull'd down by jolly mates, Nor shar'd the farmers such fat venison, So frankly dealt, this hundred years before; Nor have I seen my lord more frolic in the chase, -- And now chang'd to a melancholy dump. 

 _Warren. _ After the prince got to the Keeper's lodge, And had been jocund in the house awhile, Tossing off ale and milk in country cans, Whether it was the country's sweet content, Or else the bonny damsel fill'd us drink That seem'd so stately in her stammel red, Or that a qualm did cross his stomach then, But straight he fell into his passions. 

 . . . . . . 

 _P. Edward. _ Tell me, Ned Lacy, didst thou mark the maid, How lovely in her country-weeds she look'd? A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield: All Suffolk! nay, all England holds none such.... Whenas she swept like Venus through the house, And in her shape fast folded up my thoughts, Into the milk-house went I with the maid, And there amongst the cream-bowls she did shine As Pallas 'mongst her princely huswifery: She turn'd her smock over her lily arms And div'd them into milk to run her cheese; But whiter than the milk her crystal skin, Checkéd with lines of azure, made her blush That art or nature durst bring for compare. 

 (2)

 [Prince Edward _stands with his poniard in his hand_: LACY _and_ MARGARET. ]

 _Margaret. _ 'Twas I, my lord, not Lacy stept awry: For oft he su'd and courted for yourself, And still woo'd for the courtier all in green; But I, whom fancy made but over-fond, Pleaded myself with looks as if I lov'd; I fed mine eye with gazing on his face, And still bewitch'd lov'd Lacy with my looks; My heart with sighs, mine eyes pleaded with tears, My face held pity and content at once, And more I could not cipher-out by signs But that I lov'd Lord Lacy with my heart.... What hopes the prince to gain by Lacy's death?

 _P. Edward. _ To end the loves 'twixt him and Margaret. 

 _Margaret. _ Why, thinks King Henry's son that Margaret's love Hangs in th'uncertain balance of proud time? That death shall make a discord of our thoughts? No, stab the earl, and, 'fore the morning sun Shall vaunt him thrice over the lofty east, Margaret will meet her Lacy in the heavens. 

_James the Fourth_ is not, as the title seems to indicate, a chroniclehistory play. It is the story of that king's love for Ida, the daughterof the Countess of Arran, and of the consequent unhappiness of his youngqueen, Dorothea. Technically it is Greene's most perfect play, beingcarefully divided into acts and scenes, and containing a plot ampleenough to dispense with much of that extraneous matter which obscuredhis former plays. An amusing stratum of comic by-play underlies the mainstory without interfering with it. Nevertheless the central details areunattractive, presenting intrigue rather than romance, so that theeffect is less pleasing than that of the previous comedy. 

In the hour of the Scottish monarch's union with Dorothea, daughter ofthe English king, his wandering eyes fall upon and become enamoured ofIda, who is standing by amongst the ladies of the court. Withdissembling lips he bids farewell to his new father-in-law; then, alone, soliloquizes on his own wretchedness. Ateukin, a poor, unscrupulous andambitious courtier, overhears him and offers his services, which areaccepted. Ateukin, accordingly, makes overtures to Ida, but withoutsuccess. Returning, he persuades the king to sanction the murder of hisqueen, to be accomplished by the French hireling, Jaques. By accidentthe warrant for her death comes into the possession of a friend of hers, who prevails upon her to flee into hiding, disguised as a man andaccompanied by her dwarf. They are followed, however, by Jaques, who, after stabbing her, returns to announce the news to Ateukin. The latterinforms the king and at once sets out to secure Ida's acceptance of herroyal suitor, only to find her already married to a worthy knight, Eustace. Aware of the consequences to himself of failure he flees thecountry. Meanwhile Queen Dorothea, who was not mortally wounded, issuccessfully tended in a hospitable castle, her disguise remainingundiscovered. This produces a temporary difficulty, the lady of thecastle falling in love with her knightly patient; but that trouble issoon removed, without leaving any harm behind. The King of Englandinvades Scotland on behalf of his ill-used daughter; a reward is offeredfor her recovery; and on the eve of battle she appears as a peacemaker. Happiness crowns the story. 

The interest and value of the play lies in the two characters, Ida andDorothea. In the outline given above small space is assigned to theformer because her part is almost entirely confined to minor scenes inwhich she and her mother talk together over their fancy-work, andEustace pays successful court for her hand. But by her purity andmaidenly reserve she merits our attention. It is a pity that her virtuemakes her rather dull and prosaic. Dorothea's adventures in disguiseshow Greene profiting perhaps by the example of Peele, although the lossof so many contemporary plays warns us against naming models toodefinitely. The popularity of disguised girls in later drama and theirappearance in the works of Peele, Lyly and Greene, point to their havingbeen early accepted as favourites whenever an author sought for an easyaddition to the entanglement of his plot. Faithful love in the face ofdesertion and cruelty is the dominant note in Dorothea's character as itwas in that of Angelica. --Slipper and Nano, two dwarf brothers, engagedas attendants respectively on Ateukin and Queen Dorothea, provide mostof the humour. More worthy of note are Oberon, King of the Fairies, andBohan, the embittered Scotch recluse, who together provide an Inductionto the play. We are reminded of the Induction to _The Taming of theShrew_. Ben Jonson also makes use of this device. In this particularInduction the story of James the Fourth is supposed to be played beforeOberon to illustrate the reason of Bohan's disgust with the world; butthese two persons recur several times to round off the acts with fairydances and dumb shows, which have no reference to the main play. InGreene's verse we discover a half-hearted return to rhyme, passages init, and even odd couplets, being interspersed plentifully through hisblank verse. 

To make amends for our slight notice of Ida in the outline of the playwe select our illustration from a scene in that lady's home. 

 [_The_ COUNTESS OF ARRAN _and_ IDA _discovered in their porch, sitting at work. _]

 _Countess. _ Fair Ida, might you choose the greatest good, Midst all the world in blessings that abound, Wherein, my daughter, should your liking be?

 _Ida. _ Not in delights, or pomp, or majesty. 

 _Countess. _ And why?

 _Ida. _ Since these are means to draw the mind From perfect good, and make true judgment blind. 

 _Countess. _ Might you have wealth and Fortune's richest store?

 _Ida. _ Yet would I, might I choose, be honest-poor: For she that sits at Fortune's feet a-low Is sure she shall not taste a further woe, But those that prank on top of Fortune's ball Still fear a change, and, fearing, catch a fall. 

 _Countess. _ Tut, foolish maid, each one contemneth need. 

 _Ida. _ Good reason why, they know not good indeed. 

 _Countess. _ Many, marry, then, on whom distress doth lour. 

 _Ida. _ Yes, they that virtue deem an honest dower. Madam, by right this world I may compare Unto my work, wherein with heedful care The heavenly workman plants with curious hand, As I with needle draw each thing on land, Even as he list: some men like to the rose Are fashion'd fresh; some in their stalks do close, And, born, do sudden die; some are but weeds, And yet from them a secret good proceeds: I with my needle, if I please, may blot The fairest rose within my cambric plot; God with a beck can change each worldly thing, The poor to rich, the beggar to the king. What, then, hath man wherein he well may boast, Since by a beck he lives, a lour is lost?

 _Countess. _ Peace, Ida, here are strangers near at hand. 

When Greene surrendered the attractions of sanguinary warfare and thepanoplied splendour of conquerors to treat of the pursuit of love inpeace he descended from the exclusive ranks of high-born lords andladies to the company of simple working folk, presenting a farmer'sdaughter, winsome, loving and virtuous, and worthy to become the wife ofan earl. This aspect of the Fressingfield romance must have had aspecial appeal for those of his audiences who stood outside the pale ofwealth and aristocracy. An earlier bid for their applause has been seenin the figure of the blacksmith, Adam, whose sturdy defence of his tradewas referred to when we discussed _A Looking-Glass for London andEngland_. If Greene wrote _George-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield_, and there is a strong probability that he did, he carried forward theglorification of the lower classes, in this play, to its furthest point. 

It is a hearty yeoman play; the time represented, the reign of one ofthe Edwards. The plot revolves about the rebellion of an Earl of Kendal. The principal figure is just such a stout typical hero of a countrysideas Robin Hood himself, but more law-abiding. His rough honest loyalty isup in arms at once on the least disrespect to the crown. When SirNicholas Mannering, on behalf of the rebel Earl of Kendal, insolentlydemands a contribution of provisions from Wakefield, George tears up hiscommission and makes him swallow the three seals. By craft--beingdisguised as a hermit-seer--he takes prisoner Kendal and anothernobleman, and so single-handed crushes the rebellion. About the sametime the ally of Kendal, James of Scotland, is captured by anothercountry hero, Musgrove, a veteran of great renown but no less in agethan 'five score and three'. Thus the yeomen prove their superiorityover traitor nobles. But George has other affairs to manage. FairBettris, who runs away from a disagreeable father to join him, suddenlyrefuses to marry him without her father's consent, not easily obtainablein the circumstances. However a trick overcomes that difficulty too inthe end. Meanwhile the fame of the lass excites the rival jealousy ofMaid Marian, who insists on Robin Hood's challenging George's supremacy. In three single fights Robin's two comrades, Scarlet and Much, areoverthrown and Robin himself is driven to call a halt: his identitybeing discovered, George treats him with great honour. In accordancewith former practices kings are brought upon the scene. The King ofScotland, as we have seen, is captured by Musgrove. King Edward ofEngland and his nobles, in disguise, visit Yorkshire to see theredoubtable George who has crushed the king's rebels. An ancient customof 'vailing (_trailing_) the staff' through Bradford, or, as analternative, fighting the shoemakers of that town, produces a laughableepisode. The king at first 'vails' at discretion, but is compelled byGeorge and Robin to adopt a bolder attitude; George then beats all theshoemakers, who, at the finish, however, recognizing him, award him ahearty welcome. All are brought to their knees at the revelation of theking's identity, but Edward is merry over the affair, offering to dubGeorge a knight. This distinction the latter begs to be allowed torefuse, saying, --Let me live and die a yeoman still; So was my father, so must live his son. For 'tis more credit to men of base degree To do great deeds, than men of dignity. 

Closing the play the king pays high honour to the worshipful guild ofshoemakers. 

 And for the ancient custom of _Vail staff_, Keep it still, claim privilege from me: If any ask a reason why or how, Say, English Edward vail'd his staff to you. 

An amount of careless irregularity unusual with Greene is displayed inthe verse, pointing to hasty production. But the whole play is humorous, vigorous and healthy. George's man, Jenkin, a dull-witted, faint-heartedfellow, is the clown. There is an abundance of incident, though not thecomplexity of _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_. We have noticed thehistorical atmosphere repeated from that play and from _James theFourth_. With regard to the love-plot, Bettris has only a small part, but in her preference for George above a nobleman who comes wooing her, and in her simple rank, she is quite like Margaret. Thus, when hertitled admirer offers himself, she sings, I care not for earl, nor yet for knight, Nor baron that is so bold; For George-a-Greene, the merry Pinner, He hath my heart in hold. 

We select our main extract from the scene in which George, the loyalyeoman, defies Sir Nicholas Mannering, the traitorous noble, and floutshis commission. Those present include the local Justice and an assemblyof the citizens. George has just pushed his way to the front. 

 _Mannering (to Justice)_. See you these seals? before you pass the town I will have all things my lord doth want, In spite of you. 

 _George. _ Proud dapper Jack, vail bonnet to the bench That represents the person of the king, Or, sirrah, I'll lay thy head before thy feet. 

 _Mannering. _ Why, who art thou?

 _George. _ Why, I am George-a-Greene, True liegeman to my king, Who scorns that men of such esteem as these Should brook the braves of any traitorous squire. You of the bench, and you, my fellow-friends, Neighbours, we subjects all unto the king, We are English born, and therefore Edward's friends, Vow'd unto him even in our mothers' womb, Our minds to God, our hearts unto our king; Our wealth, our homage, and our carcasses Be all King Edward's. Then, sirrah, we Have nothing left for traitors but our swords, Whetted to bathe them in your bloods, and die 'Gainst you, before we send you any victuals. 

_George-a-Greene_ brings us to the end of Greene's dramatic work. Thequalities of that work have been pointed out as they occurred, but itmay be as well to recapitulate them in a final paragraph. Foremost ofall will stand the crowded medley of his plots, filling the stage withan amount of incident and action which is in striking contrast to Lyly'sconversations and monologues. The public appetite for complex plots wasstimulated, but unfortunately very little progress was made in the artof orderly dramatic arrangement and evolution. Indeed, this feature ofGreene's plays may be thought to have been almost as much a loss as again to drama. Its popularity licensed an indifference on the part oflesser authors to clarity and restraint, and encouraged the developmentof those dual plots which are to be found, connected by the flimsiestbonds, in the works of such men as Dekker and Heywood. To the sameinfluence may be traced Shakespeare's frequent but skilful use ofsubordinate plots. For the second quality of Greene's work we name thecharm and purity of his romantic conceptions. The fresh air of hispastoralism, the virtue, constancy and patience of his heroines, entitlehim to an honourable position among the writers who have reached successby this path. Thirdly, but of equal importance, is his sympatheticpresentment of men and women of the middle and lower classes; he washere an innovator, and some of our most pathetic dramas may be tracedultimately to his example. His admirable 'low comedy' scenes, on theother hand, though they prove their author to have been gifted withconsiderable humour, merely continued the practice of Lyly, as his rantand noisy warfare echoed the thunder of Marlowe. The general soundness, even occasional excellence, of his verse and prose must be allowed to belargely his own. 

 * * * * *

George Peele has left behind him a name associated with sweetness ofversification and graceful pastoralism. When, however, we try to recallother features of his work, the men and women of his creation, or scenesfrom his plots, we find our memory strangely indistinct. It is not easyat first to see why; but probably the cause is in his lack of strongindividuality. He had not the gift of his greater contemporaries ofthrowing vitality into his work. When they took up an old story theyentered into possession of it, creating fresh scenes and introducing newand effective actors; above all, in their most successful productions, they grasped the necessity of having one or more clearly definedfigures, which, by their strongly human appeal, or their exaggeratedtraits, should grip the attention of the spectators with unforgettableforce. Marlowe was the supreme master of this art; Diogenes, Sir Tophas, Margaret of Fressingfield, Queen Dorothea, and others are examples ofwhat Lyly and Greene could do. The same vitality is visible in theirbest known plots and scenes. Apelles loved Campaspe long ago in thepages of history, and was forgotten there; Lyly made him woo and win heragain, and now their home is for ever between the covers of his littlevolume. Greene tells the story of Earl Lacy's love for Margaret, and thedetails of that delightfully human romance return to us whenever hisname is mentioned. But what characters or scenes spring up to proclaimPeele's authorship? He dramatized the narrative of Absalom's rebellion, and, as soon as the end of the play is reached, the theme, with thepossible exception of the first scene, slips back, in our minds, intoits old biblical setting; it belongs to the writer of _The Book ofSamuel_, not to Peele. He wrote a Marlowesque play, similar to Greene's_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_, but failed to create out of his severalleaders a single dominant figure to compare with Alphonsus. The samemight be said of his _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_ and his _Edward theFirst_; and his _Old Wives' Tale_ is a by-word for confusion. Only inthe sub-plot of _The Arraignment of Paris_ does he present a characterthat may be said to owe its permanence in English literature to him. Thefirst love of Paris is there told so prettily, with so pathetic apresentation of the heart-broken Oenone, that at once the desertedmaiden won a place in English hearts and minds; Tennyson's poem is anexquisite wreath laid at the foot of the monument raised by Peele to hermemory. On the other hand, the main plot, retelling the old legend ofthe Apple of Discord, is painted in the same neutral tints as colouredhis other plays. Such slight distinction as it may have it draws fromassociation with a matter of extraneous interest, the conversion of theaction into an elaborate compliment to Queen Elizabeth; the goddesses, and Paris in his relation to them, gain nothing at his hands, whileHobbinol, Diggon and Thenot are the dullest of shepherds. Unapt forwitty or clownish dialogue, Peele rarely attempts, as Lyly and Greenedid, to give fresh piquancy to an old story by the addition ofsubordinate humorous episodes; when he does, as in _Edward the First_, the result can hardly be termed a success. 

Peele's eminence as a dramatist, then, must be sought for in the twofeatures of his work mentioned in our opening sentence, namely, sweetness of versification and graceful pastoralism. Of these the latteris found only in a single play, _The Arraignment of Paris_, and is oneof the few products of the author's originality. Lyly was possiblyindebted to it for the background and minor figures of certain scenes in_Gallathea_, and Greene may have owed something to its influence. Certainly neither dramatist ever equalled its delicate descriptions ofpassive Nature. [56] The preponderance of mythology, however, the dearthof real human beings, the unnaturalness permitted to invade nature--sothat even the flowers are grouped, as in an absurd parterre, torepresent the forms of goddesses--make Peele's pastoralism, despite theundeniable charm of many passages, inferior to Greene's representationof English country life. 

Turning next to his verse, we recognize that it is here above all thathis excellence is to be found. Nevertheless a word of caution is needed. So many of his readers have been charmed by his verse that it seemsalmost a pity to remind them that he wrote more than two plays, andthat the same brain that composed the favourite passages in _David andBethsabe_ also produced quantities of very indifferent poetry in otherdramas. _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_ is written in tediousalliterative heptameters. From _Edward the First_ the most ardentadmirer of Peele would be puzzled to find half a dozen speeches meritingquotation. The verse of _The Battle of Alcazar_ is in all points similarto that of Greene's Marlowesque plays, imitating and falling short ofthe same model. In fact Peele's reputation as a versifier rests almostentirely on the contents of those two plays which most students of hiswork read, _The Arraignment of Paris_ and _David and Bethsabe_. Of thefirst it may be said boldly, without fear of contradiction, that, considered metrically, the verse is unsuited to ordinary drama. Thearbitrary and constantly changing use of heroic couplet, blank verse(pentameters), rhyming heptameters, alternate heptameters and hexametersrhyming together, and the swift transition from one form to another inthe same speech, possibly help towards the lyrical effect aimed at; thenature of the plot licenses a deviation from the ordinary dramaticrules; but such metric irresponsibility would be out of place in anyordinary play. There is a rare daintiness in some of the lines; they aretruly poetic; but we must remember that goddesses and the legendarydwellers about Mount Ida may be permitted to speak in a language whichwould be condemned as an affectation among folk of commoner clay. Setting these objections aside--though they are important, asdemonstrating the limited amount of Peele's widely praised dramaticverse--we may offer one general criticism of the verse of both plays. The best lines and passages charm us by their exquisite finish, theirseductive rhythm and imagery, not by their thought. Sometimes the warmglow of his patriotism, which was his most sincere emotion, inspiredverses that move us; noble lines will be found in _Edward the First_ and_The Battle of Alcazar_, as well as in the better known conclusion to_The Arraignment of Paris_. But we may look in vain through his dramasfor lines like those quoted on an earlier page from _Friar Bacon andFriar Bungay_ (beginning, 'Why, thinks King Henry's son'), or these, placed in the mouth of Queen Dorothea, repudiating the idea of revenge:

 As if they kill not me, who with him fight! As if his breast be touch'd, I am not wounded! As if he wail'd, my joys were not confounded! We are one heart, though rent by hate in twain; One soul, one essence doth our weal contain: What, then, can conquer him, that kills not me?[57]

For the sake of comparison with these two passages let us quote thefamous piece from _David and Bethsabe_. 

 Now comes my lover tripping like the roe, And brings my longings tangled in her hair. To joy[58] her love I'll build a kingly bower, Seated in hearing of a hundred streams, That, for their homage to her sovereign joys, Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests In oblique turnings, wind their nimble waves About the circles of her curious walks; And with their murmur summon easeful sleep To lay his golden sceptre on her brows. 

This has the charms of melody and graceful fancy; it is of the poetry ofTennyson's _Lotos Eaters_ without the message. The others have theenergy of thought, of passion; they do not soothe the ear as do Peele'sverses, but they strike the deeper chords of the human heart. None ofthe three passages should be taken as fairly representing its author'snormal style, but the contrast illustrates the essential nature of thedifference between the work of Peele and Greene. 

The reader who agrees with what has been said above will be prepared toacknowledge that Peele must stand below Greene, at least, in the ranksof dramatists. Strength and individuality are the life-blood ofsuccessful drama, and these he lacked. Yet he merits the fame awarded tohis group. He was a poet; the refinement, the music, the gentlerattributes of his best verse were a valuable contribution to the drama;his sweetness joined hands with Marlowe's energy in helping to drivefrom the stage, as impossible, the rude irregular lines that hadpreviously satisfied audiences. 

It has been claimed that he was also, to some extent, an artist inplot-structure. The mingle-mangle of scarcely connected incidents whichdid duty with Greene for a plot, the irrepressible by-play with whichLyly loved to interrupt his main story, were rejected by him. _Edwardthe First_ is an exception; in his best plays he achieved a certaindignified directness and simplicity. But he was as incapable as Greeneof concentration upon one point, or of working up the interest to animpending catastrophe. He was content with chronological order for hisguide; his directness is the directness of the Chronicle History. _TheBattle of Alcazar_ and _David and Bethsabe_ follow this method ascompletely as his avowedly chronicle play, _Edward the First_. It is astrange thing how plot-structure fell into abeyance in comedy after itslong and strenuous evolution through the Interludes to _Ralph RoisterDoister_ and _Gammer Gurton's Needle_. We must confess, howeverreluctantly, that those early plays set an example in unity andconcentration of interest that was never surpassed by any of thecomedies of the University Wits. Lyly may be said to have come nearestto it, though, handicapped by a passing affectation, he could neverexcite the same degree of interest. Greene's plots lack unity, andPeele's emphasis. We have to wait for Shakespeare before we can seecomedy raised above the architectural standard set by Nicholas Udall. 

The list of Peele's plays, in approximate order of time, is as follows:_The Arraignment of Paris_ (1584), _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_(printed 1599), _Edward the First_ (printed 1593), _The Battle ofAlcazar_ (printed 1594), _The Old Wive's Tale_ (printed 1595), _Davidand Bethsabe_ (printed 1599). 

