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Title: The Growth of English Drama


Author: Arnold Wynne



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Language: English

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THE GROWTH OF ENGLISH DRAMA

by

ARNOLD WYNNE, M.A.







Oxford
At the Clarendon Press
Printed in England
At the Oxford University Press
by John Johnson
Printer to the University
Impression of 1927
First edition, 1914




PREFACE


In spite of the fact that an almost superabundant literature of
exposition has gathered round early English drama, there is, I believe,
still room for this book. Much criticism is available. But the student
commonly searches through it in vain for details of the plots and
characters, and specimens of the verse, of interludes and plays which
time, opportunity, and publishers combine to withhold from him. Notable
exceptions to this generalization exist. Such are Sir A.W. Ward's
monumental _English Dramatic Literature_, and that delightful volume,
J.A. Symonds' _Shakespeare's Predecessors_; but the former extends its
survey far beyond the limits of early drama, while the latter too often
passes by with brief mention works concerning which the reader would
gladly hear more. Some authors have written very fully, but upon only a
section of pre-Shakespearian dramatic work. Of others it may generally
be said that their purposes limit to criticism their treatment of all
but the best known plays. The present volume attempts a more
comprehensive plan. It presents, side by side with criticism, such data
as may enable the reader to form an independent judgment. Possibly for
the first time in a book of this scope almost all the plays of the
University Wits receive separate consideration, while such familiar
titles as _Hick Scorner_, _Gammer Gurton's Needle_, and _The Misfortunes
of Arthur_ cease to be mere names appended to an argument. As a
consequence it has been possible to examine in detail the influence of
such men as Heywood, Udall, Sackville, and Kyd, and to trace from its
beginning, with much closer observation than a more general method
permits, the evolution of the Elizabethan drama.

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

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

ARNOLD WYNNE.

SOUTH AFRICAN COLLEGE,
CAPE TOWN.




CONTENTS


                                                         PAGE
CHAPTER I
EARLY CHURCH DRAMA ON THE CONTINENT                         9

CHAPTER II
ENGLISH MIRACLE PLAYS                                      22

CHAPTER III
MORALITIES AND INTERLUDES                                  51

CHAPTER IV
RISE OF COMEDY AND TRAGEDY                                 87

CHAPTER V
COMEDY: LYLY, GREENE, PEELE, NASH                         124

CHAPTER VI
TRAGEDY: LODGE, KYD, MARLOWE, _Arden of Feversham_        193

APPENDIX
THE ELIZABETHAN STAGE                                     270

INDEX                                                     277




CHAPTER I

EARLY CHURCH DRAMA ON THE CONTINENT


The old Classical Drama of Greece and Rome died, surfeited with horror
and uncleanness. Centuries rolled by, and then, when the Old Drama was
no more remembered save by the scholarly few, there was born into the
world the New Drama. By a curious circumstance its nurse was the same
Christian Church that had thrust its predecessor into the grave.

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

But the Church is conservative. It required the lapse of hundreds of
years to make plain the possibility of action and its advantages over
motionless figures. Just before this next step was taken, or it may have
been just after, two of the scholarly few mentioned as having not quite
forgotten the Classical Drama, made an effort to revive its methods
while bitting and bridling it carefully for holy purposes. Some one
worthy brother (who was certainly not Gregory Nazianzene of the fourth
century), living probably in the tenth century, wrote a play called
_Christ's Passion_, in close imitation of Greek tragedy, even to the
extent of quoting extensively from Euripides. In the same century a good
and zealous nun of Saxony, Hroswitha by name, set herself to outrival
Terence in his own realm and so supplant him in the studies of those who
still read him to their souls' harm. She wrote, accordingly, six plays
on the model of Terence's Comedies, supplying, for his profane themes,
the histories of suffering martyrs and saintly maidens. It was a noble
ambition (not the less noble because she failed); but it was not along
the lines of her plays or of _Christ's Passion_ that the New Drama was
to develop. It is doubtful whether they were known outside a few
convents.

In the tenth century the all-important step from tableau to dialogue and
action had been taken. Its initiation is shrouded in obscurity, but may
have been as follows. Ever since the sixth century Antiphons, or choral
chants in which the two sides of the choir alternately respond to each
other, had been firmly established in the Church service. For these,
however, the words were fixed as unchangeably as are the words of our
old Psalms. Nevertheless, the possibility of extending the application
of antiphons began to be felt after, and as a first stage in that
direction there was adopted a curious practice of echoing back
expressive 'ah's' and 'oh's' in musical reply to certain vital passages
not fitted with antiphons. Under skilful training this may have sounded
quite effective, but it is natural to suppose that, the antiphonal
extension having been made, the next stage was not long delayed.
Suitable lines or texts (_tropes_) would soon be invented to fill the
spaces, and immediately there sprang into being a means for providing
dramatic dialogue. If once answers were admitted, composed to fit into
certain portions of the service, there could be little objection to the
composition of other questions to follow upon the previous answers.
Religious conservatism kept invention within the strictest limits, so
that to the end these liturgical responses were little more than slight
modifications of the words of the _Vulgate_. But the dramatic element
was there, with what potentiality we shall see.

So much for dramatic dialogue. Dramatic action would appear to have
grown up with it, the one giving intensity to the other. The development
of both, side by side, is interesting to trace from records preserved
for us in old manuscripts. Considering the occasion first--for these
'attractions' were reserved for special festivals--we know that Easter
was a favourite opportunity for elaborating the service. The events
associated with Easter are in themselves intensely dramatic. They are
also of supreme importance in the teaching of the Church: of all points
in the creed none has a higher place than the belief in the
Resurrection. Therefore the 'Burial' and the 'Rising again' called for
particular elaboration. One of the earliest methods of driving these
truths home to the hearts of the unlearned and unimaginative was to
bury the crucifix for the requisite three days (a rite still observed
in many churches by the removal of the cross from the altar), and then
restore it to its exalted position; the simple act being done with much
solemn prostration and creeping on hands and knees of those whose duty
it was to bear the cross to its sepulchre. This sepulchre, it may be
explained, was usually a wooden structure, painted with guardian
soldiers, large enough to contain a tall crucifix or a man hidden, and
occupying a prominent position in the church throughout the festival.
Not infrequently it was made of more solid material, like the carved
stone 'sepulchre' in Lincoln Cathedral.

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

    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 is
selected to hide, as an angel, within the sepulchre. Towards it advance
three others, to represent three women, peeping here, glancing there, as
if they seek something. Presently a mysterious voice, proceeding out of
the tomb, sings the opening question, 'Whom do you seek?' Sadly the
three sing in reply, 'Jesus of Nazareth'. To this the first voice chants
back, 'He is not here; he has risen as he foretold: go, declare to
others that he has risen from the dead.' The three now burst forth in
joyful acclamation with, 'Alleluia! the Lord has risen.' Then from the
sepulchre issues a voice, 'Come and see the place,' the 'angel' standing
up as he sings that all may see him, and opening the doors of the
sepulchre to show clearly that the Lord is indeed risen. The empty
shroud is held up before the people, while all four sing together, 'The
Lord has risen from the tomb.' In procession they move to the altar and
lay the shroud there; the choir breaks into the _Te Deum_, and the bells
in 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 the
dialogue as it was afterwards developed we give below a translation of
part of one of these ceremonies, from a manuscript of the thirteenth
century. The whole is an elaborated _Quem quaeritis_, and the part
selected is that where Mary Magdalene approaches the Sepulchre for the
second time, lamenting the theft of her Lord's body. Two Angels sitting
within 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 place
to signify the birth of Jesus, the 'sepulchre' being modified to serve
for the Holy Infant's birthplace, and Shepherds instead of women being
signified by those who advanced towards it. The antiphon was in direct
imitation of the other, commencing '_Quem quaeritis in praesepe,
pastores?_' Another favourite representation at the same festival was
that of the Magi. The development of this is of interest. In its
simplest form, the three Magi (or Kings) advance straight up the church
to 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 a
Saviour; they present their offerings and withdraw. In a more advanced
form the three Magi approach the altar separately from different
directions, are guided by a moving 'star' down the central aisle to an
altar to the Virgin, bestow their gifts there, fall asleep, are warned
by an Angel, and return to the choir by a side aisle. For this version
the service of song also is greatly enlarged. Another rendering of the
story adds to it the interview between the Magi and Herod; yet others
include a scene between Herod and his Councillors, and the announcement
to Herod of the Magi's departure; still another extends the subject to
include the Massacre of the Innocents. Finally the early Shepherd
episode is tacked on at the beginning, the result being a lengthy
performance setting forth in action the whole narrative of the birth and
infancy of Jesus.

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

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

The image of St. Nicholas stands in a Christian church. Into the church
comes a pagan barbarian; he is about to go on a long journey, and
desires to leave his treasure in a safe place. Having heard of the
reputation of St. Nicholas as the patron of property, he lays his riches
at the foot of the statue, and in four Latin verses of song commits them
to the saint's safe-keeping. No sooner is he gone, however, than thieves
steal 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 is
not brought back. He withdraws, presumably, after this, to give St.
Nicholas an opportunity to amend matters. Whereupon one representing the
real celestial St. Nicholas suddenly appears, perhaps from behind a
curtain at the rear of the image, and seeks out the thieves. He
threatens them with exposure and torment unless they restore their
plunder; they give in; and St. Nicholas goes back to his concealment.
When the barbarian returns, his delight is naturally very great
at perceiving so complete an atonement for the saint's initial
oversight. Indeed his appreciation is so genuine that it only needs
a few words from the reappearing Saint to persuade him to accept
Christianity.--Monologue and dialogue are throughout in song. The
following is one of the three verses in which the barbarian proclaims
his 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, became
known as a Miracle Play, to differentiate it from the Mystery Plays
based on Bible stories.

_St. Nicholas_ would be performed in a church. But there is a probably
contemporaneous Norman Mystery Play, _Adam_, of unknown authorship,
which shows that the move from the church to the open air was already
being made. This play was performed just outside the church door, and
though the staging remains a matter of conjecture, it may be reasonably
assumed that the church represented Heaven, and that the three parts of
a projecting stage served respectively as Paradise (Eden), Earth, and
Hell (covered in, with side doors). The manuscript of the play (found at
Tours) 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 into
Paradise, God first giving them counsel as to what they shall and shall
not do, and then retiring into the church. The happy couple are allowed
a brief time in which to demonstrate their joy in the Garden. Then Satan
approaches from Hell and draws Adam into conversation over the barrier.
His attempt to lure Adam to his Fall is vain, nor is he more successful
the first time with Eve. But as a serpent he over-persuades her to eat
of the forbidden fruit, and she gives it to Adam, with the well-known
result. In his guilt Adam now withdraws out of sight, changes his red
tunic for a costume contrived out of leaves, and reappears in great
grief. God enters from the church and, after delivering his judgment
upon the crime, drives Adam and Eve out of Eden. With spade and hoe they
pass under the curse of labour on the second stage, toiling there with
most disappointing results (Satan sows tares in their field) until the
end 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 the
catastrophe is the same--mocking, exultant devils, and a noisy, smoky
'inferno'.

The most important characteristics of _Adam_ are the venturesome removal
of the play outside the sacred building, the increase in invented
dialogue 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 of
prohibition, which must, even in the Middle Ages, have had a restrictive
effect upon the elements of innovation and naturalness. The good people
of the Bible, the saints, had to live up to their reputation in every
small word and deed so long as their statues, images, and pictures gazed
down fixedly from the walls upon their living representatives. This was
so much a fact that to the very end Bible and Saint plays conceded
licence of action and speech only to those nameless persons, such as the
soldiers, Pharisees, and shepherds, who never attained to the
distinction of individual statues, and who could never be invoked in
prayer. Out of sight of these effigies and paintings, however, the
oppression was at once lightened. True, these model folk could not be
permitted to decline from their prescribed standards, but they might be
allowed companions of more homely tastes, and the duly authorized wicked
ones, such as the Devil, Cain, and Herod, might display their iniquity
to the full without offence. Thus it is that in this play we find great
prominence given to the Devil and his brother demons. They would delight
the common people: therefore the author misses no opportunity of
securing applause for his production by their antics. Throughout the
play we meet with such stage directions as 'the devils are to run about
the stage with suitable gestures', or the Devil 'shall make a sally
amongst the people'. In this last the seeing eye can already detect the
presence of that close intimacy between the play and the people which
was to make the drama a 'national possession' in England. The devil,
with his grimaces and gambols, was one of themselves, was a true rustic
at heart, and they shrieked and shouted with delight as he pinched their
arms or slapped them on the back. The freer invention in dialogue is
equally plain. Much that is said by Adam and the Devil has no place in
the scriptural account of the Fall, and the importance of this for the
development of these dramas cannot be exaggerated.

The move into the open air was not accidental. Every year these sacred
plays drew larger congregations to the festival service. Every year the
would-be spectators for whom the church could not find standing room
grumbled more loudly. In the churchyard (which was still within the holy
precincts) there was ample space for all. So into the churchyard the
performers went. The valuable result of this was the creation of a
raised stage, made necessary for the first time by the crushing of the
people. But alas, what could be said for the sanctity of the graves when
throngs trampled down the well-kept grass, and groups of men and women
fought for the possession of the most recent mounds as highest points of
vantage? Those whose dead lay buried there raised effectual outcries
against 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 there
set in that alienation of the Church from the Stage which was never
afterwards removed. Clerical actors were forbidden to play in the
streets. As an inevitable consequence, the learned language, Latin, was
replaced more and more by the people's own tongue. Soon the festivals
assumed 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 the
devil.

Thus the drama, having outgrown its infancy, passed from the care of the
Church into the hands of the Laity. It took with it a tradition of
careful acting, a store of Biblical subjects, a fair variety of
characters--including a thundering Herod and a mischievous Devil--and
some measure of freedom in dialogue. It gained a native language and a
boundless popularity. But for many long years after the separation the
_Epiphany Plays_ continued to be acted in the churches, and by their
very existence possibly kept intact the link with religion which
preserved for the public Mysteries and Miracles an attitude of soberness
and reverence in the hearts of their spectators. The so-called _Coventry
Play_ of the fifteenth century is a testimony to the persistence of the
serious religious element in the final stage of these popular Bible
plays.

[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 of
religious plays on the continent. The first recorded presentation of a
play in England occurred in Dunstable--under the management of a
schoolmaster, Geoffrey--about the year 1110. Probably, therefore, the
drama was part of the new civilization brought over by the Normans, and
came in a comparatively well-developed form. The title of Geoffrey's
play, _St. Katherine_, points to its having been of the _St. Nicholas_
type, a true Miracle Play, belonging to a much later stage of
development than the early _Pastores_ or _Quem Quaeritis?_. We need not
look, then, for shadowy gropings along the dramatic path. Instead we may
expect to find from the very commencement a fair grasp of essentials and
a rapidly maturing belief that the people were better guardians of the
new art than the Church.

We know nothing of _St. Katherine_ except its name. Of contemporary
plays also we know practically nothing. A writer of the late twelfth
century tells us that Saint Plays were well favoured in London. This
statement, coupled with the fact that all sacred plays, saintly
wonder-workings and Bible stories alike, were called Miracles in
England, gives a measure of support to Ten Brink's suggestion that the
English people at first shrank from the free treatment of Bible stories
on the stage, until their natural awe and reverence had become
accustomed to presentations of their favourite saints.

Passing over the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, therefore, as
centuries in which the idea of the drama was filtering through the
nation and adapting itself to its new audiences, we take up the story
again in the fourteenth century, before the end of which we know that
there were completed the four great plays still preserved to us--the
_Chester_, _Wakefield_, _York_, and _Coventry Miracles_. Early in that
century the Pope created the festival of Corpus Christi (about the
middle 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 of
the _Magi_ from one bare incident to what was really a connected series
of episodes from the scene of the 'Shepherds' to the 'Massacre of the
Innocents'. It grew by the addition of scene to scene until the series
was complete. But the 'Massacre of the Innocents' only closed the
Christmas story. For the festival of Easter fresh ground must be broken
in 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 the
more ambitious churches, any difficulty due to their length being
overcome by extending the duration of the festivals. Then a time came
when, even as St. Matthew was anxious to lay the foundations of his
Gospel firm and sure in the past, so some writer of Bible plays desired
to preface his life of Jesus with a statement of the reason for His
birth, and the 'Fall of Man' was inserted. In writing such an
introductory play he set going another possible series. To explain the
Serpent's part in the 'Fall' there was wanted a prefatory play on
'Satan's Revolt in Heaven', and to demonstrate the swift consequence of
the 'Fall', another play on 'Cain and Abel'; the further story of the
'Flood' would represent the spread of wickedness over the earth; in
fact, the possible development could be bounded only by the wide limits
of the entire Bible, and, of more immediate influence, by the
restrictions of time. That this extension of theme was not checked until
these latter limits had been reached may be judged from the fact that in
one place it was customary to start the play between four or five
o'clock in the morning, acting it scene after scene until daylight
failed. But this was when the Corpus Christi festival had become the
chief dramatic season, combining in its performances the already lengthy
series associated respectively with Christmas and Easter. Between the
'Massacre of the Innocents' and the 'Betrayal' (the point at which the
Easter play usually started) a few connecting scenes were introduced,
after which the Corpus Christi play could fairly claim to be a complete
story of 'The Fall and Redemption of Man'. Admittedly of crude literary
form, yet full of reverence and moral teaching, and with powers of
pathos and satire above the ordinary, it became one single play, the
sublimest of all dramas. To regard it as a collection of separate small
plays is a fatal mistake--fatal both to our understanding of the single
scenes and to our comprehension of the whole.