_The Arraignment of Paris_ sets forth, in five acts, the old Greek taleof Paris, the three goddesses, and the golden apple. Juno, Pallas andVenus graciously condescend to visit the vales of Ida, and are loyallywelcomed by the minor deities of the earth, Flora especially making ither care that all the countryside shall wear its brightest colours. During their brief stay, Juno finds the golden apple, inscribed with_Detur pulcherrimae_. After some dispute Paris is called upon to givejudgment, and awards the prize to Venus. There the Greek tale ends. ButPeele adds an ingenious sequel. Juno and Pallas, indignant at the slightput upon them, appeal against this decision to a council of the gods. This brings quite a crowd of deities upon the stage, unable to devise asolution to such a knotty problem of wounded pride. Paris is summonedbefore this high court, but clears himself from the charge of unjustpartiality. Finally it is agreed that the arbitrament of Diana shall beinvited and accepted as conclusive. She, by a delicate compromise, satisfies the jealous susceptibilities of the three goddesses bypreferring above them a nymph, Eliza, whose charms surpass theirtotalled attributes of wealth, wisdom, and beauty. The story isprovided with two under-plots, presenting opposite aspects of rejectedlove. In the one, Colin dies for love of disdainful Thestylis, who inher turn dotes despairingly upon an ugly churl. In the other, Oenoneholds and loses the affections of Paris, stolen from her by the beautyof Venus; this is the most delicate portion of the whole play. Prettysongs are imbedded in the scenes--_Cupid's Curse_ is a famous one--andmany lines of captivating fancy will be found by an appreciative reader. On a well-furnished stage the valley of Mount Ida, where Pan, Flora andothers of Nature's guardians direct her wild fruitfulness, whereshepherds converse in groups or alone sing their grief to the skies, andParis and Oenone, seated beneath a tree, renew their mutual pledges, must have looked very delightful. One cannot help thinking, however, that the gods and goddesses, probably magnificently arrayed and carryingsplendour wherever they went, seriously detracted from the appearance offree Nature. Nevertheless, by the poet and the stage-manager they were, doubtless, prized equally with the rural background and the shepherds, perhaps even more than they. To them is given pre-eminence in the play. Indeed, what particularly impresses any one who remembers the stage ashe reads, is the watchful provision for spectacular effect in everyscene. It is this, combined with the author's choice of subject andcharacters, which has led to the comparison of this comedy with aMasque. The resemblance, too manifest to be overlooked, gives anadditional interest to a play which thus is seen to hold something likean intermediary position between drama proper and that other, infinitelymore ornate, form of court entertainment. Viewing it in this light, weare no longer surprised to read, in a stage direction at the close, that Diana 'delivers the ball of gold to the Queen's own hand'. Afterall, the play, like a Masque, is little more than an exaggerated andrichly designed compliment, the most beautiful of its kind. In selectingsuitable extracts one is drawn from scene to scene, uncertain whichdeserves preference. The two offered here illustrate respectively thetuneful variety of Peele's verse and the delicate embroidery of Diana'sfamous decision. 

 (1)

 [JUNO _bribes_ PARIS _to award her the apple. _]

 _Juno. _ And for thy meed, sith I am queen of riches, Shepherd, I will reward thee with great monarchies, Empires, and kingdoms, heaps of massy gold, Sceptres and diadems curious to behold, Rich robes, of sumptuous workmanship and cost, And thousand things whereof I make no boast: The mould whereon thou treadest shall be of Tagus' sands, And Xanthus shall run liquid gold for thee to wash thy hands; And if thou like to tend thy flock, and not from them to fly, Their fleeces shall be curlèd gold to please their master's eye; And last, to set thy heart on fire, give this one fruit to me, And, shepherd, lo, this tree of gold will I bestow on thee!

 [JUNO'S _Show. A Tree of Gold rises, laden with diadems and crowns of gold. _]

 The ground whereon it grows, the grass, the root of gold, The body and the bark of gold, all glistering to behold, The leaves of burnish'd gold, the fruits that thereon grow Are diadems set with pearl in gold, in gorgeous glistering show; And if this tree of gold in lieu may not suffice, Require a grove of golden trees, so Juno bear the prize. 

 (2)

 [DIANA _describes the island kingdom of the nymph_ ELIZA, _a figure of the_ QUEEN. ]

 There wons[59] within these pleasant shady woods, Where neither storm nor sun's distemperature Have power to hurt by cruel heat or cold, Under the climate of the milder heaven; Where seldom lights Jove's angry thunderbolt, For favour of that sovereign earthly peer; Where whistling winds make music 'mong the trees;-- Far from disturbance of our country gods, Amidst the cypress-springs, a gracious nymph, That honours Dian for her chastity, And likes the labours well of Phoebe's groves. The place Elyzium hight[60], and of the place Her name that governs there Eliza is; A kingdom that may well compare with mine, An ancient seat of kings, a second Troy, Y-compass'd round with a commodious sea. 

_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_ merits a passing notice if only becauseit contains the earliest known example of a girl disguised as a page, the Princess Neronis waiting upon her lover in that office. As has beenpointed out, however, in the discussion of _Gallathea_, Peele makes noreally dramatic use of the novel situation. If the dramatist had beencontent with one knight instead of two, or had even vouchsafed the aidof acts and scenes, his readers would have been able to follow thesuccession of events much more clearly than is now possible: as it is, between Clyomon and Clamydes, the Golden Shield and the Silver Shield, there is constant confusion. But Peele was not born for chivalrousromance. A writer who could allow one of his heroes to begin his careerby a piece of schoolboy trickery followed by headlong flight to escapedetection, and could make the sea-sickness of his other hero the causeof his introduction to the lady of his heart, had not the true spirit ofromance in him. We meet our old acquaintances, the thinly disguised Viceand the rude clown of uncouth dialect, under the names of Subtle Shiftand Corin; abstractions also reappear in Rumour and Providence. Thecrudity of the verse will be sufficiently illustrated in the first line:

 As to the weary wandering wights whom waltering waves environ. 

_The Famous Chronicle History of King Edward the First_ is almost ascomplete a medley as the most tangled play of Greene's. Peele's lack ofpower to concentrate interest makes itself lamentably felt throughout. We are conscious, as we read, that King Edward, or Longshanks, as he isalways named, is intended to impress us with his sterling Englishqualities. He overcomes all difficulties, and if we could only unravelhis thread from the skein of characters, we should acknowledge him to bea worthy monarch, brave, loving, wise, just and firm. One or two scenes, we feel, are inserted deliberately for the sake of heightening hischaracter, notably that in which he elects to face single-handed a manwhom he supposes to be the redoubtable Robin Hood and who proves to beno less than Llewellyn, Prince of Wales. Unfortunately these excellentintentions are not seconded by the rest of the play. Some of the scenesin which Edward takes part are not at all calculated to increase hisdignity; in the last of all, for instance, it is hardly an English acton his part to conceal his identity in a monk's cowl and spy upon thesecrets of his queen's dying confession. That, however, may have beenpardoned by an Elizabethan audience; any trick may have been thoughtgood enough which exposed Spanish villany. A more serious defect is theundue prominence given to Llewellyn and to Queen Elinor. This is notaccidental, for the full title of the play states that it is to include'also the life of Llevellen rebell in Wales; lastly, the sinking ofQueene Elinor, who sunck at Charingcrosse, and rose againe atPotters-hith, now named Queenehith'. Peele chose three distinct pointsof interest because he knew no better. It seemed to him, just as it didto Greene, that by so doing he would treble the interest of the play asa whole; both were a long way from comprehending the wisdom underlyingthe dramatic law of Unity of Action. 

If not famous, Peele's Chronicle History has become, in a small way, infamous, by reason of the representation it gives of the queen'scharacter. A Spaniard, she figures as a monster of cruelty, pride andvanity, capable of wishes and deeds which we have no desire to remember. At this distance of time, however, righteous indignation at theinjustice done to a fair name is perhaps uncalled for. The play is onlyread by the curious student, and it is quite apparent, as others havepointed out, that the attack is directed more against the Spanish nationthan against an individual. We may still regret the injustice, but weknow better than to wonder at any misconception sixteenth-centuryEnglishmen may have formed of their hated foe. 

As a specimen of Peele's rarely exercised broad humour the knavery ofthe Welsh Friar, Hugh ap David, should be noticed; his trick for winninga hundred marks from 'sweet St. Francis' receiver' is, perhaps, the bestpart of it. More worthy of remembrance is Joan, admirably chosen, forher innocence and gentleness, to stand in contrast to Queen Elinor; thestory of her happy love and most unhappy death adds a touch of genuinepathos to the gruesome shadows of tragedy which darken the final pages. Much in her portrait, as in the prose scenes concerned with the WelshFriar, may have been inspired by the success of Greene, whose influenceis marked throughout the play. 

For our illustrations we quote Gloucester's lament over his youngwife--the closing speech of the play--, and one of several allusions tothe English nation which testify to the poet's sincere and warmpatriotism. 

 (1)

 _Gloucester. _ Now, Joan of Acon, let me mourn thy fall. Sole, here alone, now sit thee down and sigh, Sigh, hapless Gloucester, for thy sudden loss: Pale death, alas, hath banish'd all thy pride, Thy wedlock-vows! How oft have I beheld Thy eyes, thy looks, thy lips, and every part, How nature strove in them to show her art, In shine, in shape, in colour and compare! But now hath death, the enemy of love, Stain'd and deform'd the shine, the shape, the red, With pale and dimness, and my love is dead. Ah, dead, my love! vile wretch, why am I living? So willeth fate, and I must be contented: All pomp in time must fade, and grow to nothing. Wept I like Niobe, yet it profits nothing. Then cease, my sighs, since I may not regain her; And woe to wretched death that thus hath slain her!

 (2)

 _Joan. _ Madam, if Joan thy daughter may advise, Let not your honour make your manners change. The people of this land are men of war, The women courteous, mild, and debonair, Laying their lives at princes' feet That govern with familiar majesty. But if their sovereigns once gin swell with pride, Disdaining commons' love, which is the strength And sureness of the richest commonwealth, That prince were better live a private life Than rule with tyranny and discontent. 

If Peele wrote _The Battle of Alcazar_, which seems probable, hebenefited by the mistakes of the previous play. It is a martial tragedy, imitating the verse and style of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine_ or Greene's_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_. Acts and scenes delimit the stages of thecourse of events, the distraction of humorous prose scenes is banished, independent plots are forbidden their old parallel existence, everythingmoves steadily towards the tragic conclusion. Lest there should stillarise uncertainty as to the drift of the various incidents as theyoccur, a 'Presenter' is at hand to serve as prologue to each act andexplain, not merely what must be understood as having happened off thestage in the intervals, but what is about to take place on the stage, and the purpose that lies behind it. The verse is regular and oftenvigorous, though the vigour sometimes appears forced, and the constantstream of end-stopt lines becomes monotonous. Murders that cannot findroom elsewhere are perpetrated in dumb-show, ghosts within the wings cryout _Vindicta!_, and the leading characters suffer the usual inflatus ofwindy rant to make their dimensions more kingly. Still the play fails toachieve the right effect. There is no dominant hero, the central figure, if such there is, being the villain, Muly Mahamet the Moor. But his isnot the career, nor his the character, at all likely to win either thesympathy or the interest of an English audience. Defeated, exiled, twiceseen in desperate flight, treacherous, and incapable of anything butamazing speeches, he thoroughly deserves the ignominious fate reservedfor him. Of the three other claimants to pre-eminence, Sebastian lendshis aid to the base Moor and is defeated and slain; Stukeley, theEnglishman, is a traitor to his country, and is murdered on thebattlefield in cold blood by his comrades; while Abdelmelec, who isalone successful in war, does not appear in more than five of thethirteen scenes, and is killed in the last battle. In action, too, thereis a divided interest. The first act is entirely devoted to the campaignwhich places Abdelmelec on the throne of the usurping Moor; not untilthe fourth scene of the second act does King Sebastian of Portugal comeupon the stage; only from that point onward are we concerned with hisunsuccessful attempt--in which he is assisted by Stukeley--to restorethe crown of Morocco to Muly Mahamet. Once more we have to lament thatabsence of unity and grip, though under improved conditions, which wenoticed in Peele's former plays. 

Captain Stukeley was a more interesting character off the stage than on;the details of his life may be found in Fuller, or in Dyce's prefatorynote to the play in his edition of Peele's works. The surprising thingis that he was not hissed from the boards by indignant patriots. But hisexploits, and his thoroughly English pride, seem to have awakened thesympathies of his countrymen, for his memory was cherished as that of apopular hero. His traitorous intention to conquer Ireland for the Pope, however, receives noble reproof from Peele in the mouths of Don DiegoLopez and King Sebastian. The latter's speech well deserves perusal. Butwe have quoted sufficiently already from Peele's patriotic eloquence. 

The extravagant language of the Moor has been made immortal byShakespeare: a line from one of his extraordinary speeches to his wife, Calipolis, in exile, is adapted by Pistol to his own rhetorical use(_Second Part of Henry the Fourth_, II. Iv). To show theinconsistencies over which rant unblushingly careers, we give twoconsecutive speeches by this terrible fellow. 

 [THE MOOR'S SON _has just given a highly coloured description of the enemy's forces. _]

 _The Moor. _ Away, and let me hear no more of this. Why, boy, Are we successor to the great Abdelmunen, Descended from th' Arabian Muly Xarif, And shall we be afraid of Bassas and of bugs, [61] Raw-head and Bloody-bone? Boy, seest here this scimitar by my side? Sith they begin to bathe in blood, Blood be the theme whereon our time shall tread: Such slaughter with my weapon shall I make As through the stream and bloody channels deep Our Moors shall sail in ships and pinnaces From Tangier-shore unto the gates of Fess. 

 _The Moor's Son. _ And of those slaughter'd bodies shall thy son A hugy tower erect like Nimrod's frame, To threaten those unjust and partial gods That to Abdallas' lawful seed deny A long, a happy, and triumphant reign. 

 [_At this point a_ MESSENGER _enters, reports general disaster, and urges flight. _]

 _The Moor. _ Villain, what dreadful sound of death and flight Is this wherewith thou dost afflict our ears? But if there be no safety to abide The favour, fortune and success of war, Away in haste! Roll on, my chariot-wheels, Restless till I be safely set in shade Of some unhaunted place, some blasted grove Of deadly yew or dismal cypress-tree, Far from the light or comfort of the sun, There to curse heaven and he that heaves me hence; To sick as Envy at Cecropia's gate, And pine with thought and terror of mishaps. Away!

_The Old Wive's Tale_ is much shorter than Peele's other plays and iswritten mainly in prose, without any division into acts. It appears tohave been an experiment in broad comedy to the exclusion of all thingsserious, for wherever a graver tone threatens to direct the action someabsurd character or incident is hastily introduced to save thesituation. Regarded as such, it cannot be said to be either successfulor wholly unsuccessful. The opening scene is certainly one of the mostracy and homely Inductions to be found in dramatic literature, while oneor two of the other scenes, though they make poor reading, arecalculated to rouse laughter when acted; the lower characters, at least, display plenty of animation, and the creation of that fantastic personof royal pedigree, Huanebango--'Polimackeroeplacidus my grandfather, myfather Pergopolineo, my mother Dionora de Sardinia, famouslydescended'--with his effort to 'lisp in numbers' of classicalaccentuation--'Philida, phileridos, pamphilida, florida, flortos'--reveals humour of a finer edge than the mere laughter-raisingkind. Against this moderate praise, however, must be set some blame. Ithas been said before that the play is a by-word for confusion. Anextraordinary recklessness rules the introduction of characters, participation in one scene being, apparently, sufficient justificationfor the inclusion of a fresh character at any stage of the play. Asvital an error is the neglect to excite our pity for Delia, round whomthe whole story revolves; she is represented as thoroughly happy withher captor and so utterly forgetful of her brothers that she is contentto ill-treat them at the will of Sacrapant. True, we are told that magichas wrought the change in her. But a skilful dramatist would have lefther some unconquered emotions of reluctance or distress to quicken oursympathy. 

The story is this. Three lads, Antic, Frolic and Fantastic, having losttheir way, are given shelter by a countryman, Clunch--a smith, by theway, like our old friend, Adam--whose goodwife, Madge, entertains two ofthem with a tale while the other sleeps with her husband. She beginscorrectly enough with a 'Once upon a time', but soon lands herself indifficulties amongst the various facts that require preliminaryexplanation before the story can be properly launched. At the rightmoment the people referred to themselves appear and the story passesfrom narration to action. We learn from two brothers that they areseeking their sister, Delia, who has been carried off by a wickedmagician, Sacrapant--not to be confused with Greene's Sacripant. Thissame sorcerer has also separated a loving couple; by his art the lady, Venelia, has gone mad, and the youth, Erestus, is converted into an oldman by day and a bear by night. The aged-looking Erestus is regardedthroughout the countryside as a soothsayer. His neighbour, Lampriscus, cursed by two daughters, one of whom is frightfully ugly while the otheris a virago, consults him about their marriages. By his advice they taketheir pitchers to a magic well, where, by a coincidence, each finds ahusband. She of the hideous face easily satisfies Huanebango, while thevile-tempered maiden as readily contents the heart of Corebus, forSacrapant has previously hurled blindness upon the former, and upon thelatter deafness, because they dared to enter his realms in search ofDelia. Meanwhile the brothers continue their quest and eventually comeupon Sacrapant and their sister making merry together at a feast. Atonce the lady is sent indoors, thunder and lightning herald disaster, and Sacrapant's magic takes them captive. Subsequently they are set to atask, with Delia standing over to speed their labours with a sharpenedgoad. It now becomes known that Sacrapant's power depends on thecontinued existence of a light enclosed within a glass vessel and buriedin the earth. Delia has a lover, Eumenides. Acting on a generousimpulse, this youth pays for the burial of one, Jack, whose friends aretoo poor to find the sexton's fees. Jack's ghost, in no more horribleform than that of an honest boy, forthwith repays the kindness byappointing himself Eumenides' guide, leading him to Sacrapant's castle, and obligingly slaying the magician at the critical moment by a touch ofhis ghostly hand. The buried light is dug up, Venelia, qualified by hermadness to fulfil the conditions imposed by an old prophecy, breaks theglass and blows out the flame, and instantly all Sacrapant's wickednessis nullified. Venelia and Erestus are re-united, Delia is restored toher brothers and lover; we are not told of the shocks that must havecome to Huanebango and Corebus when they suddenly became conscious oftheir respective wives' most prominent qualities. Into the midst of therejoicing comes a demand from Jack's ghost for the fulfilment ofEumenides' compact that he should have half of whatever was won. Resolute to keep faith, Eumenides prepares to cut his lady in twain, when the ghost, satisfied with his honesty, restrains his arm. Thus theplay ends happily. 

We have given the story in full on account of its association, in theminds of some critics, with the plot of _Comus_. Because Milton, inanother work, has shown himself acquainted with Peele's writings, theyfeel encouraged to see in the Ghost of Jack, Sacrapant, and Delia theprototypes of the Attendant Spirit, Comus, and the Lady. One maysuppose that the same foundation of resemblance establishes Peele asalso the inspirer of the first book of _The Faerie Queene_ through his_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, with its knight and lady and dragon andmagician, Sansfoy. Professor Mason, on the other hand, prefers to regardas mere coincidences those points which are common to both. By theoutline given, the reader who has not Peele's comedy at hand will beassisted in making his own choice between the two opinions. 

_David and Bethsabe_ presents the two stories of David's love forBathsheba and of the revolt of Absalom, as found in the Second Book ofSamuel (Chapters xi-xix). The succession of events is carefullyobserved, each least pleasant detail jealously retained, and in someplaces even the language closely imitated. Except in the old Bibleplays, one does not often meet with such rigorous adherence to theoriginal in the transference of facts from a narrative to a drama. Tothis adherence are due certain features which any one not fresh fromreading the account in Samuel might easily attribute to the dramatist'sskill--the differentiation of the characters, the varying moods of joy, sorrow, indignation, hope and despair, besides the unusual vigour ofsome of the scenes. Dramatic art, however, is frequently as severelytested in an author's selection of a subject as in his invention of one. From this test Peele's talent would have emerged triumphantly had heonly possessed the ability to construct a plot; for there is anabundance of the right dramatic material in his subject, and in his bestmoments he displays wonderful mastery in the moulding of hard facts tohis use. Nothing could be more perfectly done than the sublimation ofthe contents of three plain verses (Chapter xi. 2-4) to the delicatepoetry of his famous opening scene. Unfortunately the method adopted isthat of the chronicle history-plays or of the nearly forgottenMiracles, to which class of drama _David and Bethsabe_, as a latesurvival, may be said to belong. It has other marks of retrogression tomethods already old-fashioned in the year 1598, such as the introduction(twice) of a Chorus, and the absence of any division into acts, notwithstanding Peele's effective adoption of them in his previoustragedy. There is also, despite the occasional vigour shown in theportrayal of David, Absalom and Joab, the familiar weakness inconcentration, the old lack of a dominant figure. We cannot help feelingthat the author lost a great opportunity in not recognizing more fullythe tragic potentialities of such a character as the rebel prince. Andyet the play holds, and will continue to hold, a worthy place inElizabethan drama on account of its poetry. The special qualities ofPeele's poetic gift have been discussed in our consideration of his workas a whole. All that need be added here in praise is that had he writtennothing else but _David and Bethsabe_ and _The Arraignment of Paris_ hemight have challenged the right of precedence as a poet with Marlowe. But between those two plays what an amount of inferior workmanship lies!

Having already quoted an example of his verse in tender mood, we offer afavourable specimen of his more impassioned style:

 _David. _ What seems them best, then, that will David do. But now, my lords and captains, hear his voice That never yet pierc'd piteous heaven in vain; Then let it not slip lightly through your ears;-- For my sake spare the young man, Absalon. Joab, thyself didst once use friendly words To reconcile my heart incens'd to him; If, then, thy love be to thy kinsman sound, And thou wilt prove a perfect Israelite, Friend him with deeds, and touch no hair of him, -- Not that fair hair with which the wanton winds Delight to play, and love to make it curl; Wherein the nightingales would build their nests, And make sweet bowers in every golden tress To sing their lover every night asleep;-- O, spoil not, Joab, Jove's[62] fair ornaments, Which he hath sent to solace David's soul! The best, ye see, my lords, are swift to sin; To sin our feet are wash'd with milk of roes And dried again with coals of lightning. O Lord, thou see'st the proudest sin's poor slave, And with his bridle pull'st him to the grave! For my sake, then, spare lovely Absalon. 

 * * * * *

Thomas Nash assisted Marlowe in _The Tragedy of Dido_, but _Summer'sLast Will and Testament_ (1592) is the only example of his independentdramatic work preserved for us. ''Tis no play neither, but a show', saysone of its characters in describing it; and the same person, continuing, supplies this brief summary to its contents: 'Forsooth, because theplague reigns in most places in this latter end of summer, Summer mustcome in sick; he must call his officers to account, yield his throne toAutumn, make Winter his executor, with tittle-tattle Tom-boy. ' Theofficers thus called to account are Ver, Solstitium, Sol, Orion, Harvestand Bacchus. Each enters in appropriate guise, with a train ofattendants singing or dancing. Thus we have such stage-directions as, 'Enter Ver, with his train, overlaid with suits of green moss, representing short grass, singing': 'Enter Harvest, with a scythe on hisneck, and all his reapers with sickles, and a great black bowl with aposset in it, borne before him: they come in singing': 'Enter Bacchus, riding upon an ass trapped in ivy, himself dressed in vine leaves, anda garland of grapes on his head; his companions having all jacks intheir hands, and ivy garlands on their heads; they come singing. 'Several of the songs have the true ring of country choruses; probablythey were such, borrowed quite frankly by the dramatist, who wouldexpect his audience to be familiar with them and even possibly to joinin the singing. Such a one is this harvesting song--

 Merry, merry, merry; cheery, cheery, cheery; Trowl the black bowl to me; Hey derry, derry, with a poup and a lerry, I'll trowl it again to thee. Hooky, hooky, we have shorn, And we have bound, And we have brought Harvest Home to town. 

Others again are more restrained, though almost all have a certaincharming artlessness about them. A verse may be quoted from the SpringSong. 

 The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckow, jug, jug, pu-we, to-wit, to-whoo. 