Yet the space at our disposal forbids our dealing here with every scene
of 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 the
scenes, and specimens of the treatment of a selected few. This list,
however, should not be glanced through lightly and rapidly. The title of
each scene should be paused over and the details associated with the
title recalled. In no other way can the reader hope to comprehend the
play 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 original
play, namely, the maintenance of a lofty elevation of tone wherever the
sacredness of the subject demands it. The simple dramatic freedom of
that day brought God and Heaven upon the stage, and exhibited Jesus in
every circumstance of his life and death; yet on no occasion does the
play descend from the high standard of reverence which such a subject
demanded, or derogate from the dignity of the celestial Father and Son.
That this was partly due to the Bible will be admitted at once. But
there is great credit due to the writer (or writers) who could keep so
true a sense of proportion that in scenes even of coarse derision,
almost bordering on buffoonery, the central figure remained unsoiled and
unaffected by his surroundings. A writer less filled with the religious
sense must have been strongly tempted to descend to biting dialogue, in
which his hero should silence his adversaries by superiority in the use
of their own weapon. A truer instinct warned our author that any such
scene must immediately tend to a lowering of character. He refused, and
from his pen is sent forth a Man whose conduct and speech are
unassailably above earthly taint, who is, amongst men, Divine.

Observe the impressive note struck in the opening verse. God stands
amidst his angels, prepared to exercise his sovereign wisdom in the work
of 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 pouste[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, and
the same scene presents the overthrow of Satan--not after days of
doubtful battle as Milton later pictured it, but in a moment at the word
of the Almighty, 'I bydde the ffalle from hefne to helle'. At once
follows the creation of the world and man.

_Scene 2_ brings Adam and Eve before us, rejoicing in the abundant
delights of Eden. The guiding principle of the scene is the folly and
wickedness of the Fall. Here is no thought of excuse for silly Eve. With
every good around her, and with God's prohibition unforgotten, she
chooses disobedience, and drags Adam after her. But Adam's guilt is no
less than hers. The writer had not Milton at his elbow to teach him how
to twist the Bible narrative into an argument for the superiority of
man. Adam yields to the same sophistry as led Eve astray; and sin,
rushing in with the suddenness of swallowed poison, finds its first home
not in her breast but in his. The awful doom follows. In the desolation
that succeeds, the woman's bitter sorrow is allowed to move our pity at
last. Eating at her heart is the thought, 'My husbond is lost because of
me', 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. The
scene ends with her lamenting.

The foul contagion, spreading over the earth, has been washed out in the
Flood and a fresh start made before _Scene 5_ introduces Abraham. In an
earlier paragraph we have spoken of the pathos of which these plays were
capable. Here in this scene it may be found. Abraham is, before all
things else, a father; Isaac is the apple of his eye. When as yet no
cloud fills the sky with the gloom of sacrifice, the old man exults in
his glorious possession, a son. Isaac is standing a little apart when
his 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, to
honour Almighty God, to 'be sett to serve oure Lord God above'. And
then, left alone for a while, Abraham, on his knees, thanks God for His
exceeding 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 of
his trial. Almost at once the command comes, to kill the well-beloved as
an 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 bundle
of faggots on his shoulder, and looks up wonderingly at the wrinkled
face 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 to
bind 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 had
read, not long before, of the steadfastness with which children met
persecution 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 to
strengthen that will by cheerful resignation if God's command is behind
it. At the rough altar's side Abraham's resolution fails him; from his
lips bursts the half-veiled protest, 'The ffadyr to sle the sone! My
hert doth clynge and cleve as clay'. But the lad encourages him, bidding
him strike quickly, yet adding sympathetically that his father should
turn his face away as he smites. The conquest is won. Love and duty
conflict 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 may
not see the victim's agony. Then duty raises the knife aloft, and as it
pauses in the air before its fearful descent the Angel speaks--and
saves.

The moving character of the opening, leading up to the sudden
catastrophe and, by its tragic contrast with what follows, throwing a
vivid ray into the very centre and soul of that wonderful trial of
faith; the natural sequence and diversity of emotions, love, pride,
thankfulness, horror, submission, grief, resolution, and final joy and
gratitude following each other like light and shadow; the little
touches, the suggestion to turn the face aside, the last kiss, the
handkerchief to hide the blue eyes of innocence; these are all, however
crude the technique, of the very essence of the highest art.

As will be seen from the list, only two scenes more refer to Old
Testament history, and then Jesus, whom the author has already intended
to foreshadow in Isaac (whence the lad's submission to his father's
will), begins to loom before us. The writer's religious creed prompted
him to devote considerable space to Mary, the mother of Jesus; for she
is to be the link between her Son and humanity, and therefore must be
shown free from sin from her birth. The same motive gives us a clue to
the character of Joseph. That nothing may be wanting to give whiteness
to the purity of Mary, she is implicitly contrasted with the crude
rusticity and gaffer-like obstinacy of her aged husband. He is just such
an old hobbling wiseacre as may be found supporting his rheumatic joints
with a thick stick in any Dorsetshire village. He is an old man before
he is required to marry her, and his protests against the proposed
union, accompanied with many a shake of the head, recall to modern
readers the humour of Mr. Thomas Hardy. This is how he receives the
announcement when at length his bowed legs have, with sundry rests by
the wayside, covered the distance between his home and the Temple where
Mary 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 is
delicately 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 him
into a far district as soon as the ceremony is over, nor does he permit
him to return to Mary's side until long after the Annunciation.

'The Adoration of the Magi' (_Scene 17_) introduces us to a very notable
person, no other than Herod, the model of each 'robustious periwig-pated
fellow' who on the stage would 'tear a passion to tatters, to very
rags', and so out-herod Herod. He is of old standing, a veteran of the
Church Epiphany plays, and has already learnt 'to split the ears of the
groundlings' with the stentorian sound of his pompous rhetoric. Hear him
declaim:

    As a lord in ryalte 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 bewte 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 the
children. But when the foul deed is done there await the murderer two
kings whom he cannot slay, Death and the Devil. A banquet is in full
swing, Herod's officers are about him, the customary rant and bombast is
on his lips when those two steal in. 'While the trumpets are sounding,
Death slays Herod and his two soldiers suddenly, and the Devil receives
them'--so runs the terse Latin stage-direction.

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

The scenes that now succeed each other, marking each stage of the
sorrowful descent to death, are notable chiefly for that quality to
which attention has already been drawn, namely, the dignity which
surrounds the character of the Hero. This dignity is not accidental. On
the contrary it would have been easy to fall into the error of exciting
so much compassion that the sufferer became a pitiably crushed victim of
misfortune. With much skill the writer places his most pathetic lines in
the mouths of the two Maries, diverts upon them the sharpest edge of our
pity, and never for a moment allows Jesus to appear overwhelmed. When a
Jew, 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 the
mone, that thou telle us and (_if_) thou be Goddys sone!', Jesus says
calmly, 'Goddys sone I am, I sey not nay to the!' Still later in the
same scene, the silence of Jesus before Herod (sustained through forty
lines or more of urging and vile abuse, besides cruel beatings) lifts
Him into infinite superiority over the blustering, bullying judge and
his wretched instruments. It is true that the Bible gives the facts, but
with the freedom allowed to the dramatist the excellence of the original
might 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 lying
at the foot of the Cross. Jesus has invoked God's forgiveness for His
murderers, He has promised salvation to the repentant thief, but to her
He has said nothing, and the omission sends a fear to her heart like the
blackness of midnight. Has she, unconsciously, by some chance word or
deed, 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 Death
and Hell, and the culmination of the great theme of the play in the
Redemption 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 before
we close our volume of the _Coventry Play_, for it will provide us with
examples 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 story
of the Mission of Jesus still retained its freshness, each scene
unfolded 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 the
sacred chronicle, but to these early audiences it was also the order of
a sacred drama. The 'Sacrifice of Isaac' is not merely the next event of
importance after the 'Flood': it is a dramatic forecast of the last
sacrifice of all, the Sacrifice of Christ. Even though we admit, as in
some cases we must, that the Plays are heterogeneous products of many
hands working separately, and therefore without dramatic regard for
other scenes, it is not unreasonable to suppose that when the official
text was decided upon, the several scenes may have been accommodated to
the interests of the whole. Moreover, the innate relationship of scenes
drawn from the Bible gives of itself a certain dramatic cohesion. Of the
so-called Dramatic Unities of Time and Place, however, there is no
suggestion; there is no unity of characters; there is no consideration
of what may be shocking, what pleasing as a spectacle. Whoever saw the
whole play through was hurried through thousands of years, was carried
from heaven to earth and down to hell; he beheld kings, shepherds, high
priests, executioners, playing their parts with equal effect and only
distinguished by the splendour or meanness of their apparel; he was a
witness to Satan's overthrow, to Abel's death, and was a spectator at
the flogging and crucifixion of Jesus. It is easy for those acquainted
with the later drama (of Greene especially) to see the direct line of
descent from these Miracles to the Shakespearian stage.

One interesting feature of these plays is the frequent appearance of
Angels and Devils on the stage. This accustomed the audience to the
entrance of the supernatural, in solid form, into the realm of the
natural; and paved the way for those most substantial ghosts which
showed themselves so much at home on the Elizabethan stage. We should be
not far wrong, perhaps, in describing the later introduction of the
Senecan Ghost into English drama as an innovation only in name: the
supernatural had been a familiar factor in heightening dramatic interest
long before _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ or _The Spanish Tragedy_ were
written.--Of the Devils even more may be said. Their picturesque
attire,[19] their endless pranks (not set down in the text), their
reappearance and disappearance at the most unexpected times, their howls
and 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 Miracles
were supplanted by Moralities and Interludes. The Devil's near cousin,
Herod, attained to a similar reputation and longevity. Has even modern
melodrama quite lost that immortal type of the ranting, bombastic tyrant
and 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 principal
female characters possess that sweet naturalness, depth and constancy
of affection, purity and refinement which an age that had not yet lost
the ideals of chivalry accepted as the normal qualities of a good woman.
The mothers, wives, and daughters of that day would appear to have been
before all things womanly, in an unaffected, instinctive way. Isaac (in
the _Chester Miracle Play_), thinking, in the hour of death, of his
mother'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 been
quoted. In the reconciliation between Joseph and Mary (_Scene 12_), in
Mary's patient endurance of Joseph's bad temper on the journey to
Bethlehem (_Scene 15_), in the mother's unrestrained misery at the loss
of the boy Jesus and rapture on finding Him in the Temple (_Scene 20_),
in the two sisters' forced cheerfulness by the bedside of the dying
Lazarus and their sorrow at his death--nor do these by any means exhaust
the number of favourable instances--there may be seen the basic
elements, as it were, which, more deftly handled and blended, gave to
the English stage the world's rarest gallery of noble women.

Darkness and grief are so woven into the substance of the Bible
narrative that we should indeed have been surprised if the tragic note
had not been sounded often throughout the play. That it could be sounded
well, too, will have been seen from various references and from the
Scene of Abraham's Sacrifice. Nevertheless, tragedy is a less
interesting, less original, less English element than the comedy which
pops up its head here, there, and everywhere. It is really a part of
that absence of dramatic rules already indicated, this easy conjunction
of tragedy and comedy in the same scene. English audiences never could
be persuaded to forgo their laugh. After all, it was near neighbour to
their tears throughout life; then why not on the stage? A funeral was
not the less a warning to the living because it was rounded off with a
feast. Nor was Jesus on the Cross robbed of any of the majesty and
silent eloquence of vicarious suffering by the vulgar levity of those
who bade him 'Take good eyd (_heed_) to oure corn, and chare (_scare_)
awey the crowe'. The strong sentiment of reverence set limits to the
application of this humour. Only minor characters were permitted to
express themselves in this way. The soldiers at the Sepulchre, the
Judaeans at the Cross, the 'detractors' in _Scene 14_, certain mocking
onlookers in _Scene 40_, these and others of similar stage rank spoke
the coarse jests that set free the laugh when tears were too near the
surface.--These common fellows, by the way, are the prototypes of the
familiar Citizens, Soldiers, Watch, of a later date: the Miracles were
fertile in 'originals'.--Some characters there were, however, more
individual, more of consequence than these, who attained to an
established reputation for their humour. The Devil's pranks have been
referred to; Joseph's rusticity also; and the obstinacy of Noah's wife
has been obscurely hinted at. Her gift lay in preferring the company of
her good gossips to the select family gathering assembled in the Ark,
and in playing with Noah's ears very soundingly when at length she was
forcibly dragged into safety. Two short extracts from the _Chester
Miracle_ 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 appropriate
stage-directions.]

But of all these comic characters none developed so excellent a genius
for winning laughter as the Shepherds who 'watched their flocks by
night, all seated on the ground'. To see them at their best we must turn
to the _Wakefield_ (or _Towneley_) _Miracle Play_ and read the pastoral
scene (or, rather, two scenes) there. Here we come face to face with
rustics 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 six
hundred years ago rises into life as we read.

In the first scene a beginning is made by the entrance of a single
shepherd, grumpy, frost-bitten, and growling rebelliously against the
probably widely resented practice of purveyance whereby a nobleman might
exact from his farm-tenantry provisions and service for his needs, even
though 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 of
wide-spreading floods--coupled with further reflections on the hard
conditions of a shepherd's lot. By this time the circle is complete, and
a good supper and song are produced to ratify the general harmony. But
now enters the element of discord which forms the pivot of the second
scene. Mak, a boorish fellow shrewdly suspected of sheep stealing, joins
them, and, after some chaffing, is allowed to share their grassy bed. In
the night he rises, picks out the finest ram from the flock, drives it
home, and hides it in the cradle. He then returns to his place between
two of the shepherds. As he foresaw, morning brings discovery, suspicion
and search. The three shepherds proceed to Mak's home, only to be
confronted with the well concocted story that his wife, having just
become the mother of a sturdy son, must on no account be disturbed. On
this point apparently a compromise is effected, the search to be
executed 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 pressing
their investigations too closely. Thus they pass the cradle by, and all
would have gone well with Mak but for that same warm-heartedness of
which we spoke earlier. They are already out of the house when a true
Christmas 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 better
cause, declines to believe their report of the cradle's contents, and
his wife comes nimbly to his aid with the startling explanation that it
is her son without doubt, for she saw him transformed by a fairy into
this 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, the
exertion of which sentence reduces the three to such drowsiness that
soon they are fast asleep again. From their slumber they are awakened by
the Angel's Song; upon which follows their journey with gifts to the
newborn King.

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

Little need be said of the verse commonly used in Miracles, save to
point out the preference for stanzas and for triple and quadruple
rhymes. An examination of the verses quoted will reveal something as to
the variety of forms adopted. Those cited from _Scenes 1_, _4_, and _32_
illustrate three types, while another favourite of the Coventry author
takes the following structure (A), with a variant in lines of half the
length (B):

              (A) _Angelus_.

    Wendyth fforthe, ye women thre,
    Into the strete of Galyle;
    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 in
the 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 date
from the time when the complete Miracle Play was a fully established
annual 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 that
secular officialdom should extend its protection and guidance. Local
corporations, recognizing the commercial advantages of an attraction
which could annually draw crowds of country customers into the towns,
made themselves responsible for the production of the plays. While
delegating all the hard work to the trade guilds, as being the chief
gainers from the invasion, they maintained central control, authorizing
the text of the play, distributing the scenes amongst those responsible
for their presentation, and visiting any slackness with proper pains and
penalties. Under able public management Miracle Plays soon became a
yearly affair in every English town.