Regarded as a show, then, the performance is deserving of all praise, its fresh pastoralism confirming the hold upon the stage of unaffectedcountry scenes. It must have followed not long after Greene's _FriarBacon and Friar Bungay_. It makes no claim to belong to regular drama, so that we need waste no words in uninvited criticism of its weakness inplot, action and character. Approving mention must be made of WillSummer--no relation to Summer, the season of the year, who is referredto in the title--Henry the Eighth's Court Jester, who plays the part of'presenter' and general critic, standing apart from the main action butthrusting in his remarks as the spirit moves him. He is responsible forthe description of the performance as a show. His purpose is fullydeclared at the start, when he announces that he will 'sit as a chorusand flout the actors and him (_the author_) at the end of every scene'. Forthwith he proceeds to offer advice to the actors about theirbehaviour: 'And this I bar, over and besides, that none of you strokeyour beards to make action, play with your cod-piece points, or standfumbling on your buttons, when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serve God, and act cleanly. ' Always his honesty exceeds hisconsideration for the feelings of others. Three clowns and three maidshave barely ended their rustic jig when he calls out, 'Beshrew my heart, of a number of ill legs I never saw worse dancers. How bless'd are youthat the wenches of the parish do not see you!' And his yawn carries aworld of disgust with it as he murmurs, over one of Summer's lectures, 'I promise you truly I was almost asleep; I thought I had been at asermon. ' Historically he is interesting as being another example of theattempts made at this time, as in _James the Fourth_ and _The Old Wives'Tale_, to provide a means of entertainment, more popular than formalprologues, epilogues or choruses, to fill up unavoidable pauses betweenscenes. 

Far more than most plays _Summer's Last Will and Testament_ containsreferences to contemporary events, --the recent plague, drought, flood, and short harvests are all mentioned. Satire, too, enlivens some of thelongest speeches; for the writer was primarily and by profession asatirist. Although the finer graces of poetry are not his, his verseindicates the gradual advance that was being made to greater ease andfreedom; his lines are not weighted with sounding words, nor is the'privilege of metre' restricted to the expression of beautiful, wise oremotional thought, as was commonly the case elsewhere. The countryfreshness of his lyrics has been already praised. Altogether, despitethe slight amount of his work in drama, Nash is not a dramatist to bedismissed with a mere expression of indifference or contempt. Severalthings in it make _Summer's Last Will and Testament_ a production worthremembering. The following extract illustrates the qualities of Nash'sblank verse. 

 _Orion. _ Yet in a jest (since thou rail'st so 'gainst dogs) I'll speak a word or two in their defence. That creature's best that comes most near to men; That dogs of all come nearest, thus I prove. First, they excell us in all outward sense, Which no one of experience will deny; They hear, they smell, they see better than we. To come to speech, they have it questionless, Although we understand them not so well: They bark as good old Saxon as may be, And that in more variety than we, For they have one voice when they are in chase, Another when they wrangle for their meat, Another when we beat them out of doors.... That dogs physicians are, thus I infer; They are ne'er sick but they know their disease And find out means to ease them of their grief. Special good surgeons to cure dangerous wounds: For, stricken with a stake into the flesh This policy they use to get it out; They trail one of their feet upon the ground, And gnaw the flesh about where the wound is, Till it be clean drawn out; and then, because Ulcers and sores kept foul are hardly cur'd, They lick and purify it with their tongue, And well observe Hippocrates' old rule, The only medicine for the foot is rest, -- For if they have the least hurt in their feet They bear them up and look they be not stirr'd. When humours rise, they eat a sovereign herb, Whereby what cloys their stomachs they cast up; And as some writers of experience tell, They were the first invented vomiting. Sham'st thou not, Autumn, unadvisedly To slander such rare creatures as they be?

[Footnote 53: In _Damon and Pythias_, see p. 117 above. ]

[Footnote 54: ready. ]

[Footnote 55: resent. ]

[Footnote 56: See Flora's second speech, Act 1, Sc. 1. ]

[Footnote 57: _James the Fourth. _]

[Footnote 58: enjoy. ]

[Footnote 59: dwells. ]

[Footnote 60: is called. ]

[Footnote 61: bugbears. ]

[Footnote 62: Jehovah's. ]

CHAPTER VI

TRAGEDY: LODGE, KYD, MARLOWE, _ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM_. 

Great as was the advance made by Lyly and Greene in Comedy, the advancemade by Kyd and Marlowe in Tragedy was greater. Indeed it may almost besaid that they created Tragedy as we know it. We have only to recall thedull speeches of _Gorboduc_, the severe formality of _The Misfortunes ofArthur_, to recognize the change that had to take place before the levelof such a tragedy as _Romeo and Juliet_ could be reached. Yet betweenthe two last-mentioned tragedies, if 1591 be accepted as the date ofShakespeare's play, there lies a period of but four years. The nature ofthe change was foreshadowed by the tragi-comedy, _Damon and Pythias_. Inan earlier chapter we dealt with the divergence of that play from theEnglish Senecan school of tragedy. This divergence, accepted as right, set Tragedy on its feet. Great things, however, still remained to bedone. 

The supreme quality of Tragedy is in its power to raise feelings ofintense emotion, of horror or grief, or of both. Failing in this, itfails altogether. To this end Seneca introduced his Ghost, and hisdisciples filled their speeches with passionate outcry and luridpictures of horrible events unfit to be presented in actuality. _Gorboduc_ rained death upon a whole nation, _Tancred and Gismunda_invoked every awful epithet and gruesome description of dungeon andmurder, for the same purpose. But the purpose remained unfulfilled--atleast, for an English audience nurtured on more vigorous diet than merewords. The ear cannot comprehend horror in its fullness as can the eye. Even the author of _Tancred and Gismunda_ was conscious of this, for atthe end he placed the deaths of both father and daughter, with horribleaccompaniments, upon the stage. He gave his audience what it wanted. Norwere the English people slow to demand the same from others. We shallfind, in fact, that tragedy continued to borrow the exaggerated violenceof the Senecan school, even when it was most emphatically rejecting itsdramatic principles. It would be a mistake, however, to conclude thatthe work of Kyd and Marlowe was merely to substitute actions fordescriptions, and sights for sounds. The difference between classic andromantic tragedy is not so simple. We shall understand their task morereadily if we pause to consider what are the chief elements ofShakespearian tragedy. 

Approximately they may be stated thus: an overwhelming catastrophe, clearly drawn characters which appeal to our sympathy or hate, impressive scenes, and a strong, eventful plot. Of these the first hadnever been lost since Sackville and Norton. The second had beenattempted in _The Misfortunes of Arthur_, not without a measure ofsuccess. But both called for improvement, the former particularly havingstruck too tremendous a pitch. The third and fourth elements were almostunknown, thanks to the exclusion of all action from the stage; andfinally, no appeal could be wholly successful which wearied the audiencewith so stiff and monotonous a diction. Verse, plot, scenes, characters, catastrophe--these are the features which we must watch if we would knowwhat Kyd and Marlowe did for tragedy. 

Before we turn to their plays, however, there is one other of theUniversity Wits whose chief dramatic work is tragic and who musttherefore be included in this chapter. Since his tragedy stands, in itsinferiority, quite apart from the tragedies of the other two, we shalldispose of it first. 

 * * * * *

Apart from his undefined share in _A Looking-Glass for London andEngland_, all that we have of Thomas Lodge's dramatic work is _TheWounds of Civil War_, or, as its other title ran, _The Most Lamentableand True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla_ (about 1588). The author went toPlutarch for his facts and characters, and shows, in his treatment ofthe subject, that he caught at least a measure of inspiration from thatfamous biographer's vivid portraits. Marius and Sylla are clearly, though not impartially, discriminated, the former appearing as thedauntless veteran, ready to die sooner than acknowledge himself too oldfor command, the latter figuring as the man of resistless force andintense pride. Partiality is seen in the allocation of most of theinsolence and cruelty to Sylla, while our sympathy is constantly beingevoked on the side of Marius. It is Sylla who first draws his swordagainst the peace of the state; it is Marius who magnanimously sendsSylla's wife and daughter to him unharmed. Moreover, wooden as theysometimes are, these great antagonists and their fellow-senators showthe right Roman nature at need. Marius sleeping quietly under the menaceof death; his heroic son, with his little band of soldiers, committingsuicide rather than surrender at Praeneste; Octavius scorning to imitatethe vacillation and cowardice of his colleagues; Sylla plunging backalone into battle, that his example may reanimate the courage of hisfleeing army: these are scenes that recall the best traditions of Rome. They are taken from Plutarch, it is true; but they are presentedsympathetically and with stimulating effect. Thus, though the order ofevents has necessarily to be mainly historical, each is intimatelyrelated to the central clash of ambitions, with the result thatsingleness of interest is never lost until the death of Marius. Incarrying history down to Sylla's abdication and death, the authorbetrays that ignorance of dramatic unity common to most of hiscontemporaries. 

The play is divided into five acts, but though there are obviously morethan that number of scenes, the subdivisions are not formallydistinguished. By the stiff, rhetorical style of its verse we seem to betaken back to the days of _Gorboduc_ rather than to the year ofMarlowe's _Edward the Second_. Save in two quite uncalled-for humorousepisodes, the language used maintains a monotonous level of statelinessor emotion. The plot is eminently suited for indignant and defiantspeeches, but Lodge's poetic inspiration has not the wings to bear himmuch above the 'middle flight'. The following passage fairly illustrateshis style. 

 [CORNELIA _and_ FULVIA, _expecting close imprisonment, if not death, are set at liberty. _]

 _Marius. _ Virtue, sweet ladies, is of more regard In Marius' mind, where honour is enthron'd, Than Rome or rule of Roman empery. 

 [_Here he puts chains about their necks. _]

 The bands, that should combine your snow-white wrists, Are these which shall adorn your milk-white necks. The private cells, where you shall end your lives, Is Italy, is Europe--nay, the world. Th' Euxinian Sea, the fierce Sicilian Gulf, The river Ganges and Hydaspes' stream Shall level lie, and smooth as crystal ice, While Fulvia and Cornelia pass thereon. The soldiers, that should guard you to your deaths, Shall be five thousand gallant youths of Rome, In purple robes cross-barr'd with pales of gold, Mounted on warlike coursers for the field, Fet[63] from the mountain-tops of Corsica, Or bred in hills of bright Sardinia, Who shall conduct and bring you to your lord. Ay, unto Sylla, ladies, shall you go, And tell him Marius holds within his hands Honour for ladies, for ladies rich reward; But as for Sylla and for his compeers, Who dare 'gainst Marius vaunt their golden crests, Tell him for them old Marius holds revenge, And in his hands both triumphs life and death. 

 * * * * *

Only two plays, _The Spanish Tragedy_ (before 1588) and _Cornelia_(printed 1594), are definitely known to have been written by Thomas Kyd. There are two others, however, which are commonly attributed to him, _Jeronimo_ and _Soliman and Perseda_. _The Spanish Tragedy_ continuesthe story of _Jeronimo_ with so much care in the perpetuation of eachcharacter--Villuppo and Pedringano are examples--that it is natural tosuppose them both by the same author; in which case 1587 may be guessedas the date of the latter. Different but strong internal evidence pointsto Kyd's authorship of _Soliman and Perseda_. It has many featurescorresponding to those found in _The Spanish Tragedy_. The Chorus ofLove, Fortune and Death, in its attitude to the play, closely resemblesthat of the Ghost and Revenge. Most of the characters come to a violentend, and in each play the list of deaths is carefully enumerated by thetriumphant spirit, Death or the Ghost. Then there are similarities oflines and phrases and remarkable identity in certain tricks of style, notably in the love of repetition and in a peculiar form of reasoningafter the fashion of a sorites. --Curiously enough, these same tricks arefound, in equally emphatic form, in _Locrine_, an anonymous play ofsomewhat later date. --We may compare, for example, the two followingextracts:

 (1)

 _Erastus. _ No, no; my hope full long ago was lost, And Rhodes itself is lost, or else destroy'd: If not destroy'd, yet bound and captivate; If captivate, then forc'd from holy faith; If forc'd from faith, for ever miserable: For what is misery but want of God? And God is lost if faith be overthrown. (_Soliman and Perseda_, Act IV. )

 (2)

 _Balthazar. _ First, in his hand he brandished a sword, And with that sword he fiercely waged war, And in that war he gave me dangerous wounds, And by those wounds he forced me to yield, And by my yielding I became his slave. (_The Spanish Tragedy_, Act II. )

Finally, the play acted at the close of _The Spanish Tragedy_ comprisesthe main characters and general drift (with marked differences) of theplot of _Soliman and Perseda_. This, in itself no proof of authorship, provides us with a clue to date. It is not likely that the authordeliberately altered the plot of a well-known play. Yet we know from BenJonson that Kyd's tragedies were very popular. We shall be more safe inconcluding that the wide popularity of that scene in _The SpanishTragedy_ led him to extend the minor play to the proportions of acomplete drama, making such changes as would then be most suitable to alarger groundwork. This view is supported by the decreased use ofrhyme, intermingled with the blank verse, in _Soliman and Perseda_. Theplay, then, may be approximately dated 1588-90. 

It would be as well to dismiss _Cornelia_ at once. Wholly Senecan anddull, it is merely a translation of a French play of the same name byGarnier. As such it has no interest for us here. 

_Jeronimo_ derives its name from one of the principal characters, but itis really the tragedy of Andrea. This nobleman's appointment asambassador from Spain to Portugal arouses the jealous enmity of the Dukeof Castile's son, Lorenzo: it is also the means of his introduction tothe man who is to bring about his death at the end, Prince Balthezar ofPortugal. The catastrophe, therefore, may be said to start from thatpoint. Lorenzo's intrigues begin at once. Casting around for some oneapt for villainous deeds, he bethinks him of Lazarotto, A melancholy, discontented courtier, Whose famished jaws look like the chap of death; Upon whose eyebrows hangs damnation; Whose hands are washed in rape and murders bold. 

Him he suborns to murder Andrea on his return. At the same time heschemes a secret stab at the love that exists between his own sister, Bell'-Imperia, and Andrea. To this end he arranges that a rival lover, Alcario, shall have access to her in the disguise of the absentnobleman, and in order to avert her suspicions he has it noised aboutthe Court that Andrea is about to return. Fortunately it is just herethat his plans conflict. Lazarotto, hearing the false rumour, loitersabout in expectation of seeing Andrea, and, perceiving the disguisedAlcario exchanging affectionate greetings with Bell'-Imperia, has nodoubt of his man. Alcario falls. But Lorenzo is on the spot to cover uphis traces. Promising Lazarotto a certain pardon, he leads theunsuspecting villain into foolhardy lies until sentence of instantexecution is passed, when a check upon his further speech is immediatelyapplied and his tongue silenced for ever. Meanwhile, Andrea has beencarrying a bold front in Portugal, passing swiftly from the tactfulspeech of diplomacy to the fierce language of defiance. Herein hearouses the hot spirit of Balthezar. Word leaps to word, challenge tochallenge. Each recognizes the honour and valiancy of the other, and itis arranged that they shall seek each other out in battle, to settletheir rivalry by single combat. Andrea returns to Spain. War follows. Twice Andrea and Balthezar meet. On the first occasion Andrea is savedonly by the intervention of a gallant youth, his devoted friend, Horatio. On the second occasion he overthrows his opponent but, in themoment of victory, is slain by the pikes of Portuguese soldiery. Horatioarrives on the scene in time to witness Balthezar's exultation over thecorpse. Taking the combat upon himself he forces the prince to theground, but is robbed of the full glory of such a capture by thebaseness of Lorenzo, who darts in and himself receives Balthezar'ssurrendered sword. Victory ultimately rests with the Spaniards. Andrea'sbody is buried with full military honours, his Ghost personallyattending, with Revenge, to indicate to Horatio, by gestures, hissensibility of his friend's kindness. The epilogue is spoken byHoratio's father, Jeronimo, even as the opening lines of the play areconcerned with his promotion to the high office of marshal. 

The weak point of the play lies in the second half of the plot; Andrea'sdeath, lamentable as a catastrophe, achieves nothing, except, perhaps, the satisfaction of a hidden destiny. Those purposes which openly aim athis death are left incomplete. Lorenzo's deep schemes, from which muchis expected, come to nothing; his revenge is certainly not glutted. Balthezar seeks to gain honour in victory, but is robbed of it byHoratio and his own soldiers. Then, too, the interest excited byLorenzo's hatred leads us into something like a blind alley; Andreaescapes and the whole scene is transferred to the battle-field. Nevertheless, the play offers compensations. It provides one or twostriking scenes, possibly the best being that in which we watch, insuspense, the mutual destruction of Lorenzo's plans. The verse, again, has many fine lines and vigorous passages. On the whole it is perhapsless studied, more natural and animated than Kyd's later verse. Rhyme isused freely, yet without forcing itself upon our notice with leadenpauses. From among many quotable passages the following may be selectedfor their energy. 

 (1)

 [_The Portuguese Court. _ ANDREA _and_ BALTHEZAR _exchange defiance. _]

 _Andrea. _ Prince Balthezar, shall's meet?

 _Balthezar. _ Meet, Don Andrea? yes, in the battle's bowels; Here is my gage, a never-failing pawn; 'Twill keep his day, his hour, nay minute, 'twill. 

 _Andrea. _ Then thine and this, possess one quality. 

 _Balthezar. _ O, let them kiss! Did I not understand thee noble, valiant, And worthy my sword's society with thee, For all Spain's wealth I'd not grasp hands. Meet Don Andrea? I tell thee, noble spirit, I'd wade up to the knees in blood, I'd make A bridge of Spanish carcases, to single thee Out of the gasping army. 

 _Andrea. _ Woot thou, prince? Why, even for that I love [thee]. 

 _Balthezar. _ Tut, love me, man, when we have drunk Hot blood together; wounds will tie An everlasting settled amity, And so shall thine. 

 (2)

 [_On the battle-field_ ANDREA _searches for_ BALTHEZAR. ]

 _Andrea. _ --Prince Balthezar! Portugal's valiant heir! The glory of our foe, the heart of courage, The very soul of true nobility, I call thee by thy right name: answer me! Go, captain, pass the left wing squadron; hie: Mingle yourself again amidst the army; Pray, sweat to find him out. -- [_Exit_ Captain. ] This place I'll keep. Now wounds are wide, and blood is very deep; 'Tis now about the heavy tread of battle; Soldiers drop down as thick as if death mowed them; As scythe-men trim the long-haired ruffian fields, So fast they fall, so fast to fate life yields. 

_Jeronimo_ has given us a really notable villain. From the first thischaracter gains and holds our attention by the intellectuality of hiswickedness. He is no common stabber, nor the kind of wretch who murdersfor amusement. Jealousy, the darkest and most potent of motives, liesbehind his hate. He would have Andrea dead. But his position as the Dukeof Castile's son forbids the notion of staining his own hands in blood. A hired creature must be his tool, whose secrecy may be secured eitherby bribery or death, preferably by death. A double plot, too, must belaid, so that, if one part fails, the other may bring success. So wewatch the net being spread around the feet of the unwary victim, andhold our breath as the critical moment approaches when a chancerecognition will decide everything. Undoubtedly the author has achieveda genuine triumph in all this. Some of us may see the germ of hisvillain in Edwards's Carisophus; there is the same element of craft anddouble-dealing, of laying unseen snares for the innocent. But it is nomore than the germ. The advance beyond the earlier sketch is immense. Lazarotto, the perfect instrument for crime, has not Lorenzo's position, wealth or motive; nevertheless a family likeness exists between the two. Lazarotto's cynicism is of an intellectual order, as is his ready lyingto avert suspicion from his master. Perhaps the most shuddering momentof the play is when he leans carelessly against the wall, waiting forhis victim, 'like a court-hound that licks fat trenchers clean. ' We fearand loathe him for the callous brutality of that simile and for thatcareless posture. Yet even he cannot fathom the blackness of Lorenzo'ssoul, and falls a prey to a greater treachery than his own. This cunningremoval of a lesser villain by a greater is repeated in _The SpanishTragedy_ and is closely imitated by Marston in _Antonio's Revenge_ (or_The Second Part of Antonio and Mellida_). Lorenzo and Lazarottotogether are the first of a famous line of stage-villains. Amongst theircelebrated descendants may be named Tourneur's D'Amville and Borachio, Webster's Ferdinand and Bosola, and the already referred-to Piero andStrotzo of Marston. 

All the other characters, except one, reproduce familiar types of bravesoldiers and proud monarchs. Jeronimo himself, however, stands apart. Though completely overshadowed in our memory by his terrible developmentin the next play, he has here a certain independent interest on accountof age and humour. True, he announces that he is just fifty, which is nogreat age. But he is old, as Lear is old; he is called the father of hiskingdom. Vague, fleeting yet recurrent is the resemblance between himand Polonius. Tradition bids us regard Polonius as an intentionallyhumorous creation. Jeronimo's humour is of the same family. We feel surethat this newly appointed Marshal of Spain pottered about the Court, wagging his beard sagaciously over the unwisdom of youth, his mind fullof responsibility, his heart of courage, but his tongue letting fall, every now and then, simple half-foolish sayings which betrayed theapproach of dotage. He is very short, and exhibits a childish vanity inconstantly referring to his shortness. 'As short my body, short shall bemy stay. ' 'My mind's a giant, though my bulk be small. ' By such quaintspeeches does he excite our smiles. And yet, by a very human touch, heis represented as furiously resenting any slighting allusion, by any oneelse, to his stature. In the _pourparlers_ before battle PrinceBalthezar grows impertinent. But we will quote the lines, and so takeleave of Jeronimo. 

 [_The Portuguese have already made a demonstration, with drums and colours. _]

 _Jeronimo. _ What, are you braving us before we come! We'll be as shrill as you. Strike 'larum, drum!

 [_They sound a flourish on both sides. _]

 _Balthezar. _ Thou inch of Spain! Thou man, from thy hose downward scarce so much! Thou very little longer than thy beard! Speak not such big words; they'll throw thee down, Little Jeronimo! words greater than thyself! It must not [be]. 

 _Jeronimo. _ And thou long thing of Portugal, why not? Thou, that art full as tall As an English gallows, upper beam and all; Devourer of apparel, thou huge swallower, My hose will scarce make thee a standing collar. What! have I almost quited you?

 _Andrea. _ Have done, impatient marshal. 

_The Spanish Tragedy_ continues the story of _Jeronimo_. Balthazar (thespelling has changed) is brought back to Spain, the joint captive ofHoratio and Lorenzo: to the former, however, is allotted the ransom, while to the latter falls the privilege of guarding the prisoner inhonourable captivity. The Portuguese prince now falls in love withBell'-Imperia, and has her brother's full consent to the match. But thatlady has already transferred her affections to young Horatio. Lorenzoencourages Balthazar to solve the difficulty by the young man's death. While Bell'-Imperia and Horatio are making love together by night in agarden-bower, Lorenzo, Balthazar and two servants (Serberine andPedringano) surprise them and hang Horatio to a tree beside theentrance. They then decamp with the lady, whom they forthwith shut upclosely in her room at home. Old Hieronimo (formerly Jeronimo), alarmedby the outcry, rushes into the garden, closely followed by his wifeIsabella. The body is instantly cut down, but life is extinct. --The restof the play, from the beginning of the third act, is concerned withHieronimo's revenge. It is a terrible story. His first information as tothe names of the murderers reaches him in a message, written in blood, from Bell'-Imperia. This, however, he fears as a trap, and attempts tocorroborate it from the girl's own lips. Unfortunately he only succeedsin awakening the suspicions of Lorenzo, who, to make the secret surer, bribes Pedringano to murder Serberine, at the same time arranging forwatchmen to arrest Pedringano. Balthazar is drawn into the matter thathe may press forward the execution of Serberine's murderer, whileLorenzo poses to the wretch as his friend with promises of pardon. Pedringano consequently is beguiled to death. Lorenzo is now at ease, and enlarges his sister's liberty. The suggestion of a politicalmarriage between her and Balthazar is warmly supported by the king. Alone among the courtiers Hieronimo is plunged in unabated grief, uncertain where to seek revenge. By good fortune Pedringano, before histrial, wrote a confession, which the hangman finds and delivers to theMarshal. This corroborates the statement of Bell'-Imperia. Yet it bringssmall comfort, as it seems impossible to strike so high as at Lorenzoand Balthazar. In his despair Hieronimo contemplates suicide, until heremembers that the act would leave the murderers unpunished. He criesaloud before the king for justice, digs frantically into the earth withhis dagger in mad excess of misery, then hurries away without tellinghis wrong. He haunts his garden at night-time; and in the silence ofthat darkness at last hits upon a scheme: under the appearance ofquietness and simplicity he will return to Lorenzo's society, awaitinghis time to strike. As if to soothe him with the thought that his griefsare shared by others, chance brings before him one, Bazulto, an old manalso bereaved of his son by murder. The reminder, however, is too sharp:Hieronimo becomes temporarily mad, mistaking Bazulto for Horatio anduttering pathetic laments over the change that has passed over hisyouthful beauty. 

 Sweet boy, how art thou chang'd in death's black shade! Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth, But suffer'd thy fair crimson-colour'd spring With withered winter to be blasted thus? Horatio, thou art older than thy father. 

When the fit passes, he and Bazulto go off together, one in theirmisery. But the guileful scheme is not forgotten. Some one has observedthe strained relations between the Marshal and Lorenzo: Lorenzo's fatherinsists on a reconciliation, and Hieronimo cordially agrees. Even whenthe final ratification is given to Bell'-Imperia's marriage withBalthazar, Hieronimo is all smiles and acquiescence. He is willing toheighten the festivities with a play. Lorenzo, Balthazar, Bell'-Imperiaand himself are to be the actors, though two of them demur at first atthe choice of a tragedy. Still Lorenzo suspects no harm, for he is notpresent at the interview between the girl and the old man, in which shedenounces his apparently weakening thirst for revenge, only to learn thesecret of that gentle exterior. Unhappily, the delay of justice haspreyed too grievously upon the mind of Isabella. There have been momentswhen she ran frantic. In a final throe of madness, having hacked downthe fatal tree, she thrusts the knife into her own breast. The great daycomes, and before the Viceroy of Portugal (father of Balthazar), theSpanish king, the Duke of Castile, and their train, Hieronimo's tragedyis acted. Real daggers, however, have been substituted for wooden ones. As the play proceeds, Bell'-Imperia kills Balthazar and herself, whileHieronimo slays Lorenzo. The only one left alive, Hieronimo, nowexplains the terrible realism behind all this seeming. Castile and theViceroy learn that their children are dead, two of them killed torevenge the murder of Horatio. The drawing aside of the curtain at theback of the stage reveals that youth's corpse, avenged at last. Horriblescenes follow, Hieronimo being prevented from hanging himself as heintended. But, desperate, he bites out his tongue, stabs the Duke ofCastile, and succeeds in killing himself. The Ghost of Andrea andRevenge, who opened the play and served as chorus to three previousacts, now close the play in triumph. 

We may omit from our consideration the additions to the originalsupplied by Ben Jonson or some other dramatist of genius. These includethe famous 'Painter' episode, part of the scene where Hieronimo findshis son's body hanging to a tree, his wonderful discourse to the 'twoPortingals' on the nature of a son, and a section of the last scene. Thestrange hand is easily recognizable in the rugged irregularity andforcefulness of the lines. Attributable to it is the major portion ofHieronimo's madness, which accordingly occupies but a small space in ouroutline of the play. Structurally, the plot gains nothing by theadditions; indeed, the 'Painter' episode duplicates and thereby weakensthe effect of the conversation between Hieronimo and Bazulto. Nevertheless we will venture to quote a few lines from the speech to thePortingals, inasmuch as they aptly describe the underlying principle ofthe tragedy:

 Well, heaven is heaven still! And there is Nemesis and furies, And things call'd whips; And they sometimes do meet with murderers: They do not always escape, that's some comfort. Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, Till violence leaps forth, like thunder, wrapp'd In a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all. 

From the hour of Horatio's dastardly murder we wait for Nemesis to fallupon the murderers. We see Lorenzo fortifying himself against detection;we watch, while 'time steals on, and steals, and steals'; Isabella, tired of waiting, kills herself; Hieronimo himself threatens to fail us, so terrible are his sufferings; the crime seems forgotten by those whocommitted it; its reward is about to drop into Balthazar's hands; andthen, at last, 'violence leaps forth, like thunder, ... And so dothbring confusion to them all'. 

When we remember the date, as early as, or earlier than, Marlowe's_Doctor Faustus_, we may be excused if we call _The Spanish Tragedy_ atriumph of dramatic genius. Fully to appreciate its greatness we haveonly to compare the plot with that of any preceding tragedy, or of anyplay by Lyly, Greene, or Peele. In none of them shall we find anythingapproaching the masterful grip upon its spectators, the appeal to theirsympathies, the alternation of fear and hope, the skilful subordinationof many incidents to one purpose, the absolute rightness yet horror ofthe conclusion (the inset play), of Kyd's tragedy. It will repay us toexamine some of the details of its workmanship. 

The crisis begins, for the first time, to gravitate towards the centreof the play. In Classical Drama tragedies open with the crisis. Englishtragedies of the Senecan type tend to adopt the same practice:_Gorboduc_ begins with Videna's report of the proposal to divide thekingdom; _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ begins with the king's return, referred to as imminent. Even the first scene of _Doctor Faustus_presents Faustus rejecting divinity for magic, while Mephistophilisenters in the third scene. By delaying the crisis, however, two greatadvantages are secured: the necessity of the catastrophe is more fullyrecognized by the spectators; and their capacity for emotion is notstrained to the point of weariness before the last great scene isreached. Yet the sense of tragedy must not be entirely absent from thefirst part; otherwise the gravity of the crisis will come with too greata shock. Kyd's purpose in introducing the Villuppo incident is herediscovered. He uses it with much skill as a counterbalance to the aspectof the main plot. Thus, immediately after the apparent satisfaction ofthe rival claims of Horatio and Lorenzo, he places the unsuspectedtreachery of Villuppo to Alexandro, as if to warn us not to judgemerely from the surface: but when the wickedness of Lorenzo attains itsblackest moment in the murder of Horatio, he supplies a ray of hope bythe presentment of Villuppo's punishment, to let us know that justicestill reigns in the world. Further, the intense (though needless) griefof the Viceroy over the supposed death of his son prepares us for theagony of Hieronimo, while the narrow escape of the innocent Alexandroexcites our repugnance for hasty revenge and makes us sympatheticallytolerant of Hieronimo's equally extreme caution in ascertaining thatLorenzo really is the murderer. We could wish, perhaps, that Kyd hadfound material for these two scenes in the Spanish Court: the transitionto the Portuguese palace is a far and sudden flight. But his recognitionof the artistic need of such scenes is notable and sound. 

It is worth while to observe the close interweaving, the subtle ironyand contrasts, the perfect harmony of the details. We must review themquite briefly. To illustrate the first, Pedringano's letter is not the'wonderful discovery' that usually saves lost situations in weak novels:it has been referred to by him as already written before the Page takesLorenzo's message, and its incriminating contents have been clearlyindicated; nothing, moreover, could be more in order than that it shouldbe found on him by the hangman and delivered to the judge who passedsentence. Or again, the success of Hieronimo's masque in the first actsupplies the reason for Balthazar's request for a play at his wedding;that last tragedy is not suggested fortuitously to accommodate someprevious scheme of Hieronimo's. The powerful nature of the meetingbetween Hieronimo and Bazulto was recognized by that other writer whoadded the 'Painter' episode in close imitation of it. But almost asbitter in its irony is the position of Hieronimo as judge, executingjustice upon Serberine's murderer while his own son's murderers go scotfree. Grimly ironical, too, is Castile's satisfaction in thereconciliation of Lorenzo and the Marshal, and grimmer and more ironicalstill the request for the fatal play by Lorenzo and Balthazarthemselves, who of all men should most have shrunk from it. The mostcritical element in the general harmony of the play is the character ofBell'-Imperia. Kyd's women are his weak point, and this heroine is nobrilliant exception. We certainly do not fall in love with her. But hissense of what is needed for the right tragic effect carries him throughsuccessfully in essential matters. Were Bell'-Imperia weak, irresolute, had she the feeble constancy of Massinger's or Heywood's famousheroines, there would be a wrecking flaw in the accumulated, resistlessdemand for revenge. As it is, her love for Horatio is passionate (thoughlacking delicacy), her responses to Balthazar's advances are cold, andher reproachful words to Hieronimo, for his delay in striking, proclaimher entirely at one with him in his final action. The part played byIsabella is also subordinated to the total effect. It may be questionedwhether her madness does not weaken by exaggeration the impression madeby Hieronimo's frenzy; but it must be remembered that her part wasprovided before the additional mad scenes, the work of the later hand, were included in the play. Kyd deliberately chose that her madnessshould precede and prepare us for the madness of Hieronimo, and it mustbe admitted that the interpolator's departure from this order has littleto be said in its favour. As the weaker character, Isabella should bethe first to collapse. Her frantic death, just before the 'play', emphasizes the imperative necessity that the long postponement ofjustice should be ended at last. With never failing watchfulness of hisaudience Kyd softens the tension directly afterwards with a few lighttouches on the staging and disguises required for the forthcomingperformance. Lastly, the choice of a court tragedy as the instrument ofHieronimo's revenge is admirable alike for its naturalness and fordramatic effect as a flashlight re-illumination of Lorenzo's andBalthazar's crime in all its horror, in the very hour of theirpunishment. Lorenzo, under the figure of Erastus, is forced to occupythe position once held by Horatio; Hieronimo, for the time being, becomes a second Lorenzo, abettor to the treacherous guest; thus Lorenzofalls by the same fate that he visited upon Horatio. Balthazar plays hisown part under a new name; he is still the stranger basely seeking thelove given to another; but this time he meets the reward due totreachery, slain by the hand of Bell'-Imperia. --The death of Hieronimo, badly mismanaged, is the only real blot upon the artistry of the play. It must be passed over with a sigh of regret, in the same way as weaccept, as inexplicable, the 'Out, vile jelly!' of _King Lear_. To seizeupon it as typical of the nature of the tragedy would be very unfair. 

Hieronimo is the great character of the play. Most of the others aremere continuations, serviceable enough but without improvement, of thosein _Jeronimo_, Pedringano being a second edition of Lazarotto. But fromthe outline sufficient may be gathered to make unnecessary a longanalysis of the author's new and greatest creation. We see in itoriginality of conception; we are touched by its intense humanness andby its inherent simplicity; but we are startled by its change, itsgrowth, under the influence of circumstances, to a certain subtlecomplexity. All are great qualities, but the last is the greatest. Growth, the reaction of events upon character--not the easily portrayedaction of character upon events--are the marks by which we recognize thework of the master-artists in characterization. We can guess at thetragic intensity of human sorrow from the difference between thesimple-minded little Marshal who acts as Master of the Revels inarranging a 'show' and illustrates his reason for preferring Horatio'sclaim to be Balthazar's captor by quaint parallels from some old fable, and the arch-deceiver who can converse easily with the Duke of Castileas he fixes up the curtain that is to conceal Horatio's corpse and bethe background to the murder of the duke's only son and daughter. Hieronimo's smallest claim to greatness, yet a considerable one, is thefact that he revealed to playwrights the strength and horror of madnesson the stage. Of the extent to which Shakespeare made use of thischaracter and certain scenes a reminder may be added. In _Hamlet_ isfound madness, assumed simplicity, delay in action, the invisibleinfluence of the supernatural, and sacrifice of the avenger's life inthe attainment of revenge, besides the ordinarily remembered adoption ofan inset play. _King Lear_, in the scene between the king and Edgar onthe heath, echoes the scene between Hieronimo and Bazulto. 

Humour is absent from the play, unless we extend the courtesy of thatname to the grim hoax (explained to us by a chuckling page, whothoroughly enjoys his part in it) practised by Lorenzo upon Pedringano, and the consequently mocking spirit of jest which pervades the hall ofjudgment during the misguided wretch's trial. The pert confidence of theprisoner, at the foot of the gallows, in the saving contents of acertain box, which the audience knows to be empty, is dramatic irony inits bitterest form. 

Hard words have been written about the horrible scenes in the play, asthough it were a huddled-up bundle of bloodshed and ghosts. Such aconception is far from the truth. Horror is an element in almost allpowerful tragedies; it is hardly to be separated from any unexpected orviolent death. We reject it as monstrous only when its cause is theproduct of a vile and unnatural motive, or of a motive criminallyinsufficient to explain the impulse. What is repulsive in _Arden ofFeversham_, and in such recognized 'Tragedies of Blood' as haveTourneur, Marston and Webster for their authors, is the uttercallousness of the murderers, and their base aims, or disgusting lack ofany reasonable excuse for their crimes. When D'Amville pushes hisbrother over the edge of the quarry, or Antonio stabs the child Julio, or Bosola heaps torments upon the Duchess of Malfi, we turn away withloathing because the deed is either cruelly undeserved or utterlyunwarranted by the gain expected from it. Alice Arden's murder of herhusband is mainly detestable because her ulterior motive is detestable. Again, the ghosts which Marston and Chapman give us are absurd creaturesof 'too, too solid flesh', who will sit on the bed to talk comfortablyto one, draw the curtains when one wishes to sleep, or play the scoutand call out in warning whenever danger threatens. Kyd does not serve upcrime and the supernatural world thus. He shows us terrible things, itis true. But the causes are to be found deep down in the primaryimpulses of man, in jealousy, in fear, in despair, in blood-revenge. These impulses are not vile; our moral code does not cry out againstthem as it does against lust, greed, and motiveless cruelty. When werise from the play it is not with a sense that we have moved amongstbase creatures. Lorenzo repels us; but it is Hieronimo who dominates thestage, filling us with pity for his wrongs and weakness. Thesupernatural remains outside nature, crude, as all stagerepresentations of it must be, but unobtrusive (and, in the prologue, at least, thoroughly dignified), serving a useful purpose in keepingbefore us the imminence of Nemesis biding its appointed hour. It is noteasy to suggest how better an insistence upon this lofty _motif_ couldhave been maintained. 

If we now revert to our former statement of the essential elements of asuccessful tragedy we find that each has been included and lifted to ahigh level in Kyd's masterpiece. The catastrophe is not onlyoverwhelming but greatly just. The figure of Hieronimo has set a newstandard in characterization. Scene after scene stamps itself on ourmemory. And the procrastinating evolution of the plot keeps us in fear, in hope, in uncertainty to the last. If this estimate of the greatnessof the play seems exaggerated, we may fairly ask what other tragedy, before its date, combines all four qualities in the same degree ofexcellence. _Doctor Faustus_ and _The Jew of Malta_ contain far morewonderful verse, and the former holds within it grander material fortragedy, but as an example of tragic craftmanship _The Spanish Tragedy_is inferior to neither. It can be shown that both suffer very seriouslyfrom the neglect of one or more of the four essentials which we havenamed. 

It is only fair to the reader to add that entirely opposite views tothose set forth above have been expressed by other writers. Perhaps themost slashing criticism of the play is that by Mr. Courthope. [64]

It remains to illustrate Kyd's verse. In _The Spanish Tragedy_ it stillclings to the occasional use of rhyme, as in _Jeronimo_. Moreover it isbecoming, if anything, more restrained, less spontaneously natural. Theweight of tragedy seems to oppress the poetic inspiration, so that itrarely ventures outside the limits of melancholy dignity or regulatedpassion. Kyd's formalism is, unfortunately for him, magnified by itscontrast with the superb freedom of the interpolated passages. If weresolutely shut our eyes to these patches of fierce irregularity, weshall be better able to criticize the author's own work by the standardof his contemporaries. The uncertainty of priority in time encourages acomparison between Kyd and Marlowe. It is fairly clear that the formerwas not much influenced by the latter, or he would have caught the taintof rant and bombast which infected Greene and Peele. If, then, Kyd'sblank verse is an original development of the verse of _Gorboduc_ andother Senecan plays, and if he is the author of _Jeronimo_--the verse ofwhich, as may have been seen from the quotations offered, is very muchfreer than that of _The Spanish Tragedy_--he must share some of thehonour accorded to Marlowe as the father of dramatic blank verse. Thetwo men are not on the same level as poets. Marlowe's muse soarsrepeatedly to heights which Kyd's can only reach at rare moments. Nevertheless, a comparison of Kyd's better passages with those ofSackville and Hughes will demonstrate how much blank verse might haveowed to his creative spirit had not Marlowe arisen at the same time toeclipse him by his greater genius. Isolated extracts offer a poorcriterion, but the following--to be read in conjunction with thoseselected from _Jeronimo_ and _Soliman and Perseda_--will help the readerto form at least an idea of Kyd's originality and ability:

 (1)

 [ISABELLA _rejects all medicine for her grief. _]

 _Isabella. _ So that you say this herb will purge the eye, And this the head. Ah, but none of them will purge the heart! No, there's no medicine left for my disease, Nor any physic to recure the dead. [_She runs lunatic. _ Horatio! O, where's Horatio?

 _Maid. _ Good madam, affright not thus yourself With outrage for your son Horatio; He sleeps in quiet in the Elysian fields. 

 _Isabella. _ Why, did I not give you gowns and goodly things? Bought you a whistle and a whipstalk[65] too, To be revenged on their villanies?

 _Maid. _ Madam, these humours do torment my soul. 

 _Isabella. _ My soul, poor soul; thou talk'st of things-- Thou know'st not what: my soul hath silver wings, That mount me up unto the highest heavens: To heaven! ay, there sits my Horatio, Back'd with a troop of fiery cherubims, Dancing about his newly-healed wounds, Singing sweet hymns, and chanting heavenly notes, Rare harmony to greet his innocence, That died, ay, died a mirror in our days. But say, where shall I find the men, the murderers, That slew Horatio? Whither shall I run To find them out that murdered my son? [_Exeunt. _

 (2)

 [HIERONIMO, _recovering his mental balance, perceives that_ BAZULTO _is not his son. _]

 Ay, now I know thee, now thou nam'st thy son: Thou art the lively image of my grief; Within thy face my sorrows I may see: Thy eyes are gumm'd with tears, thy cheeks are wan, Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttering lips Murmur sad words abruptly broken off; By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes; And all this sorrow riseth for thy son. And selfsame sorrow feel I for my son. Come in, old man, thou shalt to Isabel; Lean on my arm; I thee, thou me, shalt stay; And thou and I, and she, will sing a song, Three parts in one, but all of discords fram'd. -- Talk not of chords, but let us now be gone, For with a cord Horatio was slain. 

_Soliman and Perseda_ invites little further attention than that whichone scene and one character alone demand. Its sharp descent from thetremendous force of _The Spanish Tragedy_ is, however, slightly redeemedby the poetic warmth of its love passages. Love is the motive of theplot. Apart from that it sins unforgivably against probability, goodtaste, reason, and justice. Its reckless distribution of death is suchthat every one of the fourteen named characters come to a violent end, besides numerous nameless wretches referred to generically as witnessesor executioners. Nor is any attempt made to show just cause for theirdestruction. We could almost deny that the author of the previoustragedy had any hand in this play, did we not know, on the authority ofhis own signature, that the same author thought it worth his labour totranslate _Cornélie_ for the English stage. The fact was that dramatistshad not yet the courage always to place their own artistic inclinationsabove the need of gratifying an unformed public taste, so that the sameman may be found composing plays of widely differing natures for, presumably, different audiences. 

The single character deserving mention is the boastful knight, Basilisco, whose incredible vaunts and invariable preference for thevery freest of blank verse, in a play almost entirely exempt fromeither, read like an intentional burlesque of _Tamburlaine_. If so, andthe suggestion is not ill-founded or improbable, it may be interpretedas an emphatic rejection of the influence of Marlowe and as a claim, onKyd's part, to sole credit for his own form of tragedy and blank verse. 

The only scene of conspicuous merit is that in which the TurkishEmperor, Soliman, attempts to kill his fair captive, Perseda, forrejecting his love, but is overcome by her beauty. It is quite short, but is handled with power and embellished with touches of delicatepoetry. The best of it may be quoted here, together with a specimen ofthe Basilisco burlesque. 

 (1)

 [SOLIMAN'S BASHAW _brings to him the two fairest captives from Rhodes. _]

 _Soliman. _ This present pleaseth more than all the rest; And, were their garments turn'd from black to white, I should have deem'd them Juno's goodly swans, Or Venus' milkwhite doves, so mild they are, And so adorn'd with beauty's miracle. Here, Brusor, this kind turtle shall be thine; Take her, and use her at thy pleasure. But this kind turtle is for Soliman, That her captivity may turn to bliss. Fair looks, resembling Phoebus' radiant beams; Smooth forehead, like the table of high Jove; Small pencill'd eyebrows, like two glorious rainbows; Quick lamplike eyes, like heav'n's two brightest orbs; Lips of pure coral, breathing ambrosy; Cheeks, where the rose and lily are in combat; Neck whiter than the snowy Apennines: A sweeter creature nature never made; Love never tainted Soliman till now. 

 . . . . . . . . . 

 [PERSEDA, _however, will not yield to his amorous proposals. _]

 _Soliman. _ Then kneel thee down, And at my hands receive the stroke of death, Doom'd to thyself by thine own wilfulness. 

 _Perseda. _ Strike, strike; thy words pierce deeper than thy blows. 

 _Soliman. _ Brusor, hide her; for her looks withhold me. 

 [_Then_ BRUSOR _hides her with a veil. _]

 O Brusor, thou hast not hid her lips; For there sits Venus with Cupid on her knee, And all the graces smiling round about her, So craving pardon, that I cannot strike. 

 _Brusor. _ Her face is cover'd over quite, my lord. 

 _Soliman. _ Why, so. O Brusor, seest thou not Her milkwhite neck, that alabaster tower? 'Twill break the edge of my keen scimitar, And pieces, flying back, will wound myself. 

 _Brusor. _ Now she is all covered, my lord. 

 _Soliman. _ Why, now at last she dies. 

 _Perseda. _ O Christ, receive my soul!

 _Soliman. _ Hark, Brusor; she calls on Christ: I will not send her to him. Her words are music, The selfsame music that in ancient days Brought Alexander from war to banqueting, And made him fall from skirmishing to kissing. No, my dear love would not let me kill thee, Though majesty would turn desire to wrath: There lies my sword, humbled at thy feet; And I myself, that govern many kings, Entreat a pardon for my rash misdeed. 

 (2)

 [BASILISCO _is asked to declare his country and past achievements. _]

 _Basilisco_. Sooth to say, the earth is my country, As the air to the fowl or the marine moisture To the red-gill'd fish. I repute myself no coward, For humility shall mount; I keep no table To character my fore passed conflicts. As I remember, there happened a sore drought In some part of Belgia, that the juicy grass Was sear'd with the Sun-God's element. I held it policy to put the men-children Of that climate to the sword, That the mother's tears might relieve the parched earth: The men died, the women wept, and the grass grew; Else had my Friesland horse perished, Whose loss would have more grieved me Than the ruin of that whole country. 