When the time came round for the festival to be held--Corpus Christi Day
being a general favourite, though Whitsuntide also had its adherents,
and for some Easter was apparently not too cold--the manuscript of the
play was brought forth from the archives, the probable cost and
difficulties of each scene were considered, the strength or poverty of
the various guilds was carefully weighed, and finally as just an
allocation was made as circumstances would permit. If two guilds were
very poor they were allowed to share the production of one scene. If a
guild were wealthy it might be required to manage two scenes, and those
costly ones. For scenes differed considerably in expense: such
personages 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 on
their visit to Elizabeth. Where there was no difficulty on the score of
finance, a guild might be entrusted with a scene--if there was a
suitable one--which made special demands on its own craft. Thus, from
the York records we learn that the Tanners were given the Overthrow of
Lucifer and his fellow devils (who would be dressed in brown leather);
the Shipwrights, the Building of the Ark; the Fishmongers and Mariners
jointly, 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); the
Vintners, the Marriage at Cana; the Bakers, the Last Supper; the
Butchers and Poulterers, the Crucifixion.

As soon as a Guild had been allotted its scene it appointed a manager to
carry the matter through. The individual expense was not great,
somewhere between a penny and fourpence for each member. Out of the sum
thus raised had to be paid the cost of dresses and stage-scenery, and
the actors' remunerations (which included food during the period of
rehearsals as well as on the actual playing days). No such crude
simplicity as is made fun of in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ was
admitted into the plays given in the towns, however natural it may have
been 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 was
insisted upon as early as the tenth century. An interesting record
(dated 1462) in the Beverley archives states that a certain member of
the Weavers' Guild was fined for not knowing his part. It would be quite
a mistake, therefore, to suppose that fifteenth-century acting was an
unstudied art. Similarly, caution must be used in ridiculing the
stage-properties of that day. One has only to peruse intelligently one
of the bald lists of items of expenditure to discover that a placard
bearing such an inscription as 'The Ark' or 'Hell' was not the accepted
means of giving reality to a scene. The Ark was an elaborate structure
demanding a team of horses for its entrance and exit; while Hell-mouth,
copying the traditional representations in mediaeval sculpture, was a
most ingenious contrivance, designed in the likeness of gaping jaws
which opened and shut in fearful style, emitting volumes of sulphurous
smoke, not to mention awesome noises. The 'make-ups' too were far from
being the arbitrary fancies of the wearers. True, they possibly bore no
great resemblance to the originals. But that was due to an ignorance of
history rather than to carelessness about truth. The probability is that
in many cases the images and paintings in the churches were imitated, as
being faithful likenesses. One has merely to call to mind certain
stained-glass windows to guess what sort of realism was reached and to
understand how it came about that Herod appeared in blue satin, Pilate
and 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 off
from 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 a
convenient rope lent aid to too flimsy wings. Contrariwise, the devil
would lurk in the dressing-room, if Hell-mouth were out of repair, until
the word came for him to thrust the curtains aside, dart out, pull his
victim off the stage and bear him away to torment. The street itself was
quite freely used whenever conditions seemed to require it: messengers,
for example, pushed their way realistically through the crowd; devils
ran merrily about in its open space; and when Herod felt the whole stage
too narrow to contain his fury he sought the ampler bounds of the
market-place to rage in. Sometimes two or more stages were placed in
proximity to accommodate actions that must take place at the same time.
Thus we read in _Scene 25_ ('The Council of the Jews') of the _Coventry
Play_, 'Here xal Annas, shewyn hymself in his stage, be seyn after a
busshop of the hoold lawe, in a skarlet gowne, and over that a blew
tabbard furryd with whyte, and a mytere on his hed, after the hoold
lawe' (the dress is interesting); and a little further on, 'Here goth
the masangere forth, and in the mene tyme Cayphas shewyth himself in his
skafhald 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 stolys
and cusshonys clenly be-seyn, lyche as it were a cownsel-hous'. Again,
in _Scene 27_ ('The Last Supper') will be found this direction: 'Here
Cryst enteryth into the hous with his disciplis and ete the Paschal
lomb; and in the mene tyme the cownsel-hous beforn-seyd xal sodeynly
onclose, schewyng the buschopys, prestys, and jewgys syttyng in here
astat, lyche as it were a convocacyon.' This last is quoted for the
additional inference that the Coventry stage remained in one place
throughout the play; for the previous reference to the 'cownsel-hous' is
that quoted, two scenes earlier. There was another custom, practised in
Chester, and probably in other towns where the crowd was great. There
the whole stage, dressing-room and all, was mounted on wheels and drawn
round the town, pausing at appointed stations to present its scene. By
this means the crowd could be widely scattered (to the more equitable
advantage of shopkeepers), for a spectator had only to remain at one of
these stations to behold, in due order of procession, the whole play
acted. Thus mounted on wheels the stage took the name of a pageant (or
pagond, in ruder spelling),--a name soon extended to include not only a
stage without wheels but even the stage itself. It is used with the
latter meaning in the Prologue to the _Coventry Play_.

With regard to the time occupied by the play, it is not possible to do
much more than guess, since plays varied considerably in the number of
their scenes. In one town, as we have said, the whole performance was
crowded into a single day, starting as early as 4.30 a.m. Chester, on
the other hand, devoted three days to its festival, while at Newcastle
acting was confined to the afternoons. Humane consideration for the
actors forbade that they should be required to act more than twice a
day. They were well paid, as much as fourpence being given for a good
cock-crower (in 'The Trial of Christ'), while the part of God was worth
three and fourpence: no contemptible sums at a time when a quart of wine
cost twopence and a goose threepence. A little uncertainty exists as to
the professional character of the actors, but the generally approved
opinion seems to be that they were merely members of the Guilds,
probably selected afresh each year and carefully trained for their
parts. The more professional class, the so-called minstrels or vagrant
performers (descendants of the Norman _jongleurs_), possibly provided
the music, which appears to have filled a large and useful part in the
plays.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Those that remain with us, however, contain qualities which may make us
wonder why they did not receive greater recognition. It may be that we
misjudge the extent of their popularity, though survival is usually a
fairly good guide. Certainly they shared, or borrowed, some of the
'attractive' features of their rivals: there was not lacking a liberal
flavour of the horrible, the satanic, the coarse and the comical.
Moreover, they possessed much greater possibilities for purely dramatic
effect. The cohesion of incidents was firmer, the evolution of the plot
more vigorous, the crisis more surprising, the opportunities for
originality more plentiful. The very fact that they could not easily be
welded together as scenes in a larger play is a testimonial to their
art. They are more complete in themselves. They are, that is to say, a
further stage on the way to that Elizabethan drama which only became
possible when all idea of a day-long play had been discarded in favour
of scenes more single and self-contained. The sacredness, also, of the
saintly narrative was less binding than that of the Bible story. Those
who had a compunction in caricaturing or coarsening the unholy or
nameless people of the Scriptures would feel their liberty immensely
widened in a representation of the secular and heathen world which
surrounded their saint. This is clearly seen in the _Miracle of the
Sacrament_, where the figure of Jonathas the Jew is portrayed with
distinct originality. His long recital of his wealth in costly jewels,
and the equally lengthy statement by Aristorius, the corruptible
Christian merchant, of his numerous argosies and profitable ventures,
are early exercises in the style perfected by Marlowe's Barabas. The
whole story, from the stealing of the Sacred Host by Aristorius and its
sale to Jonathas, right on through the villainous assaults, by the Jew
and his confederates, upon its sanctity, and the miraculous
manifestations of its power, to Jonathas's final conversion and the
restoration of the sacrament, is a very fair example of the power which
these 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 of
Christ', '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, but
inherent in them. They were far too long. Their story was well known and
strictly confined by the two covers of the Bible. Their characters were
all provided by the familiar narrative. It is true that a few additions
to the canonical list were admitted, such as Cain's servant Garcio,
Pilate's beadle, and Mak the sheep-stealer. Lively characters were also
created out of nonentities like the various Judaeans and soldiers, and
the shepherds. But these were all minors; they had no influence on the
course of the action, and the smallness of their part made anything like
a full delineation impossible. They were real men, recognizable as akin
to local types, but no more; one never knew anything of them beyond
their simplicity or brutality. Meanwhile their superiors, clothed in the
stiff dress of tradition and reverence, passed over the stage with
hardly an idea or gesture to distinguish them from their predecessors of
three centuries before.

The English nation grew tired of Bible Plays. There can be no doubt of
this if we consider the kind of play that for a time secured the first
place in popularity. Only audiences weary of its alternative could have
waxed enthusiastic over _The Castell of Perseverance_ or _Everyman_.
Something shorter was wanted, with an original plot and some fresh
characters. To some extent, as has been shown, the Saint Plays supplied
these requirements, and one is tempted to suspect that in the latter
part of their career there was some subversion of the relative positions
of 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 to
suffer the same fate, of relegation to a secondary place in the Drama.
In letting them pass from our notice, however, we must not exaggerate
their decline. The first Moralities appeared as early as the fifteenth
century, 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 former
probably met with their complete success only when they had become
merged in the Interludes.

In its purest form the Morality Play was simply the subject of the
Miracle Play writ small, the general theme of the Fall and Redemption of
Man applied to the particular case of an individual soul. The central
figure was a Human Being; his varying fortunes as he passed from
childhood to old age supplied the incidents, and his ultimate destiny
crowned the action. Around him were grouped virtues and vices, at his
elbows were his good and his bad angel, while at the end of life waited
Heaven or Hell to receive him, according to his merits and the mercy of
God. The merits were commonly minimized to emphasize the mercy, with
happy results for the interest of the play.

It is easy to see how all this harmonized with the mediaeval allegorical
element in religion and literature. A century earlier Langland had
scourged wickedness in high places in his famous allegory, _Piers
Plowman_. A century later Spenser was to weave the most exquisite verse
round the defeats and triumphs of the spirit of righteousness in man's
soul. Nor had allegory yet died when Bunyan wrote, for all time, his
story of the battling of Christian against his natural failings. After
all, a Morality Play was only a dramatized version of an inferior
_Pilgrim's Progress_; and those of us who have not wholly lost the
imagination of our childhood still find pleasure in that book. In
judging the Moralities, therefore, we must not forget the audience to
which they appealed. We shall be the more lenient when we discover how
soon they were improved upon.

Influenced at first by the comprehensiveness of the plot in the Miracle
Play, the writers of the early Moralities were satisfied with the
compression of action effected by the change from the general to the
particular theme. This had brought about a reduction in the time
required for the acting; and along with these gains had come the further
advantages of novelty and originality. Accordingly the author of _The
Castell of Perseverance_ (almost the only true Morality handed down to
us) was quite content to let his play run to well over three thousand
lines, seeing that within this space he set forth the whole life of a
man from the cradle to the grave and even beyond. But later writers were
quick to see that this so-called particular theme was still a great deal
too general, leaving only the broadest outlines available for characters
and incidents. By omitting the stages of childhood and early manhood
they could plunge at once into the last stage, where, beneath the shadow
of imminent destiny, every action had an intensified interest. Moreover,
within such narrowed boundaries each incident could be painted in
detail, each character finished off with more realistic traits. It was
doubtless under such promptings that the original Dutch _Everyman_ was
written, and the alacrity with which it was translated and adopted among
English Moralities shows that its principle was welcomed as an artistic
advance. 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 before
us a more definite notion of the contents of _The Castell of
Perseverance_ and _Everyman_ than could be gathered from these general
remarks. For a summary of the former we shall be glad to borrow the
outline 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, and
as a graybeard. As soon as the child appears upon the stage we see the
Angel of Good and the Angel of Evil coming and speaking to him. He
follows the Evil Angel and is led to Mundus (the World), who gives him
Joy and Folly, and very soon also Slander, for his companions. By the
latter--or, to stick to the literal expression of the poet, by this
latter female personage--_Humanum Genus_ is introduced to Greed, who
soon presents to him the other Deadly Sins. We see the hero, when a
young man, choosing Lust as his bed-fellow; and, in spite of the
endeavours of his Good Angel, he continues in his sinful career until at
length Repentance leads him to Confession. At forty years of age we see
him in the _Castle of Constancy_ [or _Perseverance_], whither he has
been brought by Confession, surrounded by the seven most excellent
Virtues.... The castle is surrounded by the three Evil Powers and the
Seven Deadly Sins, with the Devil at their head, and with foot and horse
is closely besieged. _Humanum Genus_ commends himself to his general,
who died on the cross; but the Virtues valiantly defend the Castle; and
Love 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 to
the seductions of Greed, who has succeeded in creeping up to the castle
walls. The old man quits the Castle and follows the seducer. His end is
nigh at hand. The rising generation, represented by a Boy, demands of
him his heaped-up treasures. And now Death and Soul appear upon the
scene. 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 and
Truth on the other. God decides in favour of Mercy; Peace takes the soul
of _Humanum Genus_ from the Evil Angel, and Mercy carries it to God, who
then 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 a
thousand pounds for another twelve years in which to fill up his
'Account'. But no delay is possible. At once he must start on his
journey. Can he among his friends find one willing to bear him company?
He tries. But Fellowship and Kindred and Cousin, willing enough for
other services, decline to undertake this one. Goods (or Wealth)
confesses that, as a matter of fact, his presence would only make things
worse for Everyman, for love of riches is a sin. Finally Everyman seeks
out poor forgotten Good-Deeds, only to find her bound fast by his sins.
In this strait he turns to Knowledge, and under her guidance visits
Confession, who prescribes a penance of self-chastisement. The
administration of this has so liberating an effect on Good-Deeds that
she is able to rise and join Everyman and Knowledge. To them are
summoned Discretion, Strength, Beauty and Five-Wits--friends of
Everyman--and all journey together until, as they draw near the end, the
last four depart. At the grave Knowledge stays outside, but Good-Deeds
enters with Everyman, whose welcome to Heaven is announced directly
afterwards by an angel. The epilogue, spoken by a Doctor, supplies a
pious interpretation of the play.

Such are the stories of the two best known Moralities. From them we can
judge how great a change had come over the drama. Nowhere is there any
incident approaching the nature of 'The Sacrifice of Isaac', nowhere is
there any character worthy to stand beside the Mary of the Miracle Play.
Those are the losses. On the other hand, we perceive a new
compactness--still loose, but much in advance of what existed
before--whereby the central figure is always before us, urged along from
one act and one set of surroundings to another, towards a goal which is
never lost sight of. Also there is the invention which provides for
these two plays different plots, as well as some diversity of
characters. The superiority of the shorter play--_Everyman_ contains
just over nine hundred lines--to the older one is less readily detected
in a comparison of bare plots, though it becomes obvious as soon as one
reads the plays. It lies in a more detailed characterization, in a
deliberate attempt to humanize the abstractions, in the substitution of
something like real conversation for the orderly succession of debating
society speeches. The following extracts will illustrate this
difference.

     (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 met
such a fellow as Fellowship; at some time we have taken part in such a
conversation, and heard the gushing acquaintance of prosperous days
excuse himself in the hour of trouble. But never in daily life was met
so dull a creature as one of those angels, nor ever was heard
conversation like theirs.