 * * * * *

Christopher Marlowe, the greatest of all the University Wits, has beenreserved to the last because in his work we rise nearest to theexcellence of Shakespearian drama. By the inexhaustible force of hispoetic genius he created literature for all time. We read the plays ofhis contemporaries chiefly for their antiquarian interest; we arepleased to discover in them the first beginnings of many featurespopular in later productions; one or two appeal to us by their ownbeauty or strength, but the majority are remembered only for theirrelationship to greater plays. This is not so with Marlowe's works. Having once been so fortunate as to have had our attention directed tothem, we return again and again for the sheer joy of reading hisglorious outbursts of poetry, of being thrilled with the intensity ofhis greater scenes. 

Marlowe placed upon the stage men who live intensely, terrible men, forthe most part, endued with surpassing power for good or evil. Aroundthem he grouped hostile, enchaining circumstances, which they confrontfearlessly and, for a time perhaps, master, until the hour comes whenthey can no longer conquer. Their lips he touched with a live coal fromthe altar of his muse, so that their words fire the heart with theirflaming zeal or sear it with their despair. In the dramas of Peele welamented the weakness of his characters, his inability to provide adominant central figure for his action; we also saw how something of thesame weakness softened his verse almost to effeminacy. Greene drew theoutline of his characters more strongly. But Marlowe alone possessedthe power, in its fullest degree, of projecting himself into his chiefcharacter, of filling it with his own driving force, his own boundlessimagination, his own consuming passion and profound capacity for gloomyemotion. Each of his first three plays--counting the two parts of_Tamburlaine_ as one play--is wholly given up to the presentment of oneman; his tongue speaks on nearly every page, his purpose is themainspring of almost every action; by mere bulk he fills our mental viewas we read, and by the fervour, the poetry of his language, he burns theimpression of himself upon our memory. It is not by what they do that weremember Marlowe's heroes or villains. Their deeds probably fade intoindistinctness. Few of us quite remember what were Tamburlaine'sconquests, or Faustus's wonder-workings, or Barabas's crimes. But weknow that if we would recall a mighty conqueror our recollections willrevive the image of the Scythian shepherd; if we would picture a souldelivered over to the torments of the lost there will rush back upon usthat terrible outcry of Faustus when the fatal hour is come; if we wouldimagine the feelings of one for whom wealth is the joy, the meaning, thewhole of life, we shall recite one of the speeches of Barabas. 

Marlowe masters us by his poetry, and is lifted by it above his fellows, reaching to the pedestal on which Shakespeare stands alone. It is anastonishing thing to pass from the dramas which occupied our attentionin the previous chapter to one of Marlowe's, and then realize that hiswere written first. Whereas before it was a matter of difficulty to findpassages beautiful enough to quote, it now becomes a problem to selectthe best. It has been said, indeed, that he is too poetical for adramatist, but a very little consideration of the plays of Shakespearewill tell us how much the greatest dramatic productions owe to poetry. When, therefore, we say that Marlowe's greatness as a dramatist dependson his poetry, that outside his poetry his best known work revealsalmost every kind of weakness, we have not denied his claim to be thegreatest of Shakespeare's predecessors. Into indifferent material poetrycan breathe that quickening flame without which the most dramaticsituations fail to satisfy. Marlowe had a supreme gift for creatingmoments, sometimes extended to whole scenes; he had to learn, fromrepeated failures, the art of creating plays. 

Essentially a man of tragic temperament, if we may venture to peerthrough the printed page to the author, Marlowe lacked the sense ofhumour. This has been cast up against him as a serious weakness; but itis possible that just here lies the strength of his contribution todrama. His work in literature was to set a standard in the portrayal ofdeep emotions, and it may have been as well that the first models(_Doctor Faustus_ excepted) should not be weakened by apparentinconsistencies. 

The list of Marlowe's dramas is as follows: The First and Second Partsof _Tamburlaine_ (possibly before 1587), _Doctor Faustus_ (1588), _TheJew of Malta_ (? 1588-90), _The Massacre at Paris_ (about 1590), _Edwardthe Second_ (about 1590), _Dido, Queen of Carthage_ (printed 1549). Fortunately for the reader, he can now obtain a volume containing allthese plays in one of the cheap modern editions of the English classics. There will, therefore, be no attempt here to provide the details ofplots with which every student of drama is doubtless well acquainted. Alimited number of quotations, however, are supplied for the pleasure ofthe reader. 

The First and Second Parts of _Tamburlaine the Great_ may be discussedtogether, although they did not appear together, the second owing itsexistence to the immediate success of the first. Nevertheless there issuch unbroken continuity in their representation of the career of thehero, and their style is so uniform, that it will be more convenient torefer to them conjointly under the one title. Reference has already beenmade to this famous production in the early portion of our discussion ofGreene's work. The reader will recall what was said there of itscontents, its popularity and influence, and of the meaning of the termMarlowesque, an adjective referring more directly to _Tamburlaine_ thanto any other of Marlowe's plays. It is in this play that our ears aredinned almost beyond sufferance by the poet's 'high astounding terms', that the hero most nearly 'with his uplifted forehead strikes the sky':incredible victories are won, the vilest cruelties practised; vastempires are shaken to their foundations, kings are overthrown and newones crowned as easily as the wish is expressed; everywhere pride callsunto pride with the noise of its boastings. There is no plot, unless wegive that name to a succession of battles, pageants and camp scenes. There is not the least attempt at characterization: in their gloriousmoments Bajazeth, the Soldan of Egypt, Orcanes are indistinguishablefrom the Scythian shepherd himself. The popularity of _Tamburlaine_ wasnot won by fine touches, but by spectacular magnificence, by the pompand excitement of war, and by the thrills of responsive pride andboastfulness awakened in the hearers by the convincing magniloquence ofthe speeches. This was possibly the first appearance upon the publicstage of matured drama as opposed to the moralities and interludes. Udall and Still wrote for school and college audiences; Sackville, Edwards, Hughes and their compeers presented their plays at court; sodid Lyly; and it was there that _The Arraignment of Paris_ was acted. But Marlowe, like Kyd, laid his work before a larger, moreunsophisticated audience, unrolling before its astonished gaze the fullsweep of a five act play, crowded with warriors, headlong in its changesof fortune, and irresistible in its 'drum and trumpet' appeal to man'sfighting instincts. From men of humble birth, in that age of adventureand romance, the victorious career of the Scythian shepherd won instantapplause; with him they too seemed to rise; they shared in his glory, exulted with him in the chariot drawn by kings, forgave his savagemassacres, and echoed his vaunts. 

Yet there is something beyond all this, which has a lasting value, andappeals to the modern world as it appealed to Elizabethan England. Through the smoke of 'frantic boast and foolish word' may be discernedthe fiery core of an idealized human grandeur. Breathing theintoxicating air of the Renaissance, Marlowe conceives man equal to hisloftiest ideals, able to climb to the highest point of his thoughts. Choosing imperial conquest as the most striking theme he bids theshepherd aim at a throne, then bears him on the wings of unwaveringresolution straight to his goal. The creation of Tamburlaine is theapotheosis of man on the earth. In such words as these does theconqueror announce his equality with the gods:

 The god of war resigns his room to me, Meaning to make me general of the world: Jove, viewing me in arms, looks pale and wan, Fearing my power should pull him from his throne. 

These are wild words, chosen from a passage of ridiculous bombast. Butthe author, magnificent in his optimism, believed in the thought beneaththe imagery. The same idea in different guises proclaims itself aloudthroughout the play. Sometimes it chooses simple language, sometimes itis clothed in expressions of noble dignity, most often it hurls itselfabroad in foaming rant. But everywhere the message is the same, thatman's power is equal to the achievement of the aspiration planted withinhis breast, and that, to realize himself, he must follow it, withundivided effort, until it is reached. Tamburlaine, contemplating thepossibility of kingship, says, Why, then, Casane, shall we wish for aught The world affords in greatest novelty, And rest attemptless, faint, and destitute? Methinks we should not. 

Two scenes later, in the hour of triumph, he utters these fine lines, which may be accepted as Marlowe's most deliberate statement of hismessage:

 Nature, that framed us of four elements Warring within our breasts for regiment, [66] Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds: Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world, And measure every wandering planet's course, Still climbing after knowledge infinite, And always moving as the restless spheres, Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest, Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, That perfect bliss and sole felicity, The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. 

We have used the extreme superlative, but in reality a point just belowit should have been struck. For the dramatist, sending his imaginationbeyond earth to heaven, reserves one peak unscalable in the ascent ofman towards the summit of his aspirations. 

There is one potentate whom even Tamburlaine cannot overcome--Death. Zenocrate dies, nor will 'cavalieros higher than the clouds', norcannon to 'batter the shining palace of the sun, and shiver all thestarry firmament', restore her. Tamburlaine himself must die, defiantly, it may be, yielding nothing through cowardice, but as certainly as timemust pass and age must come. Techelles seeks to encourage him with thehope that his illness will not last. But he brushes the deception asidewith scorn. 

 Not last, Techelles! no, for I shall die. See where my slave, the ugly monster Death, Shaking and quivering, pale and wan for fear, Stands aiming at me with his murdering dart, Who flies away at every glance I give, And, when I look away, comes stealing on!-- Villain, away, and hie thee to the field! I and mine army come to load thy back With souls of thousand mangled carcasses. -- Look, where he goes! but see, he comes again Because I stay!

When we consider _Doctor Faustus_ we shall see the same thought. Inelecting to follow his desires to the uttermost Faustus reaps the rewardbut also incurs the punishment of all who choose the upper road ofcomplete self-expression. He approaches the last gate, confident thathis strength will suffice to open it; he finds it locked and keyless. Inthat hour of bitter disappointment that which is withheld seems moredesirable than the total of all that has preceded it. 

The dramatic greatness of _Tamburlaine_ lies in the perfect harmony ofthe central figure with the general purpose of the play. Marlowe soughtto present a world conqueror and he creates no less a man. Outwardly theshepherd is formed in a mould of strength and grace; his countenancemight serve as a model for a bust of Achilles. Inwardly his mind is fullof towering ambition, supported by courage and inflexible resolution. Those who meet him are profoundly impressed with a sense of his power. Theridamas murmurs in awe to himself, 'His looks do menace heaven anddare the gods. ' Menaphon reports, 'His lofty brows in folds do figuredeath. ' Cosroe describes him as 'His fortune's master and the king ofmen. ' His own speeches and actions reveal no unsuspected flaw, nounworthy weakness; rather they almost defeat their own purpose by theirexaggeration of his greatness. It would be possible to show by numerousquotations how Marlowe has everywhere selected epithets and imagery ofmagnitude to enhance the impressiveness of his hero in proportion to hisastounding achievements. We will be content with only one more. Itdescribes Tamburlaine's attitude towards those that resist him, and, byits slow, measured intensification of colour to a terrible climax, forces home resistlessly the suggestion of invincible power andrelentlessness. 

 The first day when he pitcheth down his tents, White is their hue, and on his silver crest A snowy feather spangled-white he bears, To signify the mildness of his mind, That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood: But, when Aurora mounts the second time, As red as scarlet is his furniture; Then must his kindled wrath be quenched with blood, Not sparing any that can manage arms: But, if these threats move not submission, Black are his colours, black pavilion; His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes And jetty feathers menace death and hell; Without respect of sex, degree or age, He razeth all his foes with fire and sword. 

Much has been said of Marlowe's poetry. His originality in the use ofblank verse has probably been over-estimated. Quite good blank verse hadbeen used in drama some years before his plays were written. _Gorboduc_, the 1572 version of _Tancred and Gismunda_, and at least twolong speeches in _The Arraignment of Paris_ arise in one's mind ascontaining very creditable examples of it. Moreover it would be wrong tosuppose that this earlier blank verse was always stilted and cut up intoend-stopt lines and unrhymed couplets. True, the overflow of one lineinto another was not common, but neither is it so in _Tamburlaine_. Marlowe accepts the end-stopt line almost as naturally as did hispredecessors. Overflow may be found in _Gorboduc_. The following passagefrom _Tancred and Gismunda_ is worth quoting to show how far liberty inthis respect had been recognized by 1572. 

 [TANCRED _protests against any second marriage of his young widowed daughter_, GISMUNDA. ]

 Sister, I say, ... Forbear, and wade no farther in this speech. Your words are wounds. I very well perceive The purpose of this smooth oration: This I suspected, when you first began This fair discourse with us. Is this the end Of all our hopes, that we have promised Unto ourself by this her widowhood? Would our dear daughter, would our only joy, Would she forsake us? would she leave us now, Before she hath clos'd up our dying eyes, And with her tears bewail'd our funeral? No other solace doth her father crave But, whilst the fates maintain his dying life, Her healthful presence gladsome to his soul, Which rather than he willing would forego, His heart desires the bitter taste of death. 

If the reader will refer to the extract from Diana's speech he will seehow completely free Peele was from any inherited bondage of the coupletmeasure. It is not easy to define exactly what Marlowe did give to blankverse. His famous Prologue to the First Part of _Tamburlaine_ makes itquite clear that the general public were indebted to him for theintroduction of blank verse upon their unpolished stage, it havingpreviously been heard only at court or at the universities. But whilethis attempt on his part to displace the 'jigging veins of rhymingmother-wits' by the mere roll and crash of his 'high astounding terms'was a courageous step, it cannot be counted for originality in thedevelopment of the verse itself. Two features of his verse, however, areoriginal and of his own creation. The first, its conversational ease andfreedom, will be found more perfectly developed in _Doctor Faustus_ andthe later tragedies. Tamburlaine and the other mighty kings, emperorsand captains have little skill in converse; when they speak they orate. This is true of the speeches in the earlier plays. Peele's are longmonologues, and when Sackville's or Wilmot's characters discourse it isin the fashion of a set debate. Faustus and Mephistophilis, on the otherhand, meet in real conversation, and it is in their question and answerthat the flexibility and naturalness of blank verse are shown toadvantage for the first time by Marlowe. The second feature is theinfusion of pure poetry into drama. Hitherto the opinion seems to haveheld that dramatic verse must keep as close to prose as possible inorder to combine the grace of rhythm with the solid commonsense ofordinary human speech. Nothing illustrates this more remarkably than acomparison of Sackville's poetry in his Induction to the _Mirror forMagistrates_ with his verse in _Gorboduc_. We have remarked before onthe tendency of all Senecan dramas to sententiousness and argument, thanwhich nothing could be less poetical. The poetry of _The Arraignment ofParis_, again, is more lyrical than dramatic, harmonizing with thegeneral approximation of that play to the nature of a masque. Marlowewas the first to demonstrate that imagination could riot madly in awealth of imagery, or soar far above the realms of logic and coldphilosophy to summon beautiful and terrible pictures out of thecloud-land of fancy, without losing hold upon earth and the language ofmortals. He knew that the unspoken language of the impassioned heart ischarged with poetry, however the formality of utterance, the fear ofderision and the unreadiness of our vocabulary may freeze its expressionon our lips; and he trusted to the hearts of his hearers to understandand appreciate the intense humanness of the feelings that forcedthemselves to the surface in that form. Nor was he mistaken. His'raptures' are more truly natural, more sympathetic and truthfulexpressions of human emotion than the most stately and reasonabledeclamations of those earlier writers who clung to what they believed tobe natural. Often quoted as it has been, Drayton's eulogy of Marlowe maybe quoted again--it merits a place in every discussion of Marlowe'sverse--as the finest appreciation of his poetry. 

 Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had; his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear; For that fine madness still he did retain, Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. 

 (_An Elegy: Of Poets and Poesie. _)

From _Tamburlaine_ one could extract passages to illustrate Marlowe'sfondness for classical allusions, his use--Miltonic, if we mayanticipate the term--of the sonorous effect of names, his introductionof sustained similes, his trick of repeating a sound at intervals (atrick borrowed by Greene later), his habit of letting a speaker refer tohimself in the third person (Tamburlaine loves to boast the greatness ofTamburlaine), and his occasional slovenliness, especially in theinsertion of a few lines of prose into the midst of his verse. All theseand others are minor features which the student will search out forhimself. Some of them, however, may be detected in the following excerptfrom the Second Part:

 [TAMBURLAINE _is in his chariot drawn by captive kings. _ TECHELLES _has just urged that the armies should hasten to the siege of Babylon. _]

 _Tamburlaine. _ We will, Techelles. --Forward, then, ye jades! Now crouch, ye kings of greatest Asia, And tremble, when ye hear this scourge will come That whips down cities and controlleth crowns, Adding their wealth and treasure to my store. The Euxine sea, north to Natolia; The Terrene, west; the Caspian, north north-east; And on the south, Sinus Arabicus; Shall all be loaden with the martial spoils We will convey with us to Persia. Then shall my native city, Samarcanda, And crystal waves of fresh Jaertis' stream, The pride and beauty of her princely seat, Be famous through the furthest continents; For there my palace royal shall be placed, Whose shining turrets shall dismay the heavens, And cast the fame of Ilion's tower to hell: Thorough the streets, with troops of conquered kings, I'll ride in golden armour like the sun; And in my helm a triple plume shall spring, Spangled with diamonds, dancing in the air, To note me emperor of the three-fold world; Like to an almond tree y-mounted high Upon the lofty and celestial mount Of ever-green Selinus, quaintly decked With blooms more white than Erycina's brows, Whose tender blossoms tremble every one At every little breath that thorough heaven is blown. Then in my coach, like Saturn's royal son Mounted his shining chariot gilt with fire And drawn with princely eagles through the path Paved with bright crystal and enchased with stars, When all the gods stand gazing at his pomp, So will I ride through Samarcanda-streets, Until my soul, dissevered from this flesh, Shall mount the milk-white way and meet him there. To Babylon, my lords, to Babylon!

_The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus_ sets forth the well-known storyof the man who sold his soul to the devil in return for completegratification of his desires during his life on earth. Something of itsfame is due to its association, through its main plot, with Goethe'smasterpiece; something may be attributed to the fascination of itstheme; something must be granted to the terrible force of one or twoscenes. It is hard to believe that its own artistic and dramaticqualities could have secured unaided the reputation which it appears topossess among some critics. More even than _Tamburlaine_, this playhangs upon one central figure. There is no Bajazeth, no Soldan, noOrcanes, no Zenocrate to help to bear the weight of impressiveness. Thelow characters, who are intended to be humorous, drag the plot downinstead of buoying it up. Other figures are hardly more than dummies, unable to excite the smallest interest. Mephistophilis deserves ournotice, but his is a shadowy outline removed from humanity. One figurealone stands forth to hold and justify our attention; and he proveshimself unfit for the task. Those who insist on tracing one guidingprinciple in all Marlowe's plays have declared that Faustus is thepersonification of 'thirst for knowledge' or of 'intellectual _virtù_', just as Tamburlaine personifies, for them, the 'thirst for power' or'physical _virtù_'. Surely, if this is so, Marlowe has failed absolutelyin his presentment of the character; in which case the play may becondemned out of hand, seeing that the character of Faustus is its allin all. But the more we study Marlowe's other principal figures, themore convinced we become of his absorption in them while they are in themaking. With Tamburlaine he himself grows terrible and glorious; thespirit of pride and conquest colours every phrase, speech anddescription, so that, as we have pointed out, the character ofTamburlaine is masterfully consistent and attuned to the purpose of theplay. It is better, then, to examine the character of Faustus, asrevealed in his desires, requests, and prominent actions, and thenceeduce the purpose of the play, than, by deciding upon this purpose, todiscover that the central figure is in continual discord with it. 

Faustus is introduced to us by the Chorus at the commencement of theplay as a scholar of repute, 'glutted now with learning's golden gifts, 'and about to turn aside to the study of necromancy. Accordingly heappears in his study rejecting logic as no end in itself, law asservile, medicine because he has exhausted its possible limits, divinitybecause it tells him that the reward of sin is death. Upon sin his mindis set all the time, so that the reminder from Jerome's Bible annoyshim. He flings the book aside because it warns him of what he affects todisbelieve and would be glad to forget. Magic wins him by its unknownpossibilities 'of profit and delight, of power, of honour, andomnipotence'. 

Lest we should suppose that his choice has anything heroic in it, thathe is deliberately accepting a terrible debt of eternal torment inexchange for what necromancy can give, we are informed that he has nobelief in hell or future pain, that to him men's souls are trifles. Deepdown in his conscience he has a fear of 'damnation', which only makesitself felt, however, in unexalted moments. Such thoughts are set asideas 'mere old wives' tales' in the triumphant hour of his signing thecontract. 

With curiosity and longing, then, he enters unshudderingly into abargain that will give him what he seeks. We can readily discover, fromhis own lips, what that is. He exults over the prospect of havingspirits to do his bidding:

 I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates; I'll have them read me strange philosophy, And tell the secrets of all foreign kings. 

Many other things his fancy pictures. But we observe that philosophystands below wealth and feasting in his wishes. He dismissesMephistophilis back to Lucifer with this report of himself:

 Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four and twenty years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness. 

For a moment his enthusiastic outlook upon limitless capacity wakens inhim a desire for military glory: he would be 'great emperor of theworld', he would 'pass the ocean with a band of men'. But from what weknow of his subsequent career he never attempted to win such renown. No;in his heart he confesses, The god thou servest is thine own appetite. 

Mephistophilis, with a profound and melancholy insight into the realityof things, sees hell in every place where heaven is not. Faustus, on theother hand, with flippant superficiality laughs at the idea. Anintellectual, a moral hell is to him incomprehensible. 

 Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damned: What! sleeping, eating, walking, and disputing! But, leaving this, let me have a wife, The fairest maid in Germany; For I am wanton and lascivious, And cannot live without a wife. 

Sometimes conscience forces him to listen to its fearful whispers, andthen suicide offers its dreadful means as a silencer of their disturbingwarnings. Why does he not accept the relief of rope or dagger?

 --Long ere this I should have done the deed, Had not sweet pleasure conquered deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death? And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis? Why should I die, then, or basely despair? I am resolved; Faustus shall not repent. 

The mood of fear and regret passes. He plunges back to the gratificationof his senses. 

 Whilst I am here on earth let me be cloyed With all things that delight the heart of man: My four-and-twenty years of liberty I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance. 

The end is drawing near. Appetite is becoming sated: rarer and rarerdelicacies are needed to satisfy his craving. Repentance!--that isthrust aside, postponed to a later hour. 

 One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, To glut the longing of my heart's desire-- That I may have unto my paramour That heavenly Helen which I saw of late, Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow. 

When at last the hour to fulfil his part of the contract arrives, heconfesses in bitterness of spirit, 'for the vain pleasure offour-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. '

This man is not one consumed with a thirst of knowledge. Once he asksMephistophilis a few questions on astrology; at another time he evincessome curiosity concerning Lucifer and Hell, idle curiosity because heregards it all as foolishness. We are _told_ of a journey through theheavens and of voyages about the world, but we _see_ him exercisinghis supernatural gifts in the most puerile and useless fashion. It is impossible, therefore, to regard his ambition as a lust forknowledge in the usual meaning of that term, differentiating it fromsensual experience. If Faustus is to be labelled according to hisdominant trait, then let us describe him as the embodiment ofsense-gratification. He is a sensualist from the moment that he takes upthe book of magic and ponders over what it may bring him. A degradedform of him has been sketched in the Syriac scholar of a modern work offiction, who cherished, side by side with a world-wide reputationfor learning, a bestial appetite for profligacy. The message of_Tamburlaine_ holds as true in the pursuit of pleasure as in that ofconquest. Faustus denies that there is a limit to pleasure, and thehorror of his career grows darker as his mounting desires bear himfurther and further on, far beyond the reach of less eager minds, tothe impassable point whence he may only see the heaven beyond. Thatpoint is the hell which once he laughed at as an old wives' tale. 