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

We have said that Moralities gave to the drama originality in plot and
in characters. This statement invites qualification, for its truth is
confined to rather narrow limits, in fact, to the early days of this new
kind of play. Let a few Moralities be produced and the rest will be
found to be treading very closely in their footsteps. For there are not
possible many divergent variations of a story that must have for its
central figure Man in his three ages and must express itself
allegorically. Nor is the list of Virtues and Vices so large that it can
provide an inexhaustible supply of fresh characters. However ingenious
authors may be, the day is quickly reached when parallelism drives their
audience to a wearisome consciousness that the speeches have all been
heard before, that the next step in the plot can be foretold to a
nicety. Something of this was perceived by the author of _Everyman_.
With bold strokes of the pen he drew a line through two-thirds of the
orthodox plot, crossed off from the list of characters the hackneyed
Good 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 of
the old Morality are for the most part, like the two Angels, mere
mouthpieces for pious or wicked counsels. Fellowship and his companions,
on the other hand, are selected examples from well-known and
clearly-defined classes of mankind. They are not more than that. All we
know of Fellowship is his ready faculty for excusing himself when help
is 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 our
memory we find that the descriptions differ widely in all but the one
common characteristic. In other words, he is a type. The step which
brings us to the Interludes is the conversion of the type into an
individual with special marks about him peculiar to himself. It is an
ingenious suggestion, that the idea first found expression in an attempt
to excite interest by adding to a character one or two of the
peculiarities of a local celebrity (miser, prodigal, or beggar) known
for the quality typified. If this was so, it was an interesting
reversion to the methods of Aristophanes. But it is only a guess. What
is certain is that in the Interludes we find the 'type' gradually
assuming a greater complexity, a larger measure of those minor features
which make the ordinary man interesting. Significantly enough, the last
thing to be acquired was a name such as ordinary men bear. A few
characters attained to that certificate of individuality, but even
Heywood, the master of the Interlude, preferred class names, such as
Palmer, Pardoner, or Pedlar. This should warn us not to expect too much
from the change. To the very end some features of the earliest
Moralities are discernible: we shall meet Good Angel and Bad Angel in
one of Marlowe's plays. After all, the interval of time is not so very
great. _The Castell of Perseverance_ was written probably about the
middle of the fifteenth century; _Everyman_ may be assigned to the close
of that century or the beginning of the next; one of the earliest
surviving 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 of
characterization at work. How much of the old is blended with it may be
seen in the opening speech, which is delivered by as colourless an
abstraction as ever advocated a virtuous life in the Moralities. A good
old man, Pity, sits alone, describing himself to his hearers. To him
comes Contemplation, and shortly afterwards Perseverance, both younger
men but just as undeniably 'Virtues'. Each explains his nature to the
audience before discovering the presence of Pity, but they quickly fall
into a highly edifying conversation. Fortunately for us Contemplation
and Perseverance have other engagements, which draw them away. Pity
relapses into a corner and silence. Thereupon two men of a very
different 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 whom
providence saves from drowning for another fate. He is sore, this second
fellow, with sitting in the stocks; yet quite unrepentant, boasting,
rather, of his skill in avoiding heavier penalties. That others come to
the 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 the
incident with so much circumstantial detail that it would be a pity not
to 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 for
Hick Scorner immediately brings that redoubtable gentleman upon the
stage, possibly slightly the worse for liquor, seeing that his first
words are those of one on a ship at sea. They may, however, indicate
merely 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 mile
out of hell'. He is acquainted with the names of many vessels, of which
'the _Anne_ of Fowey, the _Star_ of Saltash, with the _Jesus_ of
Plymouth' are but a few. With something of a chuckle he adds that a
fleet of these ships bound for Ireland with a crowded company of all the
godly persons of England--'piteous people, that be of sin destroyers',
'mourners for sin, with lamentation', and 'good rich men that helpeth
folk out of prison'--has been wrecked on a quicksand and the whole
company drowned. Next he has an ill-sounding report of his own last
voyage to give. When that is finished Imagination proposes an
adjournment for pleasures more active than conversation, where purses
may 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, takes
the opportunity to ask after Imagination's father in such unmannerly
terms as at once to rouse his friend's quick temper. In a moment a
quarrel is assured, nor does Hick Scorner's attempted mediation produce
any other reward than a shrewd blow on the head. At this precise
instant, however, old Pity, who has remained unnoticed, and who is
unwarned by the fate of Hick Scorner, pushes forward with an idea of
intervention. As might have been foreseen, the three rascals promptly
unite in rounding upon him. They insult him, they threaten him, they
raise malicious lying charges against him, and finally they clap him in
irons and leave him--Imagination being the ringleader throughout. Left
alone 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 in
his affliction comes with the return of Contemplation and Perseverance,
who, releasing him, send him off to fetch his persecutors back. Fortune
is on their side, for scarcely has Pity gone when Freewill enters by
himself with a wonderful account of his latest roguery--the robbing of a
till--for the ears of his audience. Contemplation and Perseverance,
stout enough of limb when they have a mind to use force, listen quietly
to the end and then calmly inform him that he is their prisoner, a fact
which no amount of blustering defiance can alter. Nevertheless, though
he has thus openly confessed his own guilt, they have no wish to proceed
to extremes. If only he will give up his wicked life they will be
content, made happy by the knowledge of his salvation. It is a strange
sort of conversion, Freewill's tongue running constantly, with an
obvious relish, on the various punishments he has endured; but at length
he capitulates, accepting Perseverance as his future guide, and donning
the 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 the
little group in search of his friend and stares wonderingly on
perceiving him in his new dress. Now begins a second tussle for the
winning of a soul. The fashion of it can be inferred from the following
fragment.

    _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 Scorner
never returns, the double conversion brings the play to a close.

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

We shall have been disappointed in the plot. That part of the drama
seems to be getting worse. Humankind was at least gaining fresh
experience in _The Castell of Perseverance_; he was even besieged in a
fortress and had the narrowest escape in the world from being carried
off to Hell. Everyman's startling doom, his eager quest for a companion
on his journey, and his zealous self-discipline keep us to the end in a
state of concern for his ultimate fate. But what interest have we in
Contemplation, Freewill and the rest, apart from what they say? No
suggestion is thrown out at the beginning that two of the rogues are to
be reclaimed: their fate concerns us not at all. The quarrel, and the
ill-treatment of poor old Pity, are the merest by-play, with no
importance whatsoever as a step in the evolution of a plot. Indeed it is
open to question whether there is a plot. There are speeches, there is
conversation, there is some scuffling, and there is a happy ending, but
there is no guiding thread running through the story, no discernible
objective steadily aimed at from the start. It looks as though the new
interest in drawing (or seeing) a real human individual has monopolized
the whole attention; that for the time being characterization has driven
plot-building completely into the shade.

A curious, yet not unnatural, thing has happened. In _The Castell of
Perseverance_ Humankind was more acted upon than acting. The real force
of the action lay in the antagonism between the Virtues and Vices, the
Good Angel and the Bad Angel, an antagonism so inveterate that even if
the temporary object of their struggle were removed, the strife would
still break out again from the sheer viciousness of the Vices. This
instinctive hostility between Virtues and Vices supplies the groundwork
of the Interludes. They dismiss Humankind from the stage. He was always
a weak, oscillating sort of creature. Sound, forceful Abstractions and
Types were wanted, which could be worked up into thoroughgoing rascals
or heroes, rascality having all the preference. Any underlying thread,
therefore, that there may be in _Hick Scorner_ is this rivalry and
embitterment between the wicked sort and the virtuous. We shall observe
that already one of the rogues is taking precedence of the others in
dramatic importance, in fullness of portraiture, and, of course, in
villany.

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

Nichol Newfangle receives a commission from Lucifer to go through the
world bringing similar persons together, like to like. Accordingly he
acts as arbiter between Ralph Roister and Tom Tosspot in a dispute as to
which of the two is the greater knave, and, deciding that both are
equal, promises them equal shares in certain property he has at
disposal. Next, meeting Cuthbert Cutpurse and Pierce Pickpurse, he gives
them news of a piece of land which has fallen to them by unexpected
succession. He then adjourns with his friends to an alehouse, leaving
the stage to Virtuous Living, who has already chidden him for his sins
who now, after a long monologue or chant, is rewarded by Good Fame and
Honour, the servants of God's Promise. On the departure of these
Virtues, Newfangle returns, shortly followed by Ralph and Tom, penniless
from a game of dice, and more than ever anxious for the property. This
last proves to be no more than a beggar's bag, bottle and staff,
suitable to their present condition, but so little satisfying, that
Newfangle receives a terrible drubbing for his trick. Judge Severity
arrives on the scene conveniently to lecture him severely and witness
his second knavish device, which is no other than to hand over to the
Judge the two fugitives from justice, Cutpurse and Pickpurse, for the
piece of land of which he spoke is the gallows. Hankin Hangman takes
possession of his victims, and the Devil, entering with a 'Ho, ho, ho!',
carries Newfangle away with him on his back. Virtuous Life, Honour and
Good Fame bring the play to a proper conclusion with prayers for the
Queen, Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, this customary
exhibition of loyalty being rounded off with a hymn.

This play, though so much later in date than _Hick Scorner_, shows no
improvement in plot. Nor, perhaps, ought we to expect that it should. An
Interlude, as its name implies, was originally only a kind of stop-gap,
an entree of light entertainment between other events; and what so
welcome for this purpose as the inconsequential dialogue, by-play, and
mutual trickery of sundry 'lewd fellows of the baser sort'? When it
extended its sphere from the castle banqueting-hall to the street or
inn-yard no greater excellence was expected from it. Its brevity saved
it from tediousness, and the Virtues, whom the lingering influence of
religion upon the drama saved from the wreck of the Morality Plays, were
given a more and more subordinate place. In this play they serve to
point the moral by showing the reward that comes to righteousness in
sharp contrast to the poverty and vile death that are the meed of
wickedness. But it is noticeable that they are quite apart from the
other group, much more so than was the case in _Hick Scorner_.

Instead of a plot we find an increasing admixture of buffoonery, without
which no Interlude could be regarded as complete. Herein we see the
influence 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 humour
and rough-and-tumble buffoonery on the stage. Held in some restraint by
the 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 voice
compels him to recite the rest in the thick stutter of a drunken man. He
carries a pot of ale in his hand, from which he drinks to the health of
Tom Tosspot, giving the toast with a 'Ca-ca-carouse to-to-to thee,
go-go-good Tom'--which is but an indifferent hexameter. At the
suggestion 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 with
unlimited comicality of effort, he staggers into a chair and proceeds to
snore loudly. All this is accompanied by a fitting fashion of
conversation. We can only hope that the author's attempts at humour met
with the applause he clearly expected. We believe they did, for he was
only copying a widespread custom.

Of far more importance than Hance, however, are the two characters, the
Devil and Nichol Newfangle. They invite joint treatment by their own
declared relationship and by the close union which stage tradition
quickly gave to them. Most of us will remember Shakespeare's song from
_Twelfth Night_ bearing on these two notorious companions, their quaint
garb, 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,' says
the list of dramatis personae. We noticed in our consideration of _Hick
Scorner_ that one of the Vices, Imagination, was eminent for his more
detailed character and readier villany. The trick has been adopted; the
favourite has grown fast. He has become _the_ Vice. Compared with him
the rest of the Vices appear foolish fellows whom it is his delight to
plague and lead astray. So supreme is he in wickedness that he has even
been given the Devil himself as his godfather, uncle, playmate. It is
his duty to keep alive the natural wickedness in man, to set snares and
evil mischances before the feet of simpler folk, to teach youth to be
idle and young men to be quarrelsome, to lure rogues to their ruin; but,
above all, to import wit into prosy dialogues, merriment into dull
situations. 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 from
the Miracles! 'My husband, Timothy Tattle, God rest his poor soul!' says
good Gossip Tattle, 'was wont to say, there was no play without a fool
and a devil in 't; he was for the devil still, God bless him! The devil
for his money, would he say, I would fain see the devil.' And Gossip
Mirth adds a description of the Devil as she knew him: 'As fine a
gentleman of his inches as ever I saw trusted to the stage, or any where
else; 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 play
where 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 necessity
of 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 two
popular characters as may be found in any of the Interludes. Our
attention will not be misplaced if we pry a little closer into the
method of presentation.

The Vice must be merry; that above all. Accordingly the stage-direction
at the opening of the play reads thus, 'Here entereth Nichol Newfangle
the Vice, laughing, and hath a knave of clubs in his hand which, as soon
as he speaketh, he offereth unto one of the men or boys standing by.' He
is apparently on familiar terms already with the 'gallery' (or, in the
term of that day, 'groundlings'); as intimate as the modern clown with
his stage-asides for the exclusive benefit of 'the gods'. When we read
the 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 fellow
who 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 play
by this comically-conceived illustration of the meaning of its strange
title. 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 so
on, until arrested by the abrupt entrance of another person. This
newcomer somersaults on to the stage and cuts divers uncouth capers
exactly 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 and
presents a queer figure, clothed in a bearskin and bearing in large
print on his chest and back the name Lucifer. He too commences with a
laugh or a shout, 'Ho!'. That is the hall-mark of the Devil and the
Vice, the herald's blare of trumpets, so to speak, before the speech of
His 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, the
very kin of Newfangle; both have the same godfather. So the dialogue
opens 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, nor
yet with Tom Collier of Croydon, who joins them in a jig and a song. He
soon 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 the
Christmas pantomime, if this episode is to have its full meaning. Brief
in words, it may quite easily have occupied five minutes and more in
acting.

As related more or less distantly to the noisy element, the many songs
in this Interlude call for notice. The practice of introducing lyrics
was in vogue long before the playwrights of Shakespeare's time displayed
their use so perfectly. From this point onwards the drama rings with the
rough drinking songs, pious hymns, and sweet lyrics of the buffoon, the
preacher, and the lover. Thus, turning haphazard to _The Trial of
Treasure_, the Interlude immediately preceding _Like Will to Like_ in
the volume of Dodsley's _Old English Plays_, we find no less than eight
songs. _Like Will to Like_ has also eight. _New Custom_, the other
Interlude in the same volume, has only two; but it may be added that, as
the author of _New Custom_ was writing with a very special and sober
purpose in view, he may have felt that much singing would be
inappropriate. That these lyrics went with a good swing may be judged
from 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 religious
element in the Interludes. Probably 'moral element' would describe it
better, though in those days religion and morality were perhaps less
separable than they are to-day. In the midst of so much comical
wickedness and naughty wit, with a decreasing use of the old Morality
Virtues, it might be thought that this element would be crowded out. But
it was not so. The downfall of the unrighteous was never allowed to pass
without the voice of the preacher, frequently the reprobate himself,
pointing the warning to those present. Cuthbert Cutpurse makes a 'godly
end' 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 this
same element of moral teaching. Take up what Interlude we will, the
preacher is always to be found uttering his short sermon on the folly of
sin. Our merry friend, the Vice, usually gets caught in his own toils at
last; even if he is spared this defeat, he must ultimately be borne off
by the Devil.

But there are lessons to be learnt other than the elementary one that
virtue is a wiser guide than vice: many an Interlude was written to
castigate a particular form of laxity or drive home a needed reform, in
those years when the Stage was the Cinderella of the Church; one at
least, _The Four Elements_, was written to disseminate schoolroom
learning in an attractive manner. _Nice Wanton_ (about 1560) traces the
downward career of two spoilt children, paints the remorse of their
mother, 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 a
sufficient clue to its purpose, permits a boy to refuse to go to
school, and, as a young man, to flout his father's advice in regard to
matrimony, only to bring him to the bottom rung of miserable drudgery
and servitude under a scolding wife. Of some interest is the lad's
report of a schoolboy's life, voicing, as it possibly does, a needed
criticism 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_ (1570
approx.) will show how pleasantly, yet pointedly, the younger generation
of that day was taught the necessity of sustained industry if
scholarship 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 into
acts and scenes, indicate an author of some classical knowledge.

Wit, a promising youth, son of Nature, decides to marry Science, the
daughter of Reason and Experience. Nature approves of his intention, but
warns him that 'travail and time' are the only two by whose help he can
win the maid. For his servant and companion, however, she gives him
Will, a lively boy, full of sprightly fire. Science is now approached.
But it appears that only he who shall slay the giant, Tediousness, may
be her husband. To this trial Wit volunteers. He is advised first to
undergo long years of training under Instruction, Study, and Diligence;
but, soon tiring of them, he rashly goes to the fight, trusting that his
own strength, backed by the courage of Will and the half-hearted support
of Diligence, will prove sufficient. Too self-confident, he is
overthrown and his companions are put to flight. Will soon returns with
Recreation, by whose skill Wit is restored to vigour and better
resolution. Nevertheless, directly afterwards, he accepts the gentle
ministrations of the false jade, Idleness, who sings him to sleep and
then transforms him into the appearance of Ignorance. In this plight he
is found by his lady-love and her parents, who do not at first recognize
him. Shame is called in to doctor him. On his recovery he returns very
repentantly to the tuition of his three teachers, until, by their help
and Will's, he is able to slay the giant. As his reward he marries
Science.

As one of several good things in this pleasant Interlude may be quoted
Will's speech on life before and after marriage, from the point of view
of 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 these
unblushingly didactic Interludes attracted into authorship writers with
purposes more aggressive and debatable than those pertaining to wise
conduct. Zealous reformers, earnest proselytizers, fierce dogmatists
turned to the drama as a medium through which they might effectively
reach the ears and hearts of the people. Kirchmayer's _Pammachius_,
translated into English by Bale (author of _King John_), contained an
attack on the Pope as Antichrist. In 1527 the boys of St. Paul's acted a
play (now unknown) in which Luther figured ignominiously. Here then were
Roman Catholics and Protestants extending their furious battleground to
the stage. This style of thing came to such a pitch that it was actually
judged necessary to forbid it by law. Similar plays, however, still
continued to be produced; and even King Edward VI is credited with the
authorship of a strongly Protestant comedy entitled _De Meretrice
Babylonica_.