The weakness of _Doctor Faustus_ appears exactly where _Tamburlaine_ isstrongest. In spite of his prodigious boasting and his callousindifference to suffering, Tamburlaine appeals to us most powerfully asthe right titanic figure for a world-conqueror; his soul is ever abovehis body, looking beyond the victory of to-day to the greater conquestsof the future: there is nothing sordid or commonplace about him. Unfortunately, though it is given to few of us to be conquerors, it ispossible for all of us to gratify our senses if we will. Tamburlainegathers golden fruit, Faustus plucks berries from the same bush asourselves: only, he must have them from the topmost boughs. Thefollowing passage has probably never been surpassed in its magicidealization of that which is essentially base and carnal:

 [_Enter_ HELEN, _passing over the stage between two_ CUPIDS. ]

 _Faustus. _ Was this the face that launched a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. --[_Kisses her. _] Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sacked; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appeared to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azured arms; And none but thou shalt be my paramour!

Poetry such as this has power to blind us for a moment to the underlyingmeaning: Faustus enjoys a temporary transfiguration. But Marlowe's museflags in the effort to sublimate dross. Such a character as Faustus isunfitted to support tragedy. His creator inspires him with his ownBohemian joy in mere pleasure, his own thirst for fresh sensations, hisown vehement disregard of restraint--a disregard which brought Marloweto a tragic and unworthy end. But, as if in mockery, he degrades himwith unmanly, ignoble qualities that excite our derision. His mind ispleased with toys that would amuse a child: at the conclusion of analmost incredibly trivial Show of the Seven Deadly Sins he exclaims, 'O, how this sight doth delight my soul!' His practical jokes are unworthyof a court jester. The congealing of his blood agitates hissuperstitious mind far more than the terrible frankness ofMephistophilis. Miserably mean-spirited, he seeks to propitiate thewrath of the fiend by invoking his torments upon an old man whosedisinterested appeal momentarily quickened his conscience into revolt. Finally, when we recall the words with which Tamburlaine faced death, what contempt, despite the frightful anguish of the scene, is aroused byFaustus's screams of terror at the approach of Lucifer to claim him ashis own! Instinctively we think of Byron's Manfred and his scorn of helland its furies. It is his cowardice that spoils the effect of thebackward glances and twinges of conscience, the intention of which hasbeen rightly praised by so many. Marlowe probably wished to representthe strife of good and evil in a man's soul. Under other circumstancesit is fair to suppose that he would have achieved success, and so haveanticipated Goethe. But his Faustus moves on too low a level. Of a moralsense, independent of the dread of punishment, he knows nothing. Fourtimes his Good Angel suggests to him a return to the right path; once anOld Man warns him; twice Mephistophilis says that which might fairlyhave bid him pause; twice, at least, his own conscience advisesrepentance. Yet only on two occasions is there any real revolt, and thenonly because his cowardice has been enlisted on the side ofrighteousness by the sudden thought of the devils that will tear him inpieces or of the hell that 'claims his right, and with a roaring voicesays, "Faustus, come". ' In proof of this we see his hesitation scaredaway by the greater terrors of a present devil, a Lucifer clothed inhorror, or a threatening Mephistophilis. In his vacillations we see, notthe noble conflict of good and evil impulses, but an ignoble tug-of-warbetween timidity and appetite. 

If Faustus himself falls short of success as a tragic character, if hisaspirations are too mean, his qualities too contemptible to win oursympathy save at rare moments of transcendent poetry, what shall be saidof the setting provided for the story of his career? Once more we areoffered the stale devices of the Moralities, the Good and Bad Angels, the Devil, the Old Man (formerly known as Sage Counsel), the SevenDeadly Sins, Heaven, Hell, and the carefully-pointed moral at the end. Even the Senecan Chorus has been forced into service to tell us ofFaustus's early manhood and of the marvellous journeys taken in theintervals. There are no acts, but that is not a great matter; they wereadded later in the edition of 1616. What does matter very much is theintroduction of stupid scenes of low comedy into which Faustus isdragged to play a common conjuror's part and which almost succeed inshattering the impression of tragic intensity left by the few sceneswhere poetry triumphs over facts. Here again, however, our criticism ofthe author is softened by the knowledge that Dekker and Rowley madeundefined additions to the play, and may therefore be responsible forthe crudities of its humour. Nevertheless, even with this allowance, Marlowe must be blamed for the utter incongruity of so many scenes withhigh tragedy. The harmony which rules the construction of _Tamburlaine_, giving it a lofty coherence and consistency, is lamentably absent from_Doctor Faustus_. 

_Doctor Faustus_ is not a great play. Yet it will never be forgotten. Though mismanaged, it has the elements of a tremendous tragedy. Indiscerning the suitability of the Teutonic legend for this purposeMarlowe showed a far truer understanding of what tragedy should be, ofthe superior terrors of moral over material downfall, than he displayedin his more successful later tragedy. 

Most of the poetry is of a less fiery kind, it flares less, than thepoetry of _Tamburlaine_. There is also more use of prose. But at leasttwo purple passages exist to give immortality to Faustus's passion anddespair. The first has already been quoted at length. The second is theeven more famous soliloquy, the terror-stricken outcry rather, ofFaustus in his last hour of life. With frightful realism it confirms thefiend's scornful prophecy of a scene of 'desperate lunacy', when hislabouring brain will beget 'a world of idle fantasies to overreach thedevil, but all in vain'. 

Marlowe's adaptation of blank verse to natural conversation has beenspoken of as one of his contributions to the art of dramatic poetry. The following passage illustrates this:

 [_The compact has just been signed. _]

 _Meph. _ Speak, Faustus; do you deliver this as your deed?

 _Faustus. _ Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it!

 _Meph. _ So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt. 

 _Faustus. _ First I will question with thee about hell. Tell me, where is the place that men call hell?

 _Meph. _ Under the heavens. 

 _Faustus. _ Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts?

 _Meph. _ Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortured and remain for ever. Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self-place; but where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be: And, to be short, when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven. 

 _Faustus. _ I think hell's a fable. 

 _Meph. _ Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind. 

 _Faustus. _ Why, dost thou think that Faustus shall be damned?

 _Meph. _ Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer. 

 _Faustus. _ Ay, and body too; and what of that? Thinkest thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? No, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. 

 _Meph. _ But I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I tell thee I am damned and now in hell. 

 _Faustus. _ Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damned. 

_The Jew of Malta_ repeats the fundamental failure of _Doctor Faustus_, but partially redeems it by avoiding its errors of construction. In thisplay the dramatist has recovered his sense of harmony: he places hiscentral figure in circumstances that befit him, and maintains aconsistent balance between the strength of his character and the natureof his deeds. The Jew does nothing that really jars on our conception ofhim as a great villain. Nor in the minor scenes is there anything todisturb the general impression of darkness. The gentleness of Abigail, whose love and obedience alone draw her into the net of crime, onlymakes her surroundings appear more cruel; while the introduction of theGovernor, the Grand Seignior's son, and a Vice-Admiral of Spain raisesthe level of wickedness to something like dignified rank. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the play is fundamentally unsound. True tragedyshould present more than a great change between the first and lastscenes; the change should be lamentable. We should feel that a muchbetter ending might, and would, have come but for the circumstance thatforms the crisis, or for other circumstances at the beginning of theplay. If we consider such tragic careers as those of Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello we recognize that each might have come to adifferent conclusion if it had not been for the blight of a father'sdeath or a single act of folly, of ambition or jealousy. These men allexcite our sympathy, especially Hamlet, whose tragedy is due not at allto himself but to the overshadowing of another's crime. Macbeth andOthello are each introduced as men of the noblest qualities, with oneflaw which events have not yet revealed. But Barabas the Jew isdeliberately painted as vile. We learn from his own lips of previousvillany atrocious enough in itself, without any of his subsequentcrimes, to justify his horrible fate. Moreover, he does not actuallylose his wealth. If that were all swept away we could understandresentment boiling up into savage hate. But the truth is, he is solittle hurt financially that soon after the confiscation of his goodshe is able to say:

 In spite of these swine-eating Christians ... Am I become as wealthy as I was. They hoped my daughter would ha' been a nun; But she's at home, and I have bought a house As great and fair as is the governor's. 

Hence his action against the governor's son, Lodowick, is inexcusablyvindictive, quite apart from the vile share in it which he forces uponhis daughter. The nunnery crime, again, is monstrous in its grossinjustice to Abigail's constancy and in its Herodian comprehensiveness. After this his other murders and intrigues seem more justified. The twofriars, his servant Ithamore and the rest can well be spared by anyexit; his betrayal of the town is not unreasonable, considering thetreatment meted out to him within it; and his proposed second treacheryis based on sound policy. --We may observe, in passing, that theself-righteous governor takes no steps to prevent, by a timely warning, the massacre of the enemy's soldiers, availing himself of the atrocity, instead, to secure a victory for his side. --Consequently, when the finaldoom does fall upon Barabas, we have begun to be vaguely doubtfulwhether it is altogether deserved. Yet we feel that it is impossible tolet him live. Thus the conclusion, however horrible spectacularly, neither excites pity for the Jew nor entirely satisfies justice. Barabasis victimized by the governor at the beginning of the play; it seemshardly fair that the two men should occupy the same relative positionsat the end. It may be urged that the early scenes do present Barabas asmeriting our pity, that our compassion does go out to him in hisoppression. But the sympathy that is won at first is falsely won by theprominence given to his distress when he _fears_ all is lost: touchedby the pain caused by the governor's injustice, we almost overlook therecovery effected by the Jew's cunning. 

If we look for passages of tragic intensity we find a splendid hopeweakening to dreary disappointment. The whole of the first act and theopening scene of the second act ring true to tragedy. Nothing could bebetter planned than the swift transition from the golden harvesting ofwealth to its confiscation by the state. The contrast, too, between thedignified resistance of Barabas and the weak surrender of his companionsartistically emphasizes the former's splendid isolation. For the briefscene in which the Jew, haunting the vicinity of the nunnery like'ghosts that glide by night about the place where treasure hath beenhid', regains his bags of gold and precious jewels, no praise can be toohigh. After that, however, the ennobling mantle of human sorrow and painfalls away; the crimes that follow are hideous in theirnakedness--murders or massacres, nothing more. Not the least attempt ismade to enlist our sympathy for any one of the murdered, except Abigail. If we are asked, then, to define the true nature of the play, we shallcall it not a tragedy proper, in the sense in which _Macbeth_ is atragedy, but rather a narrative play presenting the criminal career of avillain acting under provocation. As has been well pointed out by Mr. Baker in his _Development of Shakespeare_, there is a difference between'the tragic' and 'tragedy'. We might describe _The Jew of Malta_ as atragic narrative play. 

In characterization Marlowe has made a distinct advance. With thecreation of Barabas he brings upon the stage a person of many commandingqualities. The Jew is great in his own terrible way. He is far-seeing, bold, subtle, relentless. He loves his daughter much, his goldimmeasurably. Tempests of emotion shake his frame when restraint isthrown aside. But at need he can be calm and conciliatory in the face ofintense annoyance and blustering threats. In the hour of death he is ownbrother to defiant Tamburlaine. The points of resemblance between himand Shylock may be searched out by any curious student: the reality ofthe likeness, scoffed at by a few whose admiration for Shakespeare isinclined to prejudice their judgment, has been effectively demonstratedby Professor Ward. [67] It would be an interesting exercise to pursueProfessor Ward's hint at the insincerity of the Jew's recital toIthamore of his early crimes. We might work back to an initialconception of Barabas as an upright merchant, and so discover a realtragedy in the moral downfall which results from the governor'sinjustice. Such a point of view is attractive, and would raise thecharacter of the play considerably. But it has many obstacles in itsway, not the least being the Machiavellian prologue and the difficultyof believing that any dramatist of the sixteenth century would wish, ordare, to present to an English audience the picture of an honest, ill-treated Jew. The confiscation which we regard as an injustice wasprobably viewed in that day as an eminently sound and Christian act ofpolitical economy. 

Leaving Abigail and Ithamore to the liking or loathing of readers of theplay, we hasten to conclude this discussion with examples of Marlowe'sverse. His poetry is once more the refining element, beautifying theugly, ennobling the mean, a vein of gold in the quartz. Having grownmore generous since the days of _Doctor Faustus_, the poet scatters gemswith lavish hand throughout the play. Rhymes begin to appear, as thoughhe scorned to seem dependent upon blank verse alone. Extensive as isthe choice, it is impossible, in fairness to those readers who have notthe play, to omit entirely the often-quoted opening scene of the secondact. After it, however, we quote a passage which, almost more than theother, illustrates the purifying influence of the author's imagination:the fact that it is partly in rhyme gives it an additional interest. 

 (1)

 [BARABAS _wanders in the streets about his old home where his treasure lies concealed. _]

 _Barabas. _ Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians. The incertain pleasures of swift-footed time Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair; And of my former riches rests no more But bare remembrance; like a soldier's scar, That has no further comfort for his maim.... Now I remember those old women's words, Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure hath been hid: And now methinks that I am one of those; For, whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. 

 (2)

 [BELLAMIRA, _a courtesan, and_ ITHAMORE, _a cut-throat slave from Thrace, are together. _]

 _Bell. _ Now, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap. -- Where are my maids? provide a cunning banquet; Send to the merchant, bid him bring me silks; Shall Ithamore, my love, go in such rags?

 _Ithamore. _ And bid the jeweller come hither too. 

 _Bell. _ I have no husband; sweet, I'll marry thee. 

 _Ithamore. _ Content: but we will leave this paltry land, And sail from hence to Greece, to lovely Greece;-- I'll be thy Jason, thou my golden fleece;-- Where painted carpets o'er the meads are hurled, And Bacchus' vineyards overspread the world; Where woods and forests go in goodly green;-- I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen;-- The meads, the orchards, and the primrose-lanes, Instead of sedge and reed, bear sugar-canes: Thou in those groves, by Dis above, Shalt live with me and be my love. 

 _Bell. _ Whither will I not go with gentle Ithamore?

_The Massacre at Paris_ is a poor play and therefore need not detain uslong. Its only interest is in its attempt to represent quite recentevents (1572-89). As a history play it manages to reproduce the Frenchatmosphere of distrust, rivalry, intrigue and indiscriminate massacre, but at the expense of unity. The hurried succession of scenes leads usblindly to an unexpected conclusion: from first almost to last noindication is given that the consummation aimed at is the ascent ofNavarre to the throne of France. Rarely has the merely chronologicalprinciple been adhered to with so little meaning. Navarre, whosemarriage opens the play and whose triumph closes it, might be expectedto figure largely as the upholder of Protestantism in opposition toGuise; instead he is relegated to quite a subordinate part. Anjou, again, the later opponent of Guise, makes a very belated bid for ourfavour after displaying a brutality equal to his rival's in themassacre. The author is careful to paint Catherine in truly inkyblackness. But the only character which we are likely to remember is theDuke of Guise. Yet his portrait is of inferior workmanship. The murdersby which he tries to reach the throne are too treacherous to be rankedin the grander scale of crime. Even the vastness of his organizedmassacre is belittled for us by the stage presentment of individualassassination in which Guise himself plays a butcher's part. Greatnessis more often attributed to outward aloofness and inactivity than tobusy participation in the execution of a plot. Moreover, it was atactical error to give prominence to the personal quarrel between Guiseand Mugeroun, for it dissipates upon a private matter the force which, devoted to an exalted ambition, might have been impressive. However, there are one or two touches which give a cold grandeur to thischaracter and seem half to anticipate the Mortimer of the next play. Thefollowing lines are taken from the second scene of the first act--thereare only three acts altogether:

 _Guise. _ Now Guise begins those deep-engendered thoughts To burst abroad, those never-dying flames Which cannot be extinguished but by blood. Oft have I levelled, and at last have learned That peril is the chiefest way to happiness, And resolution honour's fairest aim. What glory is there in a common good, That hangs for every peasant to achieve? That like I best, that flies beyond my reach. Set me to scale the high Pyramides, And thereon set the diadem of France; I'll either rend it with my nails to naught, Or mount the top with my aspiring wings, Although my downfall be the deepest hell.... Give me a look, that, when I bend the brows, Pale death may walk in furrows of my face; A hand that with a grasp may gripe the world; An ear to hear what my detractors say; A royal seat, a sceptre, and a crown; That those which do behold them may become As men that stand and gaze against the sun. 

_Edward the Second_ is undoubtedly Marlowe's masterpiece. It marks theelevation of the Chronicle History Play to its highest possibilities, and is, at the same time, a deeply moving tragedy. One wonders how Peelecould write the medley of incongruous and ill-connected scenes which weknow under the abbreviated title of _Edward the First_ after having onceseen his rival's 'history' acted. For the strength of Marlowe's playlies in its concentration upon the figure of the king and its skilfulomission of details not dramatically helpful. If there were any balanceof advantage in the choice of subject one must feel that it did not liewith the earlier writer, who was undertaking the extremely difficulttask of presenting an inglorious monarch sympathetically withoutallowing him to appear contemptible. We can imagine how magnificently hecould have set forth the masterful career of Edward I. His courage inattempting a character less congenial to his natural temperamentdeserved the success it achieved. The Tamburlaine element is notwithheld; the fierce baron, young Mortimer, inherits that conqueror'sambitious nature, and fully maintains the great traditions of strength, pride and defiance. But Mortimer is only the second figure in order ofimportance. Upon the king Marlowe pours all the fruits of his experiencein dramatic work. 

From the historical point of view the dramatist is signally successfulin making the men of the past live over again. His weak monarch is moreintensely human than any mightier, more kingly ruler would probably havebeen in his hands. And the barons, in their haughtiness and easyaptitude for revolt, are, to the life, the fierce men whose grandfathersand fathers in turn fought against their sovereigns and whosedescendants fell in the fratricidal Wars of the Roses. Moreover thechronicle of the reign is followed with reasonable accuracy, if we makedue allowance for dramatic requirements. It can hardly be said that theauthor's representation of Edward is impartial: a kindly veil is drawnover the lawlessness of his government and the disgrace brought uponEnglish arms by his military incapacity. But the political intrigue, thefriction between monarch and subjects, the helplessness of the king toenforce his wishes, are all brought back vividly. 

However, it is Marlowe's adaptation of a historical subject to a loftierpurpose than the mere renewal of the past which gives real greatness tothe play. Here at last his work attains to the full stature and nobleharmony of a tragedy, not on the highest level, it is true, butdignified and moving. The catastrophe is physical, not moral, and thusthe play lacks the awful horror half-revealed in _Doctor Faustus_. Butwhereas the latter, reaching after the greatest things, falls short ofsuccess, _Edward the Second_, content with less, easily secures a firstplace in the second rank. 

By a neat device we are introduced, at the outset, to the king, hisfavourite, and the fatal choice from which springs all the misery of thereign. For the opening lines, spoken by Gaveston himself, are no lessthan the royal message bidding him return to 'share the kingdom' withhis friend. From that point the first portion of the play easilyunfolds: it deals with the strife, the brief triumphs and the bitterdefeats which fill the eventful period of this ill-starred friendship. The actual crisis falls within the third act: it is marked by the murderof Gaveston and the resolution of the king at last to offer armedresistance to the tyranny of the barons. The oath by which he seals hisdecision is royally impressive. 

 [_Kneeling_] By earth, the common mother of us all, By heaven, and all the moving orbs thereof, By this right hand, and by my father's sword, And all the honours 'longing to my crown, I will have heads and lives for him as many As I have manors, castles, towns and towers!

From that oath is born the catastrophe that immediately ensues. Atemporary victory, followed up by revengeful executions, is succeeded bydefeat, captivity, loss of the crown, and a fearful death. 

King Edward is not portrayed as weak mentally or morally. Gaveston, inthe first scene, speaks of his master's effeminacy, and on more than oneoccasion there are hints from the royal favourites that the king shouldassert his majesty more vigorously. But over and over again Edwardbreaks out into anger at the insolence of his subjects and only fails tocrush them through the impossibility of exacting obedience from thoseabout him. In Act I, Scene 4, it is Mortimer's order for the seizure ofGaveston that is obeyed, not the king's command for Mortimer's arrest. When the warrant for his minion's exile is submitted to him, the kingrefuses point blank, in the face of threatening insistence. 'I will notyield', he cries; 'curse me, depose me, do the worst you can. ' He onlygives way at last before a threat of papal excommunication, the crushingpower of which had been made abundantly clear by its effect on King Johnjust a century before. Indeed we need not go further than the firstscene to find that Marlowe is resolved to put the right spirit ofwilfulness and angry determination in his fated monarch. There we findthis speech by him:

 Well, Mortimer, I'll make thee rue these words; Beseems it thee to contradict thy king? Frownest thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster? This sword shall plane the furrows of thy brows, And hew these knees that now are grown so stiff. I will have Gaveston; and you shall know What danger 'tis to stand against your king. 

And again, when the barons have withdrawn, he bursts out--

 I cannot brook these haughty menaces; Am I a king, and must be over-ruled!-- Brother, display my ensigns in the field: I'll bandy with the barons and the earls, And either die or live with Gaveston. 

Nor is this pride of sovereignty lost even in defeat. We see it still asstrong, though forced by circumstances and coaxed to give way, in thepathetic scene where he is compelled to surrender his crown toMortimer's delegate. Nevertheless the weakness that brings and justifieshis downfall is placed prominently before us from the first. King Edwardprefers his own pleasure before the unity of his kingdom and thestrength of his rule. There is even something a little ignoble in hislove for Gaveston, something unmanly and contemptible, if the reports ofsuch prejudiced persons as the queen and Mortimer are to be believed. But the fault is not a criminal or unnatural one. One can sympathizewith a heart that yearns for the presence of a single friend in a worldof cold-blooded critics or harsh counsellors. The not unattractivecharacter of Gaveston, too, affectionate, gay, proud, quick-tempered, brave--with faults also, of deceit, vanity and vindictiveness--preservesthe royal friendship from the sink of blind dotage upon an unworthycreature. The tragedy follows, then, from the king's preferment ofprivate above public good, or, we may say, from the conflict between theking's wishes as a man and his duty as a monarch. It is to Marlowe'sperception of this vital struggle underlying the hostility between KingEdward and his nobles that the play owes its greatness. We pity theking, we can hate those who beat him down to the mire, because his faultappeals to us in its personal aspect as almost a virtue; he is willingto sacrifice so much to keep his friends. At the same time we perceivethe justice of his dethronement, for we recognize that the duty of aking must take precedence over everything else. He has brought hispunishment upon himself. Yet, inasmuch as Mortimer, serviceable to thestate as an instrument, offends our sense of what is due from a subjectto his sovereign, we applaud the justice of his downfall; we, perhaps, secretly rejoice that this bullying young baron is humbled beneath aking's displeasure at last. As a final touch Marlowe rescues thesovereignty of the throne from the taint of weakness by the littleprince's vigorous assertion of his authority at the end. 

Queen Isabella presents certain difficulties. The king's treatment ofher reflects little credit upon him, although one can hardly demand thesame affection in a political as in a voluntary union. Apparently shereally loves the king until his continued coldness chills her feelingsand drives them to seek return in the more responsive heart of Mortimer. After that she even sinks so low as to wish the king dead. Yet to theend she cherishes a warm love for her son. Probably the author intendedthat her degeneracy should be attributed to the baneful influence ofMortimer and so strengthen the need for his death. 