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

    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 England
glorified, 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 papistical
tyranny and an ardent lover of his country, in whose cause he suffered
death by poisoning at the hands of a monk. Stephen Langton, the Pope and
Cardinal Pandulph figure as Sedition, Usurped Power and Private Wealth.
A summary of the play, provided by an Interpreter, supplies us with the
following 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 to
beat for deliberate partisan misrepresentation. The king feels himself
about 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 effect
from the politico-religious class of play represented by _New Custom_,
are the early Interludes of John Heywood. It is quite impossible to read
such a play as _The Pardoner and the Friar_ and believe that its author
wrote under any such earnest and sober inspiration as did the author of
_New Custom_. His intention was frankly to amuse, and to paint life as
he saw it without the intrusion of unreal personages of highly virtuous
but dull ideas. Yet he swung the lash of satire as cuttingly and as
merrily about the flanks of ecclesiastical superstition as ever did the
creator of Perverse Doctrine.[47]

The simplest plot sufficed Heywood, and the minimum of characters. _The
Pardoner and the Friar_ (possibly as early as 1520) demands only four
persons, while the plot may be summed up in a few sentences, thus: A
Pardoner and a Friar, from closely adjoining platforms, are endeavouring
to address the same crowd, the one to sell relics, the other to beg
money for his order. By a sort of stichomythic alternation each for a
time is supposed to carry on his speech regardless of the other, so that
to follow either connectedly the alternate lines must be read in
sequence. But every now and then they break off for abuse, and finally
they fight. A Parson and neighbour Prat interfere to convey them to jail
for the disturbance, but are themselves badly mauled. Then the Pardoner
and the Friar go off amicably together. There is no allegory, no moral;
merely satire on the fraudulent and hypocritical practices of pardoners
and friars, together with some horseplay to raise a louder laugh. The
fashion of that satire may be judged from the following exchange of home
truths 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, a
pardoner, a 'pothecary and a pedlar, and for plot only a single
conversation, devoid even of the rough play which usually enlivened
discussions on the stage. In the debate arises a contest as to who can
tell the biggest lie--won by the palmer's statement that he has never
seen a woman out of patience--and that is the sole dramatic element.
Nevertheless, by sheer wit interest is maintained to the end, every one
smiling over the rival claims of such veteran humbugs as the old-time
pardoner and apothecary; scant reverence does 'Pothecary vouchsafe to
Pardoner's potent relics, his 'of All Hallows the blessed jaw-bone', his
'great toe of the Trinity', his 'buttock-bone of Pentecost', and the
rest. One of the raciest passages occurs in the Pardoner's relation of
the wonders he has performed in the execution of his office. Amongst
other deeds of note is the bringing back of a certain woman from hell to
earth. For this purpose the Pardoner visited the lower regions in
person--so he says--and brought her out in triumph with the full and
joyful 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 Johan
Johan the Husband, Tyb his Wife, and Sir Jhon the Priest_ (printed
1533), contains only the three characters mentioned, but possesses a
theme more nearly deserving the name of plot than do the other two,
namely, the contriving and carrying out of a plan by Tyb for exposing
her 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 tuggings
of fear and valour in his heart, however, give his monologue an
argumentative form, in which first one motive and then the other gains
the upper hand, very similar to the conflict between Launcelot Gobbo's
conscience and the Devil. He closes in favour of the beating and
then--Tyb comes home. Oh the difference! Johan Johan suspects his wife
of 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 to
rebel. So she makes the yoke heavier. Johan Johan has to invite Sir Jhon
to eat a most desirable pie with them; but throughout the meal, with
jealousy at his heart and the still greater pangs of unsatisfied hunger
a little lower, he is kept busy by his wife, trying to mend a leaky
bucket with wax. Surely never did a scene contain more 'asides' than are
uttered and explained away by the crushed husband! Finally overtaxed
endurance asserts itself, and wife and priest are driven out of doors;
but the play closes with a very pronounced note of uncertainty from the
victor as to what new game the vanquished may shortly be at if he be not
there to see.

The all-important feature to be noticed in Heywood's work is that here
we have the drama escaping from its alliance with religion into the
region of pure comedy. Here is no well planned moral, no sententious
mouthpiece of abstract excellence, no ruin of sinners and crowning of
saints. Here, too, is no Vice, no Devil, although they are the chief
media for comedy in other Interludes, nor is there any buffoonery; even
of its near cousins, scuffling and fighting, only one of the three plays
has more than a trace. Hence the earlier remark, that Heywood was before
his time. It is not devils in bearskins and wooden-sworded vices that
create true comedy; they belong to the realm of farce. Yet they
continued to flourish long after Heywood had set another example, and
with 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-raising
dialogue 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 which
Shakespeare refined for his own use in _Twelfth Night_ and elsewhere.

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

[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. In
order to follow out the various dramatic contributions of the Interludes
one must sometimes pass over plays at one point to return to them at
another. Care has been taken to place approximate dates against the
plays, and these should be duly regarded. The treatment of so early an
Interlude writer as Heywood (his three best known productions may be
dated between 1520 and 1540) thus late is justified by the fact that he
is in some ways 'before his time', notably in his rejection of the
Morality 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 of
comedy was the invention of a well-contrived plot. For reasons already
indicated, Interludes were naturally deficient in this respect. Nor were
the Moralities and Bible Miracles much better: their length and
comprehensive themes were against them. There were the Saint Plays, of
which some still lingered upon the stage; these offered greater
possibilities. But here, again, originality was limited; the
_denouement_ was more or less a foregone conclusion. Clearly, one of two
things was wanted: either a man of genius to perceive the need and to
supply it, or the study of new models outside the field of English
drama. The man of genius was not then forthcoming, but by good fortune
the models were stumbled upon.

We say stumbled upon, because the absence of tentative predecessors and
of anything approaching an eager band of successors, suggests an
unpreparedness for the discovery when it came. Thus _Calisto and
Melibaea_ (1530), an imitation of a Spanish comedy of the same name,
though it contained a definitely evolved plot, sent barely a ripple over
the surface of succeeding authorship. It represents the steadfastness of
the maiden Melibaea against the entreaties of her lover Calisto and the
much more crafty, indeed almost successful, wiles of the procuress,
Celestine. True, the play is dull enough. But if dramatists had been
awake to their defects, the value of the new importation from a foreign
literature would have been noticed. The years passed, however, without
producing imitators, until some time in the years between 1544 and 1551
a Latin scholar, reading the plays of Plautus, decided to write a comedy
like them. Latin Comedies, both in the original tongue and in
translation, had appeared in England in previous years, but only as
strayed foreigners. Nicholas Udall, the head master of Eton School,
proposed a very different thing, namely, an English comedy which should
rival in technique the comedies of the Latins. The result was _Ralph
Roister Doister_. He called it an Interlude. Posterity has given it the
title of 'the first regular English comedy'.

Divided into five acts, with subordinate scenes, this play develops its
story with deliberate calculated steps. Acts I and II are occupied by
Ralph's vain attempts to soften the heart of Dame Christian Custance by
gifts and messages. In Act III come complications, double-dealings.
Matthew Merrygreek plays Ralph false, tortures his love, misreads--by
the 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, with
greetings from Gawin Goodluck, long betrothed to Dame Custance, a
certain sea-captain, who, misled by Ralph's confident assurance,
misunderstands the relations between the Dame and him, suspects
disloyalty, and changes from friendliness to cold aloofness. This, by
vexing the lady, brings disaster upon Ralph, whose bold attempt, on the
suggestion of Merrygreek, to carry his love off by force is repulsed by
that Dame's Amazonian band of maid-servants with scuttles and brooms. In
this extraordinary conflict Ralph is horribly belaboured by the
malicious Matthew under pretence of blows aimed at Dame Custance. Act
V, however, brings Goodluck himself and explanations. That worthy man
finds his lady true, friendship is established all round, and Ralph and
Merrygreek join the happy couple in a closing feast.

This bald outline perhaps makes sufficiently clear the great advance in
plot structure. Within the play, however, are many other good things.
The character of Ralph Roister Doister, 'a vain-glorious, cowardly
blockhead', as the list of dramatis personae has it, is thoroughly well
done: his heavy love-sighs, his confident elation, his distrust, his
gullibility, his ups and downs and contradictions, are all in the best
comic vein. Only second in fullness of portraiture, and truer to Nature,
is Dame Custance, who--if we exclude Melibaea as not native to English
shores--may be said to bring into English secular drama honourable
womanhood. Her amused indifference at first, her sharp reproof of her
maids who have allowed themselves to act as Ralph's messengers, her
gathering vexation at Ralph's tiresome wooing, her genuine alarm when
she sees that his boastful words are accepted by the sea-captain as
truth--these are sentiments and emotions copied from a healthy and
worthy model. Matthew Merrygreek, an unmistakable 'Vice' ever at Ralph's
elbow, is of all Vices the shrewdest striker of laughter out of a block
of stupidity: it is from his ingenious brain that almost every absurd
scene is evolved for the ridiculing of Ralph. Thoroughly human, and
quite assertive, are the lower characters, the maid-servants and
men-servants, Madge Mumblecrust, Tibet Talkapace, Truepenny, Dobinet
Doughty and the rest. Need it be added that the battle in Act IV is pure
fooling? or that jolly songs enliven the scenes with their rousing
choruses (e.g. 'I mun be married a Sunday')? _Ralph Roister Doister_ is
an English comedy with English notions of the best way of amusing
English folk of the sixteenth century. With all its improvements it has
no suggestion of the alien about it, as has the classically-flavoured
_Thersites_ (also based, like Udall's play, on Plautus's _Miles
Gloriosus_), or _Calisto and Melibaea_ with its un-English names.
Perhaps that is why it had to wait fifteen years for a successor. Quite
possibly its spectators regarded it as merely a better Interlude than
usual, without recognizing the precise qualities which made it different
from _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_.' The
authorship is uncertain, recent investigation having exalted a certain
Stevenson into rivalry with the Bishop Still to whom former scholars
were content to assign it. Possibly as the result of a perusal of
Plautus, possibly under the influence of the last play--for in subject
matter it is even more perfectly English than _Ralph Roister
Doister_--this comedy is also built on a well-arranged plan, the plot
developing regularly through five acts with subsidiary scenes. Let us
glance through it.

Gammer Gurton and her goodman Hodge lose their one and only needle, an
article not easily renewed, nor easily done without, seeing that Hodge's
garments stand in need of instant repair. Gib, the cat, is strongly
suspected of having swallowed it. Into this confusion steps Diccon, a
bedlam beggar, whose quick eye promptly detects opportunities for
mischief. After scaring Hodge with offers of magic art, he goes to Dame
Chat, an honest but somewhat jealous neighbour, unaware of what has
happened, with a tale that Gammer Gurton accuses her of stealing her
best cock. To Gammer Gurton he announces that he has seen Dame Chat pick
up the needle and make off with it. Between the two dames ensues a
meeting, the nature of which may be guessed, the whole trouble lying in
the fact that neither thinks it necessary to name the article under
dispute. No wonder that discussion under the disadvantage of so great a
misunderstanding ends in violence. Doctor Rat, the curate, is now called
in; but again Diccon is equal to the occasion. Having warned Dame Chat
that Hodge, to balance the matter of the cock, is about to creep in
through a breach in the wall and kill her chickens, he persuades Doctor
Rat that if he will creep through this same opening he will see the
needle lying on Dame Chat's table. The consequences for the curate are
severe. Master Bailey's assistance is next requisitioned, and him friend
Diccon cannot overreach. The whole truth coming out, Diccon is required
to kneel and apologize. In doing so he gives Hodge a slap which elicits
from that worthy a yell of pain. But it is a wholesome pang, for it
finds the needle no further away than in the seat of Hodge's breeches.

If we compare this play with _Ralph Roister Doister_ three ideas will
occur: first, that we have made no advance; second, that, in giving the
preference to rough country folk, the author has deliberately abandoned
the higher standard of refinement in language and action set in Udall's
major scenes; third, that whereas the earlier work bases its comedy on
character, educing the amusing scenes from the clash of vanity,
constancy and mischief, the later play relies for its comic effects on
situations brought about by mischief alone. These are three rather heavy
counts against the younger rival. But in the other scale may be placed a
very fair claim to greater naturalness. Taking the scenes and characters
in turn, mischief-maker, churchman and all, there is none so open to the
charge of being impossible, and therefore farcical, as the battle
between the forces of Ralph and Dame Custance, or the incredibly
self-deceived Ralph himself. In accompanying Ralph through his
adventures we seem to be moving through a fantastic world in which Sir
Andrew Aguecheek and Malvolio might feel at home; but with Dame Chat,
Gammer Gurton and Hodge we feel the solid earth beneath our feet and
around us the strong air which nourished the peasantry and yeomen of
Tudor England.

The first extract is a verse from this comedy's one and famous song; the
second 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 the
Interlude stage and the commencement of Comedy proper. Leaving the
latter at this point for the present, we shall return in the next
chapter to study its fortunes at the hands of Lyly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Morality Plays, though theoretically quite as suitable for tragic effect
as for comic, since the former only required that Mankind should
sometimes fail to reach heaven, seem nevertheless to have developed
mainly the lighter side, setting the hero right at the finish and in the
meantime discovering, to the relief of otherwise bored spectators, that
wickedness, in some unexplained way, was funny. As long as propriety
forbade that good should be overcome by evil it is hard to see how
tragedy could appear. Had Humankind, in _The Castell of Perseverance_,
been fought for in vain by the Virtues, or had Everyman found no
companion to go with him and intercede for him, there had been tragedy
indeed. But religious optimism was against any conclusion so
discouraging to repentance. The lingering Miracles, it is true, still
presented the sublimest of all tragedies in the Fall of Man and the
apparent triumph of the Pharisees over Jesus. Between them, however, and
the kind of drama that succeeded the Moralities, too great a gulf was
fixed. Contemporaries of those original spirits, Heywood and Udall,
could hardly revert for inspiration to the discredited performances of
villages and of a few provincial towns. Tragedy had to wait until there
was matured and made popular an Interlude from which the conflict of
Virtues and Vices, with the orthodox triumph of the former, had been
purged away, leaving to the author complete liberty alike in character
and action. When that came, Tragedy returned to the stage, a stranger
with strange stories to tell. Persia and Ancient Rome sent their tyrants
and their heroines to contest for public favour with home-born knaves
and fools. Nor were the newcomers above borrowing the services of those
same knaves and fools. The Vice was given a place, low clownish fellows
were admitted to relieve the harrowed feelings, and our old
acquaintance, 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 to
find herself infected and degraded by their company. Moreover, the
bustle of incident, the abrupt changes from grave to gay and to grave
again, jangled her sad majestic harmonies with shrill interrupting
discords. It had not been so in Greece. It had not been so even in
Italy, where Roman Seneca, fearing the least decline to a lower plane of
dignity and impressiveness, had disciplined tragedy by an imposition of
artificial but not unskilful restraints. In place of the strong
unbroken sweep of a resistless current, which characterized the
evolution of an Aeschylean drama, he had insisted on an orderly division
of a plot into acts and scenes, as though one should break up the sheer
plunge of a single waterfall into a well-balanced group of cascades. Yet
he was wise in his generation, securing by this means a carefully
proportioned development which, in the absence of that genius which
inspired the Greek dramatists, might otherwise have been lost. Once
strong and free in the plays of Aeschylus and his compeers, hampered and
constantly under guidance but still dignified and noble in the Senecan
drama, Tragedy now found herself debased and almost caricatured in the
English Interlude stage. Fortunately the danger was seen in time.
English writers, face to face with self-conscious tragedy, realized that
here at least was more than unaided native art could compass. Despairing
of success if they persisted in the old methods, they fell back
awkwardly upon classical imitation and, by assiduous study tempered by a
wise criticism, achieved success.

Only two plays with any claim to the designation of tragedies have
survived to us from the Interludes, neither of them of much interest.
_Cambyses_ (1561), by Thomas Preston, has all the qualities of an
imperfect Interlude. There are the base fellows and the clowns, Huff,
Ruff, Snuff, Hob and Lob; the abstractions, Diligence, Shame, Common's
Complaint, Small Hability, and the like; the Vice, Ambidexter, who
enters 'with an old capcase on his head, an old pail about his hips for
harness, a scummer and a potlid by his side, and a rake on his
shoulder'; and the same scuffling and horseplay when the comic element
is uppermost. Incident follows incident as rapidly and with as trifling
motives as before. In the course of a short play we see Cambyses, king
of Persia, set off for his conquests in Egypt; return; execute
Sisamnes, his unjust deputy; prove a far worse ruler himself; shoot
through the heart the young son of Praxaspes, to prove to that too-frank
counsellor that he is not as drunk as was supposed; murder his own
brother, Smirdis, on the lying report of Ambidexter; marry, contrary to
the law of the Church and her own wish, a lovely lady, his cousin, and
then have her executed for reproaching him with the death of his
brother; and finally die, accidentally pierced by his own sword when
mounting a horse. All these horrors, except the death of the lady, take
place on the stage. Thus we have such stage-directions as, 'Smite him in
the neck with a sword to signify his death', 'Flay him with a false
skin', 'A little bladder of vinegar pricked', 'Enter the King without a
gown, a sword thrust up into his side, bleeding.' Of real tragedy there
is little, the hustle of crime upon crime obliterating the impression
which any one singly might produce. Yet even in this crude orgy of
bloodshed the melancholy voice of unaffected pathos can be heard
mourning the loss of dear ones. It speaks in the farewells of Sisamnes
and his son Otian, and of Praxaspes (the honest minister) and his little
boy; throughout the whole incident of the gentle lady whose fate melts
even the Vice to tears; and in the outburst of a mother's grief over her
child'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 further
identified), is, in some respects, weaker; though, by avoiding the
crowded plot which spoilt _Cambyses_, it attains more nearly to tragedy.
The low characters, Mansipulus and Mansipula, the Vice (Haphazard), and
the abstractions, Conscience, Comfort and their brethren, reappear with
as little success. But the singleness of the theme helps towards that
elevation of the main figures and intensifying of the catastrophe which
tragic emotion demands. Unfortunately, from the start the author seems
to have been obsessed with the notion that the familiar rant of Herod
was peculiarly suited to his subject. In such a notion there lay, of
course, the half-truth that lofty thoughts and impassioned speech are
more 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 his
characters. 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 debut upon the stage with this encouraging
remark 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 no
more 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 a
charger before Appius, who promptly bursts into a cataclysm of C's ('O
curst and cruel cankered churl, O carl unnatural'); but there is not a
suggestion of the pathos noticed in _Cambyses_. Instead there is in one
place a sort of frantic agitation, which the author doubtless thought
was the pure voice of tragic sorrow. It is in the terrible moment when,
after the heroic strain of the sacrifice is over, Virginius realizes the
meaning of what he has done. Presumably wild with grief, he raves in
language so startlingly akin to the ludicrous despairs of Pyramus and
Thisbe that the modern reader, acquainted with the latter, is almost
jarred 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, and
the 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 the
Senecan stage: translations of Seneca's tragedies had begun to appear in
1559. _The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex_, or _Gorboduc_, as it was
originally and is now most commonly named, marks a new departure for
English drama. To understand this we ought perhaps to say something
about the essential features of a Greek tragedy (Seneca's own model),
and make a note of any special Senecan additions. What strikes one most
in reading a play of Aeschylus is the prominence given to a composite
and almost colourless character known as the Chorus (for though it
consists of a body of persons, it speaks, for the most part, as one),
the absence of any effective action from the stage, the limited number
of actors, and the tendency of any speaker to expand his remarks into a
set speech of considerable length. This tendency, especially noticeable
in the Chorus, whose speeches commonly take the form of chants,
encouraged the faculty of generalizing philosophically, so that one is
constantly treated to general reflections expressive rather of broad
wisdom and piety than of feelings directly and dramatically aroused;
much also is made of retrospection and relation, whether the topic is
ancient history, the events of a recent voyage, or a barely completed
crime. The sage backward glance of the Chorus is quick to discover in
present ruin a punishment for past crime; so that the plot becomes in a
manner a picture of the resistless laws of moral justice. Speeches, a
moralizing Chorus, actions not performed but reported in detail, a sense
of divine retribution for sin, these are perhaps the qualities which,
apart from the poetry itself, we recall most readily as typical of a
Greek tragedy. These Seneca modified by the introduction of acts and
scenes, a subordination of the Chorus, and an exaggerated predilection
for long sententious speeches; he also added a new stage character known
as the Ghost. Seneca's elevation, to the dogmatic position of laws, of
the unities of Time, Place and Action, rules by no means invariable
among his older and greater masters, has been the subject of much
debate, but, on the whole, the verdict has been hostile. According to
these unities, the time represented in the play should not greatly
exceed the time occupied in acting it, the scene of the action should
not vary, and the plot should be concerned only with one event. This
last law was generally accepted, by Elizabethans, in Tragedy at least.
The other two, though much insisted on by English theorists, such as Sir
Philip Sidney, met with so much neglect in practice that we need devote
no space to the discussion of them.

Having thus hastily summarized the larger superficial characteristics of
classical drama, we may return to _Gorboduc_ and inquire which of these
were adopted in it and with what modifications. We find it divided into
five 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 in
Act I, Scene 2, occupy two hundred and sixty lines--the subject-matter
being commonly argumentative. Only through the reports of messengers and
eye-witnesses do we learn of the cold-blooded murder and many violent
deaths that take place. Everywhere hurried action and unreasoning
instinct give place to deliberation and debate. Between this play and
its predecessors no change can be more sweeping or more abrupt. In an
instant, as it were, we pass from the unpolished _Cambyses_, savage and
reeking with blood, to the equally violent events of _Gorboduc_, cold
beneath a formal restraint which, regulating their setting in the
general framework, robs them of more than half their force. Had this
severe discipline of the emotions been accepted as for ever binding upon
the tragic stage Elizabethan drama would have been forgotten. The truth
is that the germ of dissension was sown in _Gorboduc_ itself. Conscious
that the banishment of action from the stage, while natural enough in
Greece, must meet with an overwhelming resistance from the popular
custom in England, the authors, Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton,
invented a compromise. Before each act they provided a symbolical Dumb
Show which, by its external position, infringed no classical law, yet
satisfied the demand of an English audience for real deeds and
melodramatic spectacles. It was an ingenious idea, the effect of which
was to keep intact the close link between stage and action until the
native genius should be strong enough to cast aside its swaddling
clothes and follow its own bent without hurt. As illustrating this
innovation--the reader will not have forgotten that both Dumb Show and
Chorus are to be found in _Pericles_--we may quote the directions for
the 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 to
follow it through, scene by scene.

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

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

_Act III._--The news of these counter-moves and of the imminent
probability of bloodshed is reported to the king. To restore the courage
of the despairing Gorboduc is now the labour of his counsellors, but the
later announcement of the death of Ferrex casts him lower than before.
At this point the Chorus, recalling the murder of a cousin in an earlier
generation of the royal race, points, in true Aeschylean fashion, to the
hatred 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, renounces
his brother as no child of hers, and concludes with a threat of
vengeance. _Scene 2._--Bowed down with remorse, Porrex makes his defence
before the king, pleading the latter's own act, in dividing the kingdom,
as the initial cause of the ensuing disaster. Before he has been long
gone from his father's presence, Marcella, a lady-in-waiting, rushes
into the room, in wild disorder and grief, to report his murder at his
mother's hand. In anguished words she tells how, stabbed by Videna in
his sleep, he started up and, spying the queen by his side, called to
her for help, not crediting that she, his mother, could be his
murderess. Again, in tones of solemn warning, the Chorus reminds the
audience 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 death
of the king and queen at the hands of their subjects in revolt against
the blood-stained House. Certain of the nobles, gathered together,
resolve upon an alliance for the purpose of restoring a strong
government. The Duke of Albany, however, thinks to snatch power to
himself from this opportunity. _Scene 2._--Report is made of the
suppression of the rebellion, but this news is immediately followed by a
report of Albany's attempted usurpation of the throne. Coalition for his
defeat is agreed upon, and the play ends with the mournful soliloquy of
that aged counsellor who first opposed the division of the throne and
now sees, as the consequence of that fatal act, his country, torn to
pieces 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 a
recommendation to Queen Elizabeth to marry, or at least name her
successor, 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 together
of rhymes, it suffered comparative neglect for some years until Marlowe
taught its capacities to his own and future ages. With Sackville's stiff
lines before us we shall be better able to appreciate the later
playwright's genius. But we shall also be reminded that the credit of
introducing blank verse must lie with the older man.

The chief question of all remains to be asked. Does _Gorboduc_, with all
its borrowed devices, _and because of them_, rise to a higher level of
tragedy than _Cambyses_ and _Appius and Virginia_? To answer this
question we must examine the effect of those devices, and understand
what is precisely meant by the term tragedy. Let it be first understood
that the arrangement of acts and scenes is comparatively unimportant in
this 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 the
great Greek dramatists knew nothing of it. What is important is the
exclusion of that comic element which, in some form or another, had
hitherto found a place in almost every English play; the removal of all
action from the stage--for the Dumb Shows stand apart from the play--;
and the substitution of stately speeches for natural conversation and
dialogue. Of all three the purpose is the same, namely, to impress the
audience with a sense of greater dignity and awe than would be imparted
by a more familiar style. The long speeches give importance to the
decisions, and compel a belief that momentous events are about to
happen or have happened. In harmony with this effect is the absence of
all comic relief--although Shakespeare was to prove later that this has
a useful place in tragedy. A smile, a jest would be sacrilege in the
prevailing gloom. Two effects alone are aimed at; an impression of
loftiness in the theme, and a profound melancholy. Not warm gushing
tears. Those are the outcome of a personal sorrow, small and ignoble
beside an abstract grief at 'the falls of princes', 'the tumbling down
of crowns', 'the ruin of proud realms'. What does the reader or
spectator know of Ferrex that he should mingle his cries with Videna's
lamentations? The account of Porrex appealing, with childlike faith in
his 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 lies
not there but in the great fact that with him dies the last heir to the
throne, the last hope of avoiding the miseries of a disputed succession;
and that in her revengeful fury the queen, as a woman, has committed the
blackest of all crimes, a mother's slaughter of her child. We are not
asked to weep but to gasp at the horror of it. It is in order to protect
the loftier, broader aspects of the catastrophe from the influence of
the particular that action is excluded. This cautions us against
confusing tragedy and pathos. To perceive the difference is to recognize
that English Tragedy really begins with _Gorboduc_. Until its advent the
stress laid on the pathetic partially obscured the tragic. This may be
seen at once in the Miracles, though a little thought will reveal the
intensely tragic nature of the complete Miracle Play. In _Cambyses_ we
find the same obscuration: there is tragedy in the sudden ending of
those young lives, but the pathos of the mother's anguish and the sweet
girl's pleadings prevent us from thinking of it. _Appius and Virginia_
maintains a much truer tragic detachment, the effect being heightened by
its opening picture of virtuous happiness destined to abrupt and
tyrannous ruin. But it expresses itself so ill, shatters our hearing so
unmercifully with its alliterative mouthing, and hurls us down so
steeply with its low comedy, that we refuse to give its characters the
grandeur or excellence claimed for them by the author. _Gorboduc_ alone
presents tragedy unspoiled by extraneous additions. In its triple
catastrophe of princes, crown and realm we perceive the awful figure of
the Tragic Muse and shrink back in reverent fear of what more may lie
hid from us in the folds of her black robe. Darker, much darker and more
terrible things have come since from that gloomy spirit. What has been
written here should not be misinterpreted as an exaggerated appreciation
of _Gorboduc_. We wish only to insist that this play did give to English
drama for the first time (if we exclude translations) an example,
however weak in execution, of pure tragedy; and was able to do so
largely, if not entirely, by reason of its reversion to classical
principles and devices.

We have insisted on the difference between Tragedy and Pathos, and
criticized the weakening effect of the latter upon the former. To escape
the penalty that awaits general criticism we may add here that Tragedy
is never greater than when her handmaid is ready to do her _modest_
service. Sophocles puts into the mouth of Oedipus, at the moment of his
departure into blind and desolate exile, tender injunctions regarding
the 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, the
sleeping Duncan, Cordelia rise to our minds. Nor need we quote the
famous words of Webster's Ferdinand. It is enough that the greatest
scene in _Gorboduc_ is precisely that scene where pathos softens by a
momentary dimness of vision our horror at a mother's crime.

_The Misfortunes of Arthur_ (1587), by Thomas Hughes, though twenty-five
years later, may be placed next to _Gorboduc_ in our discussion of the
rise of tragedy. It will serve as an illustration of the kind of tragedy
that was being evolved from Senecan models by plodding uninspired
Englishmen before Marlowe flung his flaming torch amongst them. To
understand the story a slight introduction is necessary. Igerna, the
wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, was loved by King Uther, who foully
slew her husband and so won her for himself. As a result of this union
were born Arthur and Anne, who, in their youth, perpetuated the
inherited taint of sin by becoming the parents of a boy, Mordred.
Afterwards Arthur married Guenevera, and some years later went to France
on a long campaign of conquest. In his absence Mordred gained the love
of Guenevera. The play begins with the contemplated return of Arthur,
glorious from victory, the object being to concentrate attention upon
the swift fall from glory and power to ruin and death. Guenevera, having
learnt to hate her husband, debates in her mind his death or hers,
finally deciding, however, to become a nun. Her interview with Mordred
ends in his resolving to resist Arthur's landing. Unsuccessful in this
attempt, 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 both
armies are destroyed and Mordred is slain, though in his death he
mortally wounds his father. After the battle his body is brought before
Arthur, in whom the sight awakens yet more fiercely the pangs of
remorse. The play closes immediately before Arthur's own mysterious
departure.

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

    Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears.

As before, all action is rigorously excluded from the stage, to be
reported, at great length and with tremendous striving after vividness
and effect, by one who was present. Dumb Shows before each act continue
the attempt to balance matters spectacularly. Clearly the only hope of
dramatic advance for disciples of the Senecan school lay in improved
dialogue. This was possible in four directions, namely, in more stirring
topics, in more personal feeling, in shorter speeches, and in a change
in the style of language and verse. Unfortunately for Thomas Hughes, it
is just here that he fails, and fails lamentably. What is more, he fails
because of his methods. The dominant desire of the English 'classical'
school was to be impressive. Hence the adoption by Hughes of a ghostly
introduction and conclusion. His conversations, therefore, must reflect
the same idea. He saw, indeed, that long speeches, except at rare
intervals, were tedious, and reduced his to reasonable proportions, even
making extensive use--as, we shall see, the author of _Damon and
Pythias_ did before him--of the Greek device of stichomythia. He was
most anxious, also, to provide stirring topics for his characters to
speak on, the queen's uncertainty between crime and religion in the
second scene being a notable example. But of necessity the distance of
time and space imposed by his methods between an event and the reporting
of it gives a measure of detachment to its discussion. In the matter of
personal feeling, too, he was hampered by this same unavoidable
detachment, and by the need of being impressive; for he and his friends
seem to have been convinced that the wider and less particular the
subject the greater would be the hearer's awe. We need only compare
Arthur's speech over Mordred's body with the lamentation of the mother
in _Cambyses_ to perceive how the new methods compel the king to hasten
from the thought of the 'hapless boy' to a consideration of their joint
fate as 'a mirror to the world'. Because, in _Cambyses_, we know so
little more of the boy and his mother than her grief, his murder fails
as tragedy; but had Arthur indulged a little in such grief as her's, how
much more moving would have been the tragedy of _The Misfortunes of
Arthur_! But this was not the way of the Senecan school. Everywhere we
find the same preference, as in _Gorboduc_, for broad argument and
easily detachable expressions of philosophic wisdom. What shall be said
of the style of language and verse? This much in praise, that Blank
Verse is retained. But--and the thoughtful reader will discern that the
same 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. such
rant as falls from the pen of Hughes. In the last battle between Arthur
and Mordred 'boist'rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick', while
the younger leader rages over the field 'all fury-like, frounc'd up with
frantic frets'. Guenevera revives her declining wrath with this
invocation 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's
speech 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 play
from an otherwise deserved obscurity. We refer to the author's creation
of characters fit for tragedy. Sackville's royalties are dull folk,
great only by rank. Arthur and Mordred are men of a grander breed, men
worthy to rise to heights and win the attention of the world by their
fall. Nor does the author forget the artistic strength achieved by
contrast. Arthur is depicted as a veteran warrior, contented with his
conquests, and anxious to establish peace within his kingdom. He is
remorseful, too, for past sins, and is ready to make amends by yielding
up to Mordred the coveted throne--until that prince's insolence makes
compromise impossible. Mordred, on the other hand, stands before us as
the young, ambitious, dauntless aspirant to power, scorning cautious
fears, flinging back every overture for peace, reaching forward to the
goal of his hate even across the confines of life. At the risk of
quoting 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 of
development, and including such plays as _Tancred and Gismunda_ (1568)
and Whetstone's _Promos and Cassandra_ (printed 1578)--the latter
chiefly interesting on account of the criticism of contemporary drama
contained in its Dedication--we select _Damon and Pythias_ (before 1567)
by Richard Edwards as an example of native tragedy influenced but not
subjugated by classical models. To be exact, it is a tragi-comedy, but
it is very improbable that the method of presentment would have been
different 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 by
Shakespeare, we shall find this play an illuminating beacon, lighting
the first steps along the right path. The author was well acquainted
with classical drama, as may be seen in his use of stichomythia, amongst
other things, and possibly in his preference for a Grecian story. He
probably knew _Gorboduc_ quite well, and learned much from its faults.
Backed by this knowledge he selected, adapted, and rejected methods at
discretion, and stood finally and definitely by the fundamental
principles of the native English drama, placing all his action on the
stage and fearlessly admitting light humorous elements to relieve the
strain of too insistent emotion or suspense. That in one place he went
too far in this direction cannot be denied: the episode of the shaving
of Grim the Collier is a bad error of judgment, founded on a right
motive but horribly mismanaged. That mistake, however, is so glaring
that it must have been obvious to all succeeding writers; it could not
seriously affect their judgment of the methods employed in the rest of
the play. It is these methods that we must understand.