Mortimer, as the great antagonist, has a very strong character. Imperious, fiery, he is the real leader of the barons. From the first itis apparent that he is actuated by personal malice as much as byrighteous indignation on behalf of his misgoverned country. He confidesto his uncle that it is Gaveston's and the king's mocking jests at theplainness of his train and attire which make him impatient. But theunwisdom of the king serves him for a stalking-horse while secretly hepursues the goal of his private ambition. In adversity he is uncrushed. When he returns victorious he ruthlessly sweeps aside all likelyobstacles to his supremacy, the Spensers, Kent, and even the king beinghurried to their death. Then, just as he thinks to stand at the summit, he falls--and falls grandly. 

 Base Fortune, now I see that in thy wheel There is a point, to which when men aspire, They tumble headlong down: that point I touched; And seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall?-- Farewell, fair queen: weep not for Mortimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown. 

Marlowe wisely--for him--departs from the growing custom of diversifyingthe hard facts of history with homely fiction of a more or less comicnature. He declines to mingle clowns and courtiers. Variety is securedby a slightly fuller delineation of the secondary characters than isusual with him, with its consequent effect on the dialogue, and byabrupt changes in the political situation. Two great scenes, KingEdward's abdication and his death, remain as memories with us long afterwe have laid the book down; but while we are reading it there are manyothers that touch the chords of indignation and sorrow. The versethroughout is admirable: it has shaken itself free of rant andextravagance; no longer are adjectives and nouns of splendour heapedrecklessly one upon another. Yet there is nothing prosy or commonplace. The spirit of poetry and strength is everywhere. 

Our last extract is from the famous abdication scene (Act V, Scene 1). 

 _Leicester. _ Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair; For, if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 

 _K. Edward. _ Call thou them back; I have no power to speak. 

 _Leicester. _ My lord, the king is willing to resign. 

 _Bishop of Winchester. _ If he be not, let him choose. 

 _K. Edward. _ O, would I might! but heavens and earth conspire To make me miserable. Here, receive my crown. Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime: He of you all that most desires my blood, And will be called the murderer of a king, Take it. What, are you moved? pity you me? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being turned to steel, Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay; for, rather than I'll look on them, Here, here! [_Gives the crown. _]--Now, sweet God of heaven, Make me despise this transitory pomp, And sit for aye enthronised in heaven! Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or, if I live, let me forget myself. 

In the writing of _Dido, Queen of Carthage_ Nash had a share. Unfortunately, it is impossible to say how much was his or to whatportion of the play his work belongs. The supposition that Nash finishedthe play does not necessarily imply that he wrote the last part. It mayhave been that Marlowe originally conceived of a three act play--like_The Massacre at Paris_--and that Nash filled it out to five acts by theaddition of scenes here and there. The unusual shortness of the playrather supports this theory. But it is best to let it stand uncertain. At least this much is clear, that the genius of Marlowe is stronglypresent both in the character of the queen and in the splendid passagesof poetry. 

Again we have a well-constructed tragedy based on the loss of a dearfriend and ending in death. But here the friendship is elevated to thepassionate affection of a woman for her lover, and the conclusion movesour pity with double force by its picture of suffering and by the factthat the queen is the unhappy victim of a cruel fate. It is the oldstory of love ending in desertion and a broken heart, only the faithlesslover would be true if the gods had not ordered otherwise; his regret atparting is not the simulated grief of a hollow deceiver, but the sincereemotion of a lover acting under compulsion. Constructively the play iswell balanced, although the incidents of the first two acts form, perhaps, a rather too elaborate introduction to the main plot. Someinitial reference to the gods is necessary to set Aeneas's action in theright light. The writer is inclined, however, to turn the occasion intoan opportunity for fine picture painting when he should be pressingforward to the essential theme. The long story of the destruction ofTroy, also, has no proper place in this drama, inasmuch as Aeneas'spiety and prowess at that time are not even converted to use as anincentive to Dido's love. Nevertheless it must be admitted that some ofthe most charming passages are to be found in these first two acts. Thecommencement of the third act at once sets the real business of thetragedy in motion: by a delicate piece of deception Queen Dido ispersuaded to clasp young Cupid, instead of little Ascanius, to herbosom--with fatal results. Before the act is over Dido and Aeneas haveplighted troth, romantically, in a cave where they are shelteringtogether from a storm. With the fourth act comes the first warning ofimpending shipwreck to their loves. Aeneas has a dream, and prepares tosail for Italy. On this occasion, however, the queen is able to overcomehis doubts by bestowing upon him her crown and sceptre, thus providinghim with a kingdom powerful enough to content his ambitions. Yet thegods are not to be satisfied so; Hermes himself is sent to command theTrojan's instant departure for another shore. In vain now does Didoplead. Aeneas departs, and there is nothing left for her in her anguishbut to fling herself upon the sacrificial fire raised on the pretence ofcuring her love. A grim pretence, verily. 

Besides the two principal characters there are Dido's sister Anna, and avisiting king, Iarbas, several friends of Aeneas, Ascanius (as himselfand as impersonated by Cupid), and various gods and goddesses. None ofthese are developed beyond a secondary pitch; but Ascanius (or Cupid) isquite invaluable for the lightness and freedom which his presenceconveys to the atmosphere about him; while the unrequited loves of Annaand Iarbas soften for us the severity of the blow that crushes theCarthaginian queen. Aeneas himself is presented in a subdued light, hissoldier's heart being fairly divided between his mistress and empire. Thus we have the figure of Dido set out in high relief. Marlowe was fondof experiments in characterization, but he never diverged morecompletely from the path marked out by his previous steps than when hedecided to give the first place in a tragedy to a woman. Hitherto hiswomen have not impressed us: Abigail is probably the best of a shadowygroup. Suddenly, in the Queen of Carthage, womankind towers up inmajesty, to hold our attention fixed in wonder and pity as she walkswith strong, unsuspecting tread the steep descent to death. She issister to Shakespeare's Cleopatra, yet with marked individualdifferences. Her feelings startle us with their fierce heat and swifttransitions. The fire of love flames up abruptly, driving her speechimmediately into wild contradictions. She herself is amazed at thechange within her. Burning to tell Aeneas her secret, yet withheld bywomanly modesty, she endeavours to betray it indirectly by heapingextravagant gifts upon him. She counts over the list of her formersuitors before him that he may see from the shrug of her shoulders thather affections are not placed elsewhere. Like Portia to Bassanio beforehe chooses the casket, she throws out hints, calls them back hastily, half lets fall the word, then breaks off the sentence, laying bare herheart to the most ordinary observer, yet despairing of his understandingher. When at last, from the tempest of desire and uncertainty, shepasses into the harbour of his assured love, a rapture of content, suchas the divinest music brings, fills her soul. Then the shadows begin tofall. At first the sincerity of Aeneas's love unites with her startledand clinging constancy to dispel the gathering gloom. With splendidgifts she dims the alluring brightness that draws him from her. A littlelonger Jove holds his hand; Aeneas's promise is till death. 

 _Aeneas. _ O Dido, patroness of all our lives, When I leave thee, death be my punishment! Swell, raging seas! frown, wayward Destinies! Blow, winds! threaten, ye rocks and sandy shelves! This is the harbour that Aeneas seeks: Let's see what tempests can annoy me now. 

 _Dido. _ Not all the world can take thee from mine arms. 

But the second call is imperative. With constraining pathos Didoimplores him not to go. When that cannot melt his resolution theresentment of thwarted love breaks out in passionate reproach. Thisagain changes to the wailing of sorrow as he turns and leaves her. Annais sent after him to beseech his stay. 

 _Dido. _ Call him not wicked, sister: speak him fair, And look upon him with a mermaid's eye.... Request him gently, Anna, to return: I crave but this--he stay a tide or two, That I may learn to bear it patiently; If he depart thus suddenly, I die. Run, Anna, run; stay not to answer me. 

Anna returns alone. Frantic schemes of pursuit, dangerously near tomadness, at length crystallize into the last fatal resolve. The pile ismade ready. Her attendants are all dismissed. One by one the articlesleft behind by Aeneas are devoted to the flames. 

 Here lie the sword that in the darksome cave He drew, and swore by, to be true to me: Thou shalt burn first; thy crime is worse than his. Here lie the garment which I clothed him in When first he came on shore: perish thou too. These letters, lines, and perjured papers, all Shall burn to cinders in this precious flame. 

When all have been consumed she leaps into the fire and so perishes. 

The character of the Queen of Carthage sufficiently demonstrates thatMarlowe could paint a faithful and impressive likeness of a woman whenhe chose. Possibly his fiery spirit would have proved less sympatheticto a gentler type. Yet there are touches in the slighter portraits ofAbigail and Queen Isabella which reveal flashes of true insight into thetender emotions of a woman's heart. Had Marlowe died before writing_Edward the Second_ we should have said that he was incapable ofportraying any type of man but the abnormal and Napoleonic. He showedhimself to be a daring and brilliantly successful voyager into untriedseas. In the face of what he has left behind him it would be a boldcritic indeed who named with confidence any aspect of tragedy as outsidethe empire of his genius. 

The verse of _Dido, Queen of Carthage_ shows no signs of retrogressionfrom the steady advance to a more natural and perfect style which wehave traced in the progress from _Tamburlaine_ to _Edward the Second_. An exception to this improvement will be found in certain portions ofAeneas's long speech in the second act, of which it is probably notunjust to surmise that Nash was the author. There are in Dido's ownspeeches elements of wild extravagance, but they are natural to theintensity of her passion. Does not Shakespeare's Cleopatra rave in amanner no less fervid and hyperbolic? and in Enobarbus's description ofher magnificence when she met Antony is there not a reminiscence of theoriental splendour of Dido's proposed fleet?

We quote part of the farewell scene between Dido and Aeneas. 

 _Dido. _ But yet Aeneas will not leave his love. 

 _Aeneas. _ I am commanded by immortal Jove To leave this town and pass to Italy: And therefore must of force. 

 _Dido. _ These words proceed not from Aeneas' heart. 

 _Aeneas. _ Not from my heart, for I can hardly go; And yet I may not stay. Dido, farewell. 

 _Dido. _ Farewell! is this the 'mends for Dido's love? Do Trojans use to quit their lovers thus? Fare well may Dido, so Aeneas stay; I die, if my Aeneas say farewell. 

 _Aeneas. _ Then let me go, and never say farewell; Let me go: farewell: I must from hence. 

 _Dido. _ These words are poison to poor Dido's soul: O, speak like my Aeneas, like my love! Why look'st thou toward the sea? the time hath been When Dido's beauty chained thine eyes to her. Am I less fair than when thou saw'st me first? O, then, Aeneas, 'tis for grief of thee! Say thou wilt stay in Carthage with thy queen, And Dido's beauty will return again. Aeneas, say, how canst thou take thy leave? Wilt thou kiss Dido? O, thy lips have sworn To stay with Dido! Canst thou take her hand? Thy hand and mine have plighted mutual faith. Therefore, unkind Aeneas, must thou say, 'Then let me go, and never say farewell'?

 _Aeneas. _ O queen of Carthage, wert thou ugly-black, Aeneas could not choose but hold thee dear! Yet must he not gainsay the gods' behest. 

 _Dido. _ The gods! what gods be those that seek my death? Wherein have I offended Jupiter, That he should take Aeneas from mine arms? O, no! the gods weigh not what lovers do: It is Aeneas calls Aeneas hence. 

Summarizing, in one short paragraph, the advance in tragedy inauguratedby Kyd and Marlowe, we record the progress made in characterization, plot structure, and verse, and in the treatment of history. A play hasnow become interesting for its delineation of character, not merely forits events or 'story'. One or two figures monopolize the attention bytheir lofty passions, their sufferings, and their fate. We look on at atremendous conflict waged between will and circumstance, between rightand wrong, or we watch the gradual decay of goodness by the action of apoisonous thought introduced into the mind. The plot has undergone asimilar intensification. With resistless evolution it bears the chiefcharacters along to the fatal hour of decision or action, then dragsthem down the descent which the wrong choice or the unwise deed suddenlyplaces at their feet. Our sympathies are drawn out, we take sides in thecause, and demand that at least justice shall prevail at the end. Thereis an art, too, in this evolution, a close interweaving of events, achain of cause and effect; a certain harmony and balance are maintained, so that our feelings are neither jerked to extremes nor worn out bystrain. Even the history play has freed itself to some extent from theleading strings of chronology, claiming the right to make the sameappeal to our common instincts as any other play. Verse has taken amighty bound from formalism to the free intoxicating air of poetry andnature. Men and women no longer exchange dull speeches; they conversewith easy spontaneity and delight us by the beauty of their language. Apoet may be a dramatist at last without feeling that his imaginationmust be held back like a restive horse lest the decorum of human speechbe violated. 

 * * * * *

_Arden of Feversham_ (? 1590-2), by its persistent but almost certainlymistaken association with Shakespeare's name, has received a wider famethan some better plays. Into the question of its authorship, however, weneed not enter. Of itself it has qualities that call for reference inthis place. Its early date, also, brings it within the sphere of ourdiscussion of the growth of English drama. 

Far more than any play of Kyd's, this drama, though it has no ghost andslays but one man on the stage, merits the title of a Tragedy of Blood. Murder is the theme, murder and adulterous love, and it is 'kill! kill!kill!' all the time. From the pages of Holinshed the writer carefullygathered up every horrible detail, every dreadful revelation concerninga brutal crime which had horrified England forty years before; andwhile the red and reeking abomination was still hot in his mind, satdown to the awful task of re-enacting it. The victim was summoned fromhis grave, the murderers from the gallows, the woman from the charredstake at Canterbury, to glut the appetite of a shuddering audience. Toorevolting to be described in detail, the plot sets forth the story ofAlice Arden's illicit love for Mosbie, her determination to win libertyby the murder of her husband, the many unsuccessful attempts to bringabout that end, and the final act which brought death upon them all. 

The art of sensationalism in drama, as in anything else, is not a greatone; it is not to be measured by its effect upon the mind, for thecrudest appeal to our instinctive dread of death will often suffice tohold our attention spellbound. It deals in uncertainty, darkness, unsuspecting innocence, hair-breadth escapes, and an ever-impending butstill delayed ruin. None of these are wanting to this play; in thisrespect the dramatist was fortunate in his subject. No less than seventimes the spectator--for the effect upon the reader is naturally muchless--feels his nerves tingle, his pulse beat faster, as he waits ininstant expectation of seeing murder committed. The realism of everydayscenery, the street, the high road, the ferry, the inn, the breakfastroom, cry out with telling emphasis that it is fact, hard deadly fact, which is being shown, not the idle invention of an overheated brain. Butwhile these features impress the action upon our memory, they do notraise it to the level of great drama. For this the supreme requirementis truth to human nature. It is not enough that the actors arrest ourattention by their appearance, their speeches and their deeds. Freaksand lunatics might do that. They must be human as we are, moved byimpulses common, in some degree, to us all. Generally speaking, abnormality is weakness. It needs to be strongly built upon a foundationof natural qualities to achieve success. Especially is this so when thesurrounding conditions are such as belong to ordinary existence. Theapplication of this principle reveals the essential weakness of _Ardenof Feversham_. Carefully, almost minutely, the details of everyday lifeare gathered together. The merchant sees to the unloading of his goodsat the quay, the boatman urges his ferry to and fro, the apprenticetakes down his shutters, the groom makes love to the serving-maid, travellers meeting on the road halt for a chat and part with no moreserious word spoken than a hearty invitation to dine; on all sides lifeis seen flowing in the ordinary current, with nothing worse than a pieceof malicious tittle-tattle to disturb the calmness of the surface. Intothis setting the author places as monstrous a group of villains as everwalked the earth. Black Will and Shakbag belong to the darkest cesspoolof London iniquity. Clarke the Painter has no individuality beyond areadiness to poison all and sundry for a reward. Michael would be amurderer were he not a coward. Greene is a revengeful sleuth-hound, tracking his victim down relentlessly from place to place. Arden is amiser in business, and a weak, gullible fool at home, alternately ragingwith jealous suspicion, and fawning with fatuous trustfulness upon theman who is wronging him. Mosbie is a cold-blooded, underhand villainwhose pious resolutions and protestations of love could only deceivethose blinded by fate, and whose preference for crooked, left-handedmethods is in tune with his vile intention of murdering the woman wholoves him. Alice, the representative of womankind among these beast-men, the wife, the passionately loving mistress, is an arch-deceiver, anabsolutely brazen liar and murderess, unblushing and tireless insoliciting the affection of a man who hardly cares for her, desperatelyenamoured. Alone in the group Franklin is endowed with the ordinaryhuman revulsion from folly and wickedness, but his character is sketchedtoo lightly to relieve the darkness. Such creatures may fascinate us bytheir defiance of the laws that bind us. Alice, particularly, does so. She possesses--as Michael does, to a less degree--at least a few naturaltraits; her conscience is not quite dead, and her love is strong, although even this is represented as a huge deformity, driving her tothe negation of that womanhood to which it should belong. Single scenes, too, if seen or read in isolation from the main body of the play, have acertain individual strength, giving us glimpses of the workings of ahuman heart. But the play as a whole offers no inspiration, presents noaspects of beauty, holds up no mirror to ourselves. One lesson itteaches, that happiness cannot be won by crime. Alice and Mosbie arenever permitted to escape from the consequences of their sin, in theform of anxiety, suspicion, remorse, fear, mutual recrimination, anddeath. But, throughout, the dramatist's purpose is not art. He is theapostle of realism, coarsened by a love of the horrible and unclean. Thepower of his realism is undeniable. His two protagonists are line forline portraits of the beings they are intended to represent. Thesilhouettes of Black Will and Shakbag are almost as perfect. It is whenwe compare _Arden of Feversham_ with _Macbeth_ that we realize how themeanness of the action and the comparative absence of morality outweighany accuracy of detail, degrading the dramatist to the level of a merepurveyor of excitement. The truth is, even the interest palls, for thereis no skill displayed in the evolution of the plot. The story is merelyunrolled in a series of murderous attempts which agitate us less andless as they are repeated, until, at the end, we are in danger of notcaring whether Arden is killed or not. 

Among the eccentricities of this anonymous author's misdirected abilityis the disregard of appropriateness in the allocation of speeches to thevarious characters. He is a poet; we can hardly believe that his workwould otherwise have survived the acting of it. Yet, as has beenfrequently pointed out, one of the most delicate passages in the play isspoken by the detestable ruffian, Shakbag, while Mosbie and even Michaelsoliloquize in language of poetic imagery. In his handling of blankverse he has not travelled beyond the limits of end-stopt lines, and toooften he gives it the false balance of unrhymed couplets; neverthelessmuch that is vigorous and impressive forces the rhythm into a firm andbrisk response. The art of conversation in verse has advanced tocomplete mastery. These features will be seen in the following extracts. 

 (1)

 [MOSBIE _regretfully compares his past and present states. _]

 Disturbed thoughts drives me from company And dries my marrow with their watchfulness; Continual trouble of my moody brain Feebles my body by excess of drink, And nips me as the bitter North-east wind Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring. Well fares the man, howe'er his cates do taste, That tables not with foul suspicion; And he but pines amongst his delicates, Whose troubled mind is stuffed with discontent. My golden time was when I had no gold; Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure; My daily toil begat me night's repose, My night's repose made daylight fresh to me. But since I climbed the top bough of the tree And sought to build my nest among the clouds, Each gentle starry gale doth shake my bed, And makes me dread my downfall to the earth. But whither doth contemplation carry me? The way I seek to find, where pleasure dwells, Is hedged behind me that I cannot back, But needs must on, although to danger's gate. Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree. 

 (2)

 [_The last arrangements have been made for the murder and only_ ARDEN _is awaited. _]

 _Will. _ Give me the key: which is the counting house?

 _Alice. _ Here would I stay and still encourage you, But that I know how resolute you are. 

 _Shakbag. _ Tush, you are too faint-hearted; we must do it. 

 _Alice. _ But Mosbie will be there, whose very looks Will add unwonted courage to my thought, And make me the first that shall adventure on him. 

 _Will. _ Tush, get you gone; 'tis we must do the deed. When this door opens next, look for his death. 

 [_Exeunt_ WILL _and_ SHAKBAG. ]

 _Alice. _ Ah, would he now were here that it might open! I shall no more be closed in Arden's arms, That like the snakes of black Tisiphone Sting me with their embracings: Mosbie's arms Shall compass me; and, were I made a star, I would have none other spheres but those. There is no nectar but in Mosbie's lips! Had chaste Diana kissed him, she, like me, Would grow love sick, and from her watery bower Fling down Endymion and snatch him up: Then blame not me that slay a silly man Not half so lovely as Endymion. 

 [_Here enters_ MICHAEL. ]

 _Michael. _ Mistress, my master is coming hard by. 

 _Alice. _ Who comes with him?

 _Michael. _ Nobody but Mosbie. 

 _Alice. _ That's well, Michael. Fetch in the tables, And when thou has done, stand before the counting-house door. 

 _Michael. _ Why so?

 _Alice. _ Black Will is locked within to do the deed. 

 _Michael. _ What? shall he die to-night?

 _Alice. _ Ay, Michael. 

 _Michael. _ But shall not Susan know it?

 _Alice. _ Yes, for she'll be as secret as ourselves. 

 _Michael. _ That's brave. I'll go fetch the tables. 

 _Alice. _ But, Michael, hark to me a word or two: When my husband is come in, lock the street door; He shall be murdered or[68] the guests come in. 

_Arden of Feversham_ is a play which cannot be passed over unnoticed inany historical treatment of the drama. For it opened up a new and richfield to writers of tragedies by its selection of characters from theordinary paths of life to reveal the passions of the human heart. Kydand Marlowe had sought for subjects in the little known world of kings'courts or the still less familiar regions of immeasurable wealth andpower. This other writer found what he wanted in his neighbour's house. His most direct disciples are the authors (uncertain) of _A YorkshireTragedy_ and _A Warning for Fair Women_, but his influence may be tracedin the work of many well-known later dramatists. On the other hand theplay marks a retreat from the standard set by previous tragedies. In itsdeliberate use of horror for horror's sake it fell away--dragging othersafter it--from the conception of drama as a noble instrument in theinstruction and elevation of the people. 

[Footnote 63: fetched. ]

[Footnote 64: _History of English Poetry_, ii. P. 424. ]

[Footnote 65: whipstock. ]

[Footnote 66: rule. ]

[Footnote 67: _English Dramatic Literature_, i, p. 188. ]

[Footnote 68: before. ]

APPENDIX

THE ELIZABETHAN STAGE

A word remains to be added with regard to the 'Stage' for which Lyly andMarlowe wrote. When we took leave of the Miracle Plays we left them witha movable 'pageant', open-air performances, and a large body ofcarefully trained actors, who, however, normally followed a trade, onlyturning aside to the task of rehearsing when the annual festival drewnear. The whole business of dramatic representation was in the hands ofpublic bodies--the Mayor and Corporation, if the town could boast ofsuch. Later years saw the appearance of the professional actor, by morehumble designation termed a strolling player. Many small companies--fouror five men and perhaps a couple of boys--came into existence, wanderingover England to win the pence and applause guaranteed by the immensepopularity of their entertainments. But the official eye learnt to lookupon them with suspicion, and it was not long before they fell undercondemnation as vagrants. In 1572 all but licensed companies werebrought within the scope of the vagrancy laws. Those exempt were the fewfortunate ones who had secured the patronage of a nobleman, and, greedyof monopoly, had pressed, successfully, for this prohibitory decreeagainst their irregular rivals. From this date onwards we read only ofsuch companies as the Queen's Company, the Earl of Leicester's Company, the Chamberlain's Company and the Admiral's Company. Yet while theirduties would primarily be concerned with the amusement of theirpatrons, they found many occasions to offer their services elsewhere. Travelling companies, therefore, still continued to carry into everypart of England the delights of play-acting. It is a pleasing conjecturethat the genius of the boy, Shakespeare, was first quickened by seeing aperformance in his native town. 

We have said that a few men and one or two boys would suffice for acompany. The boys, of course, were to take the female parts, aswomen-actors were not seen on the stage until some time afterShakespeare's death, and only came into general favour after theRestoration. Although some plays included a large number of characters, the author was generally careful so to arrange their exits and entrancesthat not more than four or five were required on the stage at one time. Thus, in the list of dramatis personae for _Like Will to Like_ thetwelve characters are distributed amongst five actors: four actors areshown to be sufficient for the eleven characters of _New Custom_; andthe thirty-eight characters of _Cambyses_ are grouped to fit eightplayers. 

When on tour a company began its stay in any town with a visit to themayor (or his equivalent), before whom a first performance was given. His approval secured for the company a fee and the right of acting. Thusthe practice of public control over the Guild 'Miracles' was extended tothese independent performances in the form of a mayoral censorship. Thiscontrol, in London, was placed in the hands of the Court Master of theRevels, who thereby became the State dramatic censor with power toprohibit the performance of any play that offended his taste. 

In addition to these companies of men there were, in and near London, companies of boys carefully trained to act. At the public schools ofEton and Westminster histrionics was included amongst the subjectstaught. The singing school at St. Paul's studied the art with equalindustry. Most famous of all, the choir boys of the royal chapel tookrank as expert performers. It was doubtless for Eton, Westminster, Merchant Taylors' and other schools that such plays as _The DisobedientChild_ and _The Marriage of Wit and Science_ were written. It was, wemay remember, the head-master of Eton who wrote _Ralph Roister Doister_. Lyly's plays, acted at Court, were all performed either by 'the childrenof Paul's' or 'Her Majesty's children'. This may partly account for thegreat number and prominence of his female characters as compared withthose found in the comedies of Greene and Peele; it will also suggest areason for his liberal introduction of songs. 

Court performances, however, were also given by young men of rank foramusement or to honour the queen. _Gorboduc_ was presented beforeElizabeth by 'the gentlemen of the Inner Temple'. 'The Gentlemen ofGray's Inn' performed _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ at the Court atGreenwich; Francis Bacon was one of the actors. In the latter part ofthe reign the queen's own 'company' consisted of the best Londonprofessional actors, and these were summoned every Christmas toentertain Her Majesty with the latest plays. At Oxford and Cambridgemany plays were staged, the preference for some time apparently lyingwith classical representation in the original tongue. 

On these Court and University performances large sums of money werespent. It may be assumed therefore that considerable attention was paidto the mounting and staging of a play. Possibly painted scenery and eventhe luxury of a completely curtained-off stage were provided. Everyadvantageous adjunct to the dramatist's art known in that day would beat the service of Lyly. But it was otherwise with Marlowe and those whowrote for the public stage. It is this last which we must consider. 

In Exeter at least, and possibly in other towns, a playhouse was builtlong before such a thing was known in the vicinity of London. We shallprobably be right, however, in judging the major portion of the countryby its metropolis and assuming that, until 1572 or thereabouts, actorsand audiences had to manage without buildings specially designed fortheir purpose. Very probably the old 'pageants' (or 'pagonds') wererefurbished and brought to light when the need arose; and in this casethe actors would have the spectators in a circle around them. Inn-yards, however--those of that day were constructed with galleries along threesides--proved to be more convenient for the audience, inasmuch as thegalleries provided comfortable seats above the rabble for those whocared to pay for them. The stage was then erected either in the midst orat the fourth side, projecting out into the yard. In such surroundingsthe popular Morality-Interludes and Interludes proper were performed. 

In the midst of the wide popularity of the drama arose Puritanism, fullof condemnation. Keeping our attention upon London as the centre ofthings, we see this new enemy waging a fierce battle with the supportersof the stage. The latter included the Queen and her Privy Council; theformer found spokesmen in the mayor and City Fathers. Between PrivyCouncil and Corporation there could be no compromise, for theCorporation insisted that within its jurisdiction dramatic performancesshould be entirely suppressed. The yearly outbreaks of the plague, withits weekly death-roll of thirty, forty, fifty, periodically compelledthe summer performances to cease, and lent themselves as a powerfulargument against packed gatherings of dirty and clean, infected anduninfected, together. At last one of the leading companies, fearing thattime would bring victory to the Puritans and to themselves extinction, decided to solve the difficulty by migration beyond the jurisdiction ofthe mayor. Accordingly, about the year 1572, 'The Theatre' was builtoutside the city boundary and occupied by Leicester's company. Not longafterwards other companies followed suit, and 'The Curtains' and'Newington Butts' were erected. After that many other theatres rose. In1599 was built the famous Globe Theatre in which most of Shakespeare'splays were represented. But the three earlier theatres (and perhaps 'TheRose') were probably all that Marlowe ever knew. 

What we know of the Elizabethan theatre is based on informationconcerning the Globe, Fortune and Swan Theatres. From this a certainclear conception--not agreed upon, however, in all points bycritics--may be deduced with regard to the earlier ones. They were roundor hexagonal in shape. The stage was placed with its back to the walland projected well into the centre. The spectators were gathered aboutits three sides, the poor folk standing in the area and crushing rightup to it, the rich folk occupying seats in the galleries that formed thehorse-shoe round the area. A roof covered the galleries but not the restof the building--the first completely roofed theatre was probably notbuilt before 1596. Performances took place between two and five o'clockin the afternoon. The title of the piece was posted outside; a flagflying from a turret informed playgoers in the city that a performancewas about to take place, and the sound of a trumpet announced thecommencement of the play. An orchestra was in attendance, not so much toenliven the intervals--for they were few and brief--as to lend its aidto the effect of certain scenes, in exactly the same way as it is usedto-day. 

Of the stage itself little can be said positively, nor are surmisesabout the Swan or Globe stage necessarily applicable to itspredecessors. But the following description will serve as a fairconjecture. It was divided into two parts, a front and back stage, separated by a curtain. By this device the back scene could be preparedwhile the front stage was occupied, or two scenes could be presentedtogether, as in _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, or a second scene couldbe added to the main one, as occurs when Rasni, in _A Looking-Glass forLondon and England_, 'draws the curtains' and reveals Remilia struckwith lightning. There was no curtain before the front stage. At the rearof the back stage was a fixed structure like the outside of a house withdoors and an upper balcony. The doors led into the dressing rooms, andthrough them, as through the curtain if the front stage only were inuse, the exits and entrances were made. The balcony was used in manyways familiar to us in Shakespeare's works; when, in the Second Part of_Tamburlaine_, the Governor of Babylon enters 'upon the walls' werecognize that he is on the balcony. A roof extended over the whole orpart of the stage to protect the actors from rain; but it was also madeuse of as a hiding-place from which angels or goddesses could descend. In _Alphonsus, King of Arragon_ Venus's exit is managed thus: 'If youcan conveniently, let a chair come down from the top of the stage anddraw her up. ' The stage floor was fitted with a trap-door; through itQueen Elinor, in _Edward the First_, disappears and re-appears; throughit 'a flame of fire' appears and 'Radagon is swallowed', in _ALooking-Glass for London and England_. 

As far as can be gathered from records, there was no great attempt topreserve, in the actor's dresses, the local colouring of the play. Nevertheless various easy and obviously required concessions would bemade. Kings and queens would dress magnificently, mechanics andserving-men humbly. In _Orlando Furioso_ we read that Orlando is toenter 'attired as a madman' and that Marsilius and Mandricard are toappear 'like Palmers'; in _Alphonsus, King of Arragon_ 'Calchas rises upin a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre', and in _Edward the First_Longshanks figures 'in Friar's weeds'. The list could be continued. Itis practically certain that there was no painted scenery, the absence ofwhich would greatly facilitate the expeditious passage from scene toscene. Stage properties, however, were probably a valuable part of thetheatrical belongings. If we glance over the stage-directions in theplays of Greene, Peele, Kyd and Marlowe, we come upon such visibleobjects as a throne, a bower, a bed, a table, a tomb, a litter, a cage, a chariot, a hearse, a tree; more elaborate would be Alphonsus's canopywith a king's head at each of three corners, Bungay's dragon shootingfire, Remilia's 'globe seated in a ship', the 'hand from out a cloudwith a burning sword' (_A Looking-Glass_), and the Brazen Head castingout flakes of fire (_Alphonsus_). 

Considering Marlowe's plays in the light of this information we shall beobliged to admit that they stood a good chance of having very fairjustice done to them. The points in which the staging differed from ourmodern methods were in favour of greater realism. Daylight is moretruthful than foot-lights are; and if there was any poverty in thesetting, so much the more was attention centred upon the actors, who aredeclared, by the authors themselves, to have attained a high level ofexcellence. Fame has not yet forgotten the names of Burbage and Alleyn. 

INDEX

I. AUTHORS

Aeschylus, 97, 101-2. 

Ariosto, 127. 

B. , R. , 99, 113. 

Bale, Bishop, 79, 80-1. 

Chapman, George, 214. 

Dekker, Thomas, 241. 

Drayton, Michael, 231. 

Edward VI, 79. 

Edwards, Richard, 115, 203, 224. 

Gascoigne, George, 127. 

Geoffrey, Abbot, 22. 

Greene, Robert, 124, 146-67, 169, 170, 172, 173, 179, 180, 193, 221, 224, 276. 

Hardy, Thomas, 30. 

Heywood, John, 61, 68, 81, 82-4, 117. 

Heywood, Thomas, 211. 

Hilarius, 15. 

Hroswitha, 10. 

Hughes, Thomas, 110-15, 216, 224. 

Jonson, Ben, 71, 72, 161, 198, 207. 

Kyd, Thomas, 124, 193, 194, 197-221, 225, 262, 263, 269, 276. 

Lodge, Thomas, 124, 148, 193, 195-7. 

Lyly, John, 124-46, 148, 157, 161, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 173, 193, 209, 224, 270, 272, 273. 

Marlowe, Christopher, 61, 107, 117, 124, 148, 167, 180, 187, 188, 193, 194, 196, 209, 216, 218, 221-63, 269, 270, 273, 276. 

Marston, John, 203, 214. 

Massinger, Philip, 211. 

Milton, John, 107, 185. 

Nash, Thomas, 124, 188-92. 

Norton, Thomas, 103-10, 118, 194. 

Peele, George, 124, 140, 161, 167-88, 209, 221, 230, 250, 276. 

Plautus, 90, 91. 

Preston, Thomas, 97-9. 

Rowley, 241. 

Sackville, Thomas, 103-10, 114, 118, 124, 194, 216, 224, 230. 

Seneca, 96, 101, 102, 193. 

Shakespeare, William, 70, 110, 115, 121, 157, 173, 181, 193, 213, 222, 223, 246, 259, 261, 263, 271, 275. 

Sidney, Sir Philip, 102. 

Sophocles, 109. 

Stevenson, 91-5. 

Still, Bishop, 91-5, 224. 

Terence, 10. 

Tourneur, Cyril, 203, 214. 

Udall, Nicholas, 88-91, 224. 

Webster, John, 203, 214. 

Whetstone, George, 115. 

Wilmot, Robert, 230. 

II. PLAYS

_Adam_, 16-18, 45. 

_Agamemnon_, 111. 

_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_, 147, 149-51, 168, 180, 275, 276. 

_Antonio's Revenge_, 203. 

_Appius and Virginia_, 99-101, 107, 108-9, 113. 

_Arden of Feversham_, 193, 214, 263-9. 

_Arraignment of Paris, The_, 168, 169, 171, 173-6, 187, 224, 229, 231. 

_As You Like It_, 140. 

_Battle of Alcazar, The_, 170-1, 180-3. 

_Cain and Abel_, 18, 25. 

_Calisto and Melibaea_, 87, 90. 

_Cambyses_, 97-9, 100, 103, 107, 108, 112, 113, 271. 

_Campaspe_, 127, 128-32, 136, 146, 157. 

_Castell of Perseverance_, 51, 53, 54, 57, 61, 66, 67, 95. 

_Chester Miracle Play, The_, 23, 38. 

_Christ's Passion_, 10. 

_Comus_, 185. 

_Cornelia_, 197, 199. 

_Cornélie_, 218. 

_Coventry Miracle Play, The_, 21, 23, 25-38, 42, 46, 47. 

_Damon and Pythias_, 112, 115, 134, 193. 

_Daniel_, 15. 

_David and Bethsabe_, 170-3, 186-8. 

_Devil is an Ass, The_, 71. 

_Dido, Queen of Carthage_, 223, 256-62. 

_Dido, The Tragedy of_, 188. 

_Disciples of Emmaus, The_, 15. 

_Disobedient Child, The_, 76-7, 272. 

_Edward the First, The famous Chronicle History of_, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 177-80, 250, 275, 276. 

_Edward the Second_, 196, 223, 250-6, 261. 

_Endymion_, 127, 132-8. 

_Epiphany Plays_, 14, 15, 21. 

_Euphues_, 125. 

_Everyman_, 51, 55, 61. 

_Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth, The_, 120. 

_Faustus, Doctor_, 61, 107, 117, 209, 215, 223, 227, 230, 233-42, 246, 251. 

_Ferrex and Porrex, The Tragedy of_, 101-10, 111, 115, 118, 193, 209, 216, 229, 230. 

_Four Elements, The_, 76. 

_Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, 147, 148, 155-9, 165, 171, 189, 275. 

_Gallathea_, 127, 138-44, 169, 176. 

_Gammer Gurton's Needle_, 91-5, 172. 

_George à Greene, The Pinner of Wakefield_, 147, 163. 

_Gorboduc_, 101-10, 111, 115, 118, 193, 209, 216, 229, 230. 

_Hamlet_, 213. 

_Henry IV_, 181-3. 

_Henry the Fifth, The Famous Victories of_, 120. 

_Hick Scorner_, 61, 69, 70. 

_James IV_, 147, 149, 159-63, 165, 190. 

_Jeronimo_, 197, 199-204, 212, 215, 216. 

_Jew of Malta, The_, 215, 223, 242-8. 

_Johan Johan_, 84-6, 87, 90. 

_John, The Troublesome Reign of King_, 120, 121, 122-3. 

_King John_, 79. 

_King Lear_, 212, 213. 

_Lazarus_, 15. 

_Like Will to Like_, 67-76, 118, 271. 

_Locrine_, 198. 

_Looking Glass for London and England, A_, 147, 151-3, 163, 195, 275, 276. 

_Love's Metamorphoses_, 127. 

_Macbeth_, 245, 266. 

_Magi_, 15, 23, 25, 45. 

_Marriage at Cana_, 9. 

_Marriage of Wit and Science, The_, 77-8, 272. 

_Massacre at Paris, The_, 223, 248-9, 256. 

_Meretrice Babylonica, De_, 79. 

_Merry Play between Johan Johan the Husband, Tyb his Wife, and Sir Jhon the Priest, The_, 84-6, 87, 90. 

_Midsummer-Night's Dream, A_, 45. 

_Miles Gloriosus_, 90. 

_Miracle of the Sacrament, The_, 49. 

_Mirror for Magistrates, The_, 230. 

_Misfortunes of Arthur, The_, 35, 110-15, 118, 124, 193, 194, 272. 

_Mother Bombie_, 127, 144-5. 

_Mydas_, 146. 

_New Custom_, 74, 79, 80, 81, 271. 

_Nice Wanton_, 76. 

_Oedipus Tyrannus_, 109-10. 

_Old Wives' Tale, The_, 168, 173, 183-6, 190. 

_Orlando Furioso_, 147, 153-5, 276. 

_Pammachius_, 79. 

_Pardoner and the Friar, The_, 81-4. 

_Pastores_, 14, 15, 22, 23. 

_Peregrini_, 15. 

_Pericles_, 103. 

_Promus and Cassandra_, 115. 

_Prophetae_, 15, 18. 

_Prophets_, 15, 18. 

_Quem Quaeritis_, 12, 13, 15, 22, 25. 

_Quem Quaeritis in Praesepe, Pastores?_ 14. 

_Ralph Roister Doister_, 89-91, 92, 95, 124, 172, 272. 

_Resurrection_, 12, 13, 15, 22, 25. 

_Romeo and Juliet_, 193. 

_Saint Katharine_, 22. 

_Saint Nicholas_, 15, 16, 22. 

_Samson Agonistes_, 107. 

_Sapho and Phao_, 127, 146. 

_Second Part of Antonio and Mellida, The_, 203. 

_Shepherds_, 14, 15, 22, 23. 

_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, 140, 168, 170, 173, 176-7, 186. 

_Soliman and Perseda_, 197, 198, 216, 218-21. 

_Spanish Tragedy, The_, 35, 197, 198, 203, 205-18. 

_Staple of News, The_, 72. 

_Stella_, 15, 23, 25, 45. 

_Summer's Last Will and Testament_, 188-92. 

_Supposes, The_, 127. 

_Suppositi, I_, 127. 

_Tamburlaine_, 148, 150, 151, 154, 180, 218, 222, 223-8, 229, 230, 231-3, 237, 241, 261, 275. 

_Taming of the Shrew, The_, 161. 

_Tancred and Gismunda_, 115, 193, 194, 229. 

_Thersites_, 90. 

_Towneley Miracle Play_, 23, 39, 43. 

_Tres Reges_, 15, 23, 25, 45. 

_Trial of Christ, The_, 25, 35. 

_Trial of Treasure, The_, 74. 

_Troublesome Reign of King John, The_, 120-3. 

_Twelfth Night_, 70, 86, 157. 

_Wakefield Miracle Play, The_, 23, 39, 43. 

_Warning to Fair Women, A_, 269. 

_Wise Men Presenting Gifts to the Infant Saviour, The_, 9. 

_Woman in the Moon, The_, 127. 

_Wounds of Civil War, The_, 195. 

_Yorkshire Tragedy, A_, 269. 

III. PROMINENT CHARACTERS

Abraham, 27-9. 

Adam, 17, 18, 19, 27, 34. 

Adam in _A Looking Glass for London and England_, 151-3, 163, 184. 

Aeneas, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262. 

Alexander, 128, 129. 

Alphonsus, 149, 150, 151, 168. 

Andrea, 199-202, 204. 

Angels, 13. 

Angels, Good and Bad, 57, 61, 67, 240. 

Apelles, 129, 130, 131, 140, 168. 

Arden, Alice, 264, 265, 266, 268, 269. 

Arran, Countess of, 159, 162, 163. 

Arthur, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114. 

Balthazar or Balthezar, 198, 199, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 211, 212. 

Barabas, 222, 243, 247. 

Barbarian in _St. Nicholas_, 15, 16. 

Basilisco, 218, 219, 220-1. 

Bellamira, 247, 248. 

Bell'-Imperia, 199, 205, 206, 207, 211, 212. 

Bombie, Mother, 145. 

Cambyses, 97, 98, 99. 

Campaspe, 129, 130, 131, 140. 

Christ, 12, 13, 30, 33, 37. 

Contemplation, 61, 64, 65, 66. 

Corsites, 133, 134, 135. 

Cupid, 143, 144, 257, 258. 

Custance, Dame, 89, 90, 91, 93. 

Cutpurse, Cuthbert, 68, 76. 

Damon, 116, 117, 118, 119. 

David, 186, 187, 188. 

Death, 31, 197. 

Delia, 183, 185. 

Devil, The, 17, 18, 19, 70, 71, 73, 84, 85. 

Diana, 173, 175, 176, 229. 

Dido, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262. 

Diogenes, 128, 129, 136, 146, 168. 

Dipsas, 133, 134. 

Dorothea, Queen, 159, 160, 161, 168, 171. 

Edward II, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256. 

Edward, Prince, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159. 

Endymion, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136. 

Erastus, 198. 

Eve, 17, 18, 27. 

Everyman, 55, 56, 58, 59, 66, 95. 

Faulconbridge, 120, 121, 122. 

Faustus, 209, 222, 230, 234-42. 

Fellowship, 58, 59, 60. 

Ferrex, 104, 105. 

Freewill, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66. 

Friar, 82, 83. 

Gallathea, 141, 142, 143. 

Genus, Humanum, 54, 55. 

George, 163, 164, 165, 166. 

Gloucester, 179. 

Gorboduc, 104, 105. 

Guise, 248, 249. 

Gurton, Gammer, 92, 93, 94, 95. 

Hance, 69, 70. 

Hephestion, 131, 132. 

Herod, 14, 20, 31, 35, 46, 117. 

Hieronimo, 205, 206, 207, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218. 

Hodge, 92, 93, 94, 95, 126. 

Humankind, 57, 67, 95. 

Ida, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163. 

Imagination, 62, 63, 65, 66, 71. 

Isaac, 27, 28, 29, 36. 

Isabella, 207, 208, 211, 216, 217. 

Ithamore, 246, 247, 248. 

Jeffate, 38. 

Jeronimo, 199, 200, 203, 204, 205. 

Jhon, Sir, 85. 

Joan, 179-80. 

Johan Johan, 84, 85. 

Jonathas, 49, 50. 

Joseph, 30, 31, 36. 

Juno, 173, 175. 

King John, 80, 81, 120, 123, 252. 

Lacy, 155, 156, 158, 159, 168. 

Lorenzo, 199, 200, 201, 203, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214. 

Magi, The, 14. 

Mahamet, Muly, The Moor, 180, 181, 182-3. 

Mak, 40, 41, 42, 51. 

Margaret of Fressingfield, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 168. 

Marius, 195, 196, 197. 

Mary, 30, 31, 33, 36. 

Mary Magdalene, 13. 

Mephistophilis, 230, 233, 235, 236, 237, 239, 240, 242. 

Michael, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269. 

Modred, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115. 

Mortimer, 249, 250, 252, 253, 254, 255. 

Mosbie, 264, 265, 266, 267. 

Newfangle, Nichol, 70, 72, 73, 74. 

Nicholas, St. , 15, 16. 

Noah, 38. 

Noah's Wife, 35, 38. 

Oenone, 168, 174. 

Orion, 191-2. 

Orlando, 153, 154. 

Pardoner, 82, 83, 84. 

Paris, 168, 173, 174. 

Perseda, 219-20. 

Perseverance, 61, 64, 65, 66. 

Perverse Doctrine, 79, 82. 

Phillida, 141, 142, 143. 

Pity, 61, 64, 66, 67. 

Porrex, 104, 105. 

Pythias, 116, 118, 119. 

Ralph Roister Doister, 88, 89, 90, 91, 93, 137. 

Scorner, Hick, 63, 64, 66. 

Sem, 38. 

Shepherds, 40, 41. 

Simnel, Ralph, 157. 

Soliman, 219, 220. 

Summer, Will, 188, 189, 190. 

Tamburlaine, 222, 226, 227, 232, 233, 234, 238, 239, 246. 

Tophas, Sir, 134, 136, 137, 138, 146. 

Vice, The, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 85, 89, 97, 99, 117, 177. 

Virginius's Wife, 100. 

Will, 77, 78.