First, to sketch the plot. Damon and Pythias with their servant Stephano
arrive in Syracuse in the reign of the tyrant, Dionysius. There Damon is
arrested on the denunciation of the informer Carisophus, and is
sentenced to death as a spy. Reprieve for six months is allowed him on
the 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. Such
signal proofs of the sincerity of their affection win for both of them
not only life but royal favour, the king turning from his evil ways to
follow their counsel. A character of importance not mentioned here is
Aristippus, 'a pleasant gentleman' and a successful courtier, whose
friendship with Carisophus, an alliance hollow, suspicious, and most
unloving on one side at least, forms an admirable foil for the true
friendship of Damon and Pythias.

There is no division into acts and scenes, but the omission amounts to
little more than the absence of those words from the printed copy, since
the plot is most carefully arranged--witness the gradual introduction of
the characters and preparation for the arrest of Damon--and the stage
is frequently cleared. In fact it is perfectly easy to insert the
customary labels of acts and scenes at these latter points, in the
manner employed, for example, in the 1616 edition of Marlowe's
_Faustus_. There are no Dumb Shows, there is no Chorus, there is no
Ghost. But our old friend the Vice is there--without his Devil; the
clown too, and Herod; and we note with interest the modifications which
were considered necessary before they could figure creditably on the
tragic stage. Herod needed small alteration: the plot demands a tyrant
of ferocious injustice, who can 'fall in dump and foam like a boar' at a
moment's notice, or Damon cannot be judged worthy of death for his
offence. The clown, whose sins, when he committed any, were always
rather the product of evil influence than of original sin, is ennobled
to the standing of an honest faithful slave, simple in his notions,
shrewd to save his own skin, overjoyed at being made a freed man, and
withal one who keeps good time by his stomach; in a word, Stephano. The
Vice (of whom Will and Jack are lighter adaptations), the source of all
mischief, the Newfangle of _Like Will to Like_ and the Diccon of _Gammer
Gurton's Needle_, is Carisophus, the disappointed courtier, who
endeavours to creep back to favour by double-dealing with Aristippus and
by practising the base treachery of a common informer, and who finally
is kicked out of court and off the stage by Eubulus, the good
counsellor. These adaptations, then, of the stock Interlude characters,
are merely a continuation of the changes initiated by Heywood and others
of his day and amplified in the first regular comedies; they owe nothing
to classical influence. But the same feeling after naturalness which
makes Stephano and Carisophus such well-defined realities influences for
good the portraits of the other characters. Aristippus is a thoroughly
well drawn likeness of the easy-going, gracefully selfish, polished
courtier; and Damon and Pythias weary us only by reason of the weight of
virtue thrust upon them by the original story, and not to be avoided,
therefore, if the plot was to hold. Even the verse reflects the healthy
desire to avoid artificiality. We shall not attempt to praise it: the
roughness in the flow of lines constantly and quite irregularly varying
in length can find little to defend it and many sensitive critics to
denounce 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 of
the unnatural formalism of correct rhymed verse. Rhyme is retained; but
blank verse had only recently appeared and was still in ill favour.
Edwards's device was another experiment in the same direction. Needless
to say, alliteration is not called in to reinforce weak sentiments.

Possibly attributable to classical influence is the adoption of the
serious, half-philosophical tone noticed in _Gorboduc_ and _The
Misfortunes of Arthur_. This quality the author judged to be a
harmonious element in tragedy, and judged aright, though, as was natural
at so early a stage, he tended to exaggerate it. Shakespeare's greatest
tragedies abound in passages of deep reflexion upon life, death, and the
problems of right and wrong. We may choose to place the origin of this
grave spirit in the 'classics', but it may be pointed out, with reason,
that the persistent traditions of the Moralities, the pious moralizings
retained in such Interludes as _Like Will to Like_, may just as easily
have passed over naturally into Edwards's work along with the Vice. In
support of this other source may be cited the absence from this play of
the long speeches which went hand in hand with the learned reasoning and
soliloquies of Sackville and Norton. Quite undeniably of classical
influence, however, is the refinement and restraint noticeable
throughout the play. These we welcome. They prune the tree of native
drama without hacking off its stoutest limbs. Under their control
tragedy steps upon the stage in an English dress to prove herself worthy
of her Roman sister and ultimately capable of far greater achievements.

To select details in proof of the success of _Damon and Pythias_ as a
pioneer in tragedy is made difficult by the fact that it ends happily.
But attention may be called to the very praiseworthy treatment of the
comic characters--notably Stephano and the gruff but kind-hearted
hangman, Gronno--and to the humanity which vitalizes the major
personages, Carisophus in particular; to the dignity also, maintained
throughout the play (the Collier episode alone excepted), and to the
admirably dramatic suspense secured just before Damon's return. The
following 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 of
History Plays. Pre-eminently they are the outcome of a patriotism that
was growing stronger and stronger as each year increased the glory of
Queen Elizabeth's reign. Nothing in them is more noteworthy than the
pride in England, in England's kings, and in England's defiance and
conquest of her foes. Whether we read _The Famous Victories of Henry the
Fifth_ (acted before 1588) or _The Troublesome Reign of King John_
(printed 1591) we find the same joyous presentment of courageous
victory. Unfortunately for the author of the latter play, his royal
subject fell away sadly in his submission to the Pope; yet the writer
would not entirely concede the victory to Rome, and having made the very
most of his king's campaign in France and his defiant rejection of the
Papal demands, he attempts to redeem the situation, even in the dreadful
moment of John's kneeling supplication to Pandulph, by putting into the
former's mouth 'asides' expressing a heart completely at variance with
the formal penitence; in fact this scene might be understood as a clever
hoodwinking of the enemy to circumvent the Dauphin. With true artistic
and patriotic instinct the author creates the redoubtable Faulconbridge
to demonstrate that Englishmen were stout of heart and loyal to the
throne in its worst perils, whatever might be the temporary failings of
the king and a few nobles. In _The Famous Victories_ the earlier author
had for his central figure a type of character that will always appeal
to an English audience. Here we find in fullest expression that free
introduction of the comic by the side of the serious, and that love for
jovial intercourse between royalty and subjects which are so frequent in
our History Plays. The roistering of Prince Hal among his boon
companions in the tavern, his boxing of the Judge's ears, and his
consequent arrest; these hold the stage for the first six scenes (there
are no acts, in this play or in the other), and contain several touches
and incidents borrowed afterwards by Shakespeare for his _Falstaff_.
Indeed it is surprising to observe how extensively that great genius
appropriated the work of other men. While commonly refining the
language, he was not above borrowing thought as well as incident--even
for the famous lines by the Bastard, Faulconbridge, closing _King John_.

The form of the History Plays is a direct continuation of the methods of
the old Miracles, and does not differ in essentials from that found in
Shakespeare's 'Histories'. Such differences as do occur are due, as a
rule, to minor differences of arrangement and length. The author of _The
Troublesome Reign of King John_ extended his theme into two plays, and
so found room for much that had to be omitted in a single play;
Shakespeare, on the other hand, spread over three plays the royal
character--Henry V--which his predecessor comprehended in one. The
historical method had, however, a certain effect on the English drama.
It made extremely popular, by its patriotic subjects, a form which
disregarded the skilful evolution of a plot, contenting itself with a
succession of scenes, arranged merely in order of time, that should
carry a comprehensive story to its finish. We shall see this influence
operating disastrously in plays other than History, and must mark it as
a retrograde movement in the development of perfect drama. One extremely
valuable contribution of these History Plays was their insistence upon
absolute humanness in the characters. To present a Prince Hal, a King
John or a Faulconbridge, a Queen Elinor or a Constance, as mere
mouthpieces or merely royal persons would have been to court immediate
failure before an audience of Englishmen imbued with intense pride in
the life and vigour of their country, their countrymen, and their Queen.

Of the three following extracts from _The Troublesome Reign of King
John_ the first is a speech which might well have found a place in
Shakespeare's first scene, where Faulconbridge is questioned as to his
parentage, the inheritance depending on his answer; the second is from
one of John's dying speeches, full of remorse for his bad government,
and may be compared dramatically with the better known speeches, full
only of outcry against his bodily affliction; the third illustrates the
spirit 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 scholarly
young men who, from 1584 onwards, for about ten years, took up
play-writing as a serious profession, and by their abilities and genius
raised English drama to the rank of literature. Previous dramatists had
also been men of good education and fair wit; Sackville, to name but
one, was a man of great gifts and sound learning. But tradition has
restricted the name to seven men whom time, circumstances, mental
qualities and mutual acquaintanceship brought together as one group. The
majority stood to each other almost in the relation of friends; they
were rivals for public favour, were well acquainted with each other's
work, and were quick to follow one another along improved paths. Taking
up comedy at the stage of _Ralph Roister Doister_ and tragedy at that of
_The Misfortunes of Arthur_, they transformed and refined both, lifting
them to higher levels of humour and passion, gracing them with many
witty inventions, and, above all, pouring into the pallid arteries of
drama the rich vitalizing blood of a new poetry. The seven men were
Lyly, Greene, Peele, Nash, Lodge, Kyd and Marlowe--named not in
chronological sequence but in the order of their discussion in these
pages.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps no dramatist is more out of touch with modern taste than John
Lyly. The ordinary reader, taking up one of his plays by chance, will
probably set it down wearily after the perusal of barely one or two
acts. 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 right
spirit. True, it requires an effort to step back into the shoes of an
Elizabethan courtier. But the effort is worth making, since the mind, as
soon as it has realized what not to expect, is better able to appreciate
what is offered. The essential requirement is to remember that Lyly the
dramatist is the same man as Lyly the euphuist, and that his audience
was always a company of courtiers, with Queen Elizabeth in their midst,
infatuated with admiration for the new phraseology and mode of thought
known as Euphuism. If we consider the manner in which these lords and
ladies 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 and
stilted style, its tireless winding of sentences round a topic without
any advance in thought, its affectation of philosophy and classical
learning; if we remember that to speak euphuistically was a coveted and
studiously cultivated accomplishment, and that to pun, to utter caustic
jests, to let fall neat epigrams were the highest ambition of wit; if we
take this trouble to prepare ourselves for reading Lyly's plays, we may
still find them dull, but we shall at least understand why they took the
form they did, and shall be in a position to recognize the substantial
service rendered to Comedy by the author. Lyly's work was just the
application of the laws of euphuism to native comedy, and it wrought a
change curiously similar to the effect of Senecan principles upon native
tragedy, transferring the importance from the action to the words. It
may be remarked that this redistribution of the interest must always be
of great value in the early stage of any literature. The popular taste
for action and incident is sure to be gratified sooner or later; the
demand for elegant and appropriate diction, usually confined to the
cultured few, is more apt to be passed over. Euphuism never did the harm
to comedy which tragedy suffered at the hands of the late Elizabethans
who, in their pursuit of moving incident, lost themselves in a reckless
licence of language and verse. Action, therefore, fell into the
background. Refinement, elevation was aimed at. In the place of Hodge,
Dame Chat and their company, there now appeared gracious beings of
perfect manners and speech; and since things Greek and mythological had
become the fashion, Arcadian nymphs and swains, beauteous goddesses and
Athenian philosophers were judged the most fitting to stand before the
English court. In scene after scene fair ladies talk of love, reverend
sages display their readiness in solving knotty problems, lovers sigh
into the air long rhapsodies over the charms of their mistresses,
sharp-tongued (but rarely coarse) serving-boys lure fools into greater
folly or exchange amusing badinage at the expense of their absent
masters. The story does not advance much, but that is of small account
so long as the dialogue tickles ears taught to find delight in
well-spoken euphuism. It is like listening to a song in a language one
does not understand: provided that the harmony is beautiful one is not
distressed about the verbal message. Besides, there is some plot, slight
though it be, and its theme is love, chiefly of the languishing,
half-hopeless kind which was supposed to be cherished by every bachelor
courtier for the queen. There is, too, for those who can read it, an
allegory often concealed in the story of disappointed love or ambition
which moves round Cynthia or Diana or Sapho. Was there no lover who
aspired 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 we
can amuse ourselves by guessing names, and so catch something of the
interest which, at the time of the play's appearance, would set eyebrows
arching with surprise, and send, at each daring reference or well-aimed
compliment, 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 in
the Moon_ (printed 1597), _Love's Metamorphoses_ (printed 1601). All
these, with the exception of the seventh--which is in regular and
pleasing, though not vigorous, blank verse--were written in prose, as we
should expect from the founder of so famous a prose style; but as _The
Supposes_, a translation by Gascoigne of Ariosto's _I Suppositi_, had
previously 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 his
translation, gives to the latter's prose a borrowed quality, and leaves
Lyly fully entitled to whatever credit belongs to the earliest native
productions of this kind. He was the first to announce, by practice, the
theory that English comedy could find fuller expression in prose than in
verse, for, beginning with verse, he deliberately set it aside in favour
of prose, and, having proved the superiority of prose for this purpose,
persisted in it to the end. Of his eight plays, the more interesting
only will be dealt with here; the rest we leave to the curiosity of the
reader.

_Campaspe_, his first prose comedy, is perhaps the most perfect example
of the new euphuistic method at work. The plot is of the slightest.
Alexander the Great is in love with the beauty of Campaspe, a Theban
captive; but Apelles, the artist, who is ordered to paint her picture,
having also fallen in love with her, and won her love, Alexander in the
end graciously resigns his claim upon her. This is the plot, but it is
very little guide to the contents of the play, which is crowded with
characters. There are, in addition to the three leading persons, four
Warriors to discuss the condition of the army, seven Philosophers to
puzzle each other with disputation and metaphysical conundrums, three
Servants to deride their masters behind their backs, a General to act as
Alexander's confidant and counsellor, beside some nine others and a
company of citizens. One of the chief characters, Diogenes, stands quite
apart from the plot, his office being to provide an inexhaustible fund
of shrewd, biting retorts for such as dare to question him. He is even
elevated to the centre of a major episode in which the Athenian
populace, credulous of a report that he is about to fly, is deceived
into hearing a very sharp sermon as, on the wings of criticism, Diogenes
executes an oratorical flight over their many failings. The following
scene 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 as
Greene imitated and Shakespeare made delightful. Not at first will
Campaspe yield the gates of her heart, nor does the artist press the
attack with heated fervour. So gentle a besieger is he, that we perceive
the young couple drifting into love on the stream of destiny, almost
reluctant to betray their growing feelings through fear of the wrath of
Alexander. 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 laments
his fate in loving her whom Alexander desires, ending his mournful
soliloquy with a song, the most beautiful of all that Lyly has scattered
so 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 almost
over and with them the intimacy of artist and model, then we discover
that the tender sighs of Apelles have sweetened the friendship of
Campaspe 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 would
enjoin him to keep concealed. Apelles and Alexander are talking together
when a servant rushes up, crying out that the former's studio is on
fire. 'Aye me!' exclaims the horrified artist; 'if the picture of
Campaspe be burnt I am undone!' Alexander smiles, for the servant's
alarm is false and pre-arranged, but the alarm of Apelles is too genuine
to have less than the one meaning.

For its own sake, as too choice an example of euphuistic prose to be
missed, we add an extract from the speech of Hephestion, Alexander's
friend and adviser, urging that king to shake off the fetters of love
that 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 natural
and attractive. Historical tradition and the unchanging habits of lovers
give their sanction to most of the scenes in _Campaspe_. But _Endymion_
carries us into the realm of mythology, where all is unreal and where
the least heaviness in the pencil of fancy must convert things that
should appear golden into dull lead. Lyly's wit strives gallantly to
maintain the light tints, pressing fairies and moonbeams into his
service, and ransacking the stores of improbability in despair of
mingling the impossible and the possible effectively; but the gilt, if
not entirely lost, wears very thin in places.

Endymion is in love with Cynthia, the Moon, though aware that his
aspiration must remain for ever hopeless. Tellus, the Earth, herself
enamoured of Endymion, jealously resolves to punish his indifference to
her by deep melancholy. Accordingly she visits the witch, Dipsas, by
whose magic aid the youth, found resting on a bank of lunary, is
bewitched to sleep until old age. Not for this crime but for a minor
one, Tellus is sentenced by Cynthia to imprisonment under the care of
Corsites. Eumenides, the loyal friend of Endymion, seeks everywhere for
the means to awaken his comrade, until he finds a clue in the magic
fountain of Geron, husband to old Dipsas, but banished by her wicked
power. With this clue, which is interpreted as requiring the moon to
kiss the sleeper, Eumenides hastens to Cynthia. Meanwhile Tellus,
finding that her beauty has taken Corsites captive, and wishing to be
rid of his attentions, sets him, as a trial of his affection, the
impossible, though apparently easy, task of removing Endymion from the
bank of lunary. Corsites fails, and fairies send him to sleep, dancing
around him with a song and pinching his unresisting body black and blue.
A chance visit of Cynthia and her train fortunately arouses him, but
Endymion still sleeps his forty years of manhood away undisturbed. At
last Eumenides returns with his oracular clue and persuades Cynthia to
attempt the cure. Very graciously the queen kisses the pale forehead. At
once consciousness returns, and as a white-haired old man the once
handsome young courtier arises. He has two dreams to tell (shown in Dumb
Show in an earlier scene) but can offer no explanation of his
bewitchment. Then Bagoa, the servant of Dipsas, betrays the secret of
her mistress's crime. Dipsas and Tellus are summoned before Cynthia, who
now hears for the first time the story of Endymion's devotion to her.
The fact is pleasing. So far from visiting the presumption with
displeasure she bids him love on, not in any hope of marriage, since
that is impossible, but in the assurance of her special favour. With
that she smiles kindly upon him; like mists before the sunrise his white
hairs and wrinkles vanish, his pristine beauty being restored by her
genial condescension. Matters hasten to a close. Tellus is willing to
marry Corsites, Eumenides wins the consent of sharp-tongued Semele to be
his bride, Dipsas and Geron agree to reconciliation, and Bagoa, saved
from the blasting curse of her angry mistress, weds Sir Tophas, the
eccentric and ludicrous knight whose folly is thrust into the play
whenever there is a danger of the main plot becoming tedious.

Certainly one cannot complain of a want of incident here. Nor is there
any lack of that complex subordination of scene to scene, that building
of one event upon another which is the foundation of skilful
plot-structure. In this play Lyly justifies himself against those who
would conclude from others of his plays that he could not construct a
plot. Yet it is a disappointing comedy. Nor is the reason hard to
discover. The first dozen pages show that, apart from the caricatured
Sir Tophas and the inevitable Pages (or Servants), all the characters
speak in exactly the same way, in fact are the same persons in all but
condition. The well-managed contrast noticed in _Damon and Pythias_ has
no place in Lyly's arrangement of characters. Were the relation of
circumstance and individual hidden, no one would know from a given
speech whether Cynthia, Tellus, or Dipsas was speaking; nor would
Endymion, Eumenides and Geron be better distinguished. This, for
example, is from the lips of the old hag, Dipsas, as, spreading her
enchantments around her victim, she mutters over his head the curse of a
blasted 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 entrance
into English drama, must have created a mild sensation amongst the
surprised and delighted spectators, as, in shimmering dress and gossamer
wings, these airy sprites danced around the astonished Corsites and sang
the 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 of
Endymion and Cynthia as told by Lyly, curious students tracing behind it
all the details of the _affaire_ between the Earl of Leicester and Queen
Elizabeth. To learn the extent to which the inquiry has been pursued we
may turn to Professor Ward's _English Dramatic Literature_ and read the
following: 'Mr. Halpin has examined at length the question of the secret
meaning of Lyly's comedy, and has come to the conclusion that it is a
dramatic 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 his
imprisonment at Elizabeth's favourite Greenwich; the friendly
intervention of Eumenides is that of the Earl of Sussex; and the
solution of the difficulty in Tellus's marriage to Corsites is the
marriage of the Countess of Sheffield to Sir Edward Stafford. I need
pursue this solution no further, except to note that under the three
heads of "highly probable", "probable", and "not improbable", Mr. Halpin
has assigned originals to all the important characters of the piece. I
am inclined to think the attempt successful.'

More entertaining to the reader than either the devotion of Endymion or
the mischievous jealousy of Tellus is the character of Sir Tophas. His
position in the play is that of Diogenes in _Campaspe_, and we observe
the same tendency to eccentric speech and action. When we pursue the
comparison further, however, we discover a marked decline in wit in the
second creation. Lyly had a tradition of truth to help him in his
conception of the crusty philosopher. In his picture of the foolish,
boastful knight he followed the author of _Thersites_ in his
exaggerated caricature until the least semblance of truth to nature is
banished from the portrait. It is interesting to compare him with Ralph
Roister Doister. Nevertheless if we project Sir Tophas upon the stage,
and by our imagination dress him and make him strut and gesticulate
after such a fashion as the text seems to indicate, we shall probably
discover ourselves smiling over puns and remarks which, on casual
perusal, we might pronounce flavourless imbecilities. Indeed, for sheer
laughable absurdity on the stage, Sir Tophas would be hard to beat. The
following scene will also show the decent quality of wit which Lyly
bestowed upon his Pages--lineal descendants of the old Vice through
those 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 and
independent thread of lower comedy is drawn through it. On the shores of
the Humber in Lincolnshire dwell two shepherds, Tyterus and Melebeus,
each the possessor of a beautiful daughter, by name Gallathea and
Phillida. Every year the god Neptune is accustomed to exact the
sacrifice of the fairest girl of the country to his pet monster, the
Agar (the Humber eagre), and this year each fond father dreads lest his
daughter will be chosen for the victim. To save them the girls are
disguised 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 is
raised by replies which seem more befitting a maid than a youth. In a
neighbouring forest range Diana and her chaste nymphs, amongst whom
Cupid, out of pure mischief, lets fly his golden-headed arrows. At once
the nymphs feel strange emotions within them, which quicken into
uneasiness and longing at the sight of Gallathea and Phillida. But Diana
detects the change, guesses at the cause, and promptly makes capture of
Cupid. His wings clipped, his bow burnt, all his arrows broken, he is
beaten and set to a task. Meanwhile the day of sacrifice has arrived
and, in default of a better, a victim is found. But Neptune will have no
second-best: what promises to be a tragedy changes to joy on the god's
refusal to accept the proffered girl. However, the sacrifice is only
postponed. Moreover the delay has given rise to a stricter search, which
means increased peril for the disguised maidens. Fortunately
intervention arrives before discovery. Venus, having learnt of Cupid's
captivity, 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 that
Neptune remits his claim upon a yearly victim. Thus are Gallathea and
Phillida saved; but for a harder fate of hopeless love--for their
constancy is irrevocable--were it not that Venus interposes with a
promise that one of them shall be changed into a boy in reality. Happy
in this future they depart to prepare for marriage.--The thread of lower
comedy introduces the customary three merry lads, but deals mainly with
the fortunes of one of them, Raffe, who finds employment successively
with an alchemist and an astronomer, only to find their promises out of
all proportion to their performances. The wonderful prospects held out
before him, and his disillusionment, afford scope for much sarcastic wit
at the expense of quackery.

The pre-eminent feature of the play is the delicate handling of the
romantic plot. We see the same fine brush at work as limned the picture
of Apelles and Campaspe, while this time the artist has chosen a more
harmonious background of meadow and woodland and river, of shepherds and
forest nymphs. To Peele the priority in the use of pastoralism in drama
must doubtless be assigned; but the play of _Gallathea_ loses none of
its merit on that account. Coupled with a pretty ambiguity of sex, this
pastoral setting completes the model from which _As You Like It_ was yet
to be moulded. Probably Peele, in his _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_,
preceded Lyly also in the introduction of sex-disguise, but his Neronis
stirs up no serious difficulties by her appearance as a shepherd boy and
a page, whereas in _Gallathea_ the disguise is the core of the plot. To
Lyly, therefore, may be given all the credit for the discovery of the
dramatic value of this simple device. With his return to the mutual
loves of ordinary human beings (for they are that, however extraordinary
the conditions) he happily restores to his characters the naturalness
which they enjoyed in the earlier play. The machinery of gods and
goddesses is perhaps to be regretted, though euphuistic drama could
hardly spare it; but if we boldly swallow it as inevitable, the motive
for the disguises at once becomes perfectly reasonable, while the whole
consequent behaviour of the girls is charged with most amusing and
delightful _naivete_. Less natural, of course, is the story of Cupid's
mischief; yet mythology never gave to the stage a prettier piece of
love-moralizing than is found in the scene of Cupid at his penal task of
untying love-knots.--The very opening lines of the play announce the
presence of Nature with her sunshine and grass and good substantial
oaks.

     _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 considerable
generosity in the matter of quotations. Accordingly we offer three
passages 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 the
only one in which Lyly dispenses with the aid of classical tradition and
mythology and attempts a Comedy of Intrigue. As such it has a certain
historical interest.--The scene is Rochester, Kent. Memphio and Stellio,
the fathers respectively of son Accius and daughter Silena, separately
and craftily resolve to bring about by fraud the wedding of these two
young people, for the reason that each knows his child to be
weak-minded, and, believing his neighbour's child to be sound-witted and
of 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 young
people, Livia and Candius, whose mutual love is made unhappy by the
opposition of their fathers, Prisius and Sperantius, since these latter
covet rather their children's marriage with Accius and Silena. In
pursuit of this other object these two countrymen send their servants,
Lucio and Halfpenny, to spy out the land. By the ordinary chance of good
comradeship the four servants meet and make known to each other their
errands, when the opportunity of a mischievous entangling of the threads
at once becomes apparent. Disguises are used, with the result that the
loving couple, Livia and Candius, marry under the unconscious benisons
of their parents. The trick being discovered, there is general trouble,
especially at the exposure of the hitherto concealed imbecility of
Accius and Silena; but a certain woman, Vicina, now comes forward, with
her two children, Maestius and Serena, to explain that the imbeciles are
really her own offspring and that the son and daughter of Memphio and
Stellio are Maestius and Serena. The willing alliance of these two
brings the original plans to a happy conclusion. Mother Bombie herself
is a fortune-teller to whom recourse is had at various times by the
young folk, and whose oracular statements provide mysterious clues to
the final events.

As a consequence of the meaner nature of its characters this play is
less tainted with euphuism than the rest, while its dialogue is as
lively as ever, the four servants finding in their masters excellent
foils to practise their wit upon. Deception and cross purposes are
conducted with much skill to their conclusion, though the elaborate
balance of households rather oppresses one by its artificiality. As one
of the earliest Comedies of Intrigue, if not actually the first, it
presents possibilities in that direction which were eagerly developed by
later writers. Thus again we observe the originality of the author
preparing the way for his successors.

In summing up the contributions of Lyly to drama we naturally lay stress
upon three points, namely, his creation of lively prose dialogue, his
uplifting of comedy from the level of coarse humour and buffoonery to
the region of high comedy and wit, and his painting of pure romantic
love. We attach value, also, to his discovery of the dramatic
possibilities of sex disguises, to his introduction of fairies upon the
stage, to his persistence in the good fashion of interspersing songs
amongst the scenes, and to his use of pastoralism as a background for
romance. Nor may his efforts in Comedy of Intrigue be overlooked. On the
other hand, we lament as a grievous failing his inability to draw real
men and women, or indeed to differentiate his characters at all except
by gross caricature or the copying of traditional eccentricities. Sir
Tophas and Diogenes we remember as distinct personalities only for their
peculiar and very obvious traits: the rest of his characters either stay
in our memory solely through the charm of particular scenes in which
they take part, or fade from it altogether. As less regrettable faults,
because hardly avoidable if euphuism was to bring its benefits, may be
remembered the weakness of his plots (notably in _Campaspe_, _Sapho and
Phao_ and _Mydas_), the stilted, flowery talk that does duty for so many
conversations, and the unreality brought in the train of his
dearly-loved Greek mythology. Not unfittingly we may conclude our
criticism of his plays with his own description of his art, given in the
first 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 than
speeches. Primarily a writer of romances, he carries the same principle
with him to the stage, providing a throng of characters and an abundance
of incident, with rapid transition from place to place, regardless of
time and the technicalities of acts and scenes. The result is a
continuous flow of pictures, in subject darting about from one set of
characters to another lest any section of the narrative drag behind the
rest, hardly ever dull yet rarely impressive, bearing the complexity of
many issues to its appointed end in general content. This is
plot-structure in its elementary yet ambitious form: an abounding wealth
of material is condensed within the limits of a play, but its
arrangement reveals no attempt at a gradual and subtle evolution of
events to a climax. It succeeds in maintaining interest by its variety,
leaving the pleased spectator with the sense of having looked on at a
number of very entertaining scenes. Unfortunately the bustle of action
invites superficiality of treatment: the end is attained by the use of
bold splashes of colour rather than by accurate drawing. Spaniards,
Italians, Turks, Moors fill the stage like a pageant; in the best known
play, _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, magicians perform wonders, country
squires kill each other for love, prince and fool exchange places,
simple folk go a-fairing, kings pay state visits, devils fly off with
people, all to hold the eye by their rapidly interchanging diversity;
but few of them pause to be painted in detail as individuals. Only the
women steal from the author's gift-box a few qualities not hackneyed by
other writers, and, decked in these, make rich return by bestowing upon
their master a reputation which no other part of his work could have won
for him.

Probably we have not all the plays that Greene wrote. Evidence points to
the loss of his earlier ones. Those preserved are (the order is
approximately that in which they were written)--_Alphonsus, King of
Arragon_, _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 last
is not certain, and that of the second was shared with Lodge. With
regard to the dates it is hardly safe to be more definite than to allot
them to the period 1587-92. In all we see a preference for ready-made
stories. The writer rarely invents a plot, choosing instead to dramatize
the history, romance, epic or ballad of another. Where he does invent,
as in the love plot in _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, the result is
notable. Blank verse is his medium, but in all except the first prose is
freely used for the speech of the uncultured persons. Most of the verse
is quite good, modelled on the form of Marlowe's; it is commonly least
satisfactory where the imitation is most deliberate. The prose, adopted
from Lyly's 'servants' and 'pages', not from his courtly 'goddesses', is
clear and vigorous. Euphuism asserts itself occasionally in the verse,
and the affectation of scholarship, customary in that day, is
responsible for a superabundance of classical allusions in unexpected
places.

Since Greene was at first much under the influence of Marlowe it is
necessary to say something here of that dramatist's work. For a full
consideration of the essential qualities of Marlowe the reader must be
asked to wait. Perhaps he has already discovered them in the ordinary
course of his reading, for Marlowe is too widely known to need
introduction through any text-book. Briefly, _Tamburlaine_--the play
which made the greatest impression on the playwrights of its time--may
be described as a magniloquent account of the career of a
world-conqueror whose resistless triumph over kingdoms and potentates,
signalized by acts of monstrous insolence, provides excuse for outbursts
of extravagant vainglory. Such a description is intended to indicate the
traditional Marlowesque qualities: it is a very inadequate criticism of
the play as a whole. This kind of loud, richly coloured drama leapt
into instant popularity, and it was in direct imitation of it that
Greene wrote the first of the plays credited to him.

_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_, shares with _James the Fourth_ the
distinction of a division into five acts, and adheres throughout to
blank verse. Alphonsus, the conqueror, begins his career as an exiled
claimant to the throne of Arragon. Fighting as a common soldier, under
an agreement that he shall hold all he wins, he slays the Spanish
usurper in battle and at once demands the crown. On this being granted
him 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, with
complete overthrow of his enemies. Grandly bestowing upon his three
chief supporters all his present conquests, namely, the thrones of
Arragon, Naples and Milan, as too trifling for himself, Alphonsus
follows his opponents to their refuge at the court of Amurack, the great
Turk. Through a misleading oracle of Mahomet they rashly engage in
battle without their ally and are slain. With their heads impaled at the
corners of his canopy Alphonsus now confronts Amurack, just such another
bold and arrogant conqueror as himself. In the conflict that follows he
is temporarily put to flight by Amurack's daughter, Iphigena, and her
band of Amazons; but, smitten with sudden love, he turns to offer his
hand and heart on the battlefield. She spurns his overtures, and a very
ungallant hand-to-hand combat follows, in which he proves victor and
drives his lovely foe to flight in her turn. The conquest is complete,
and with all his enemies captives Alphonsus carries things with a high
hand, threatening to add Amurack's head to those on his canopy unless
that monarch consent to his marriage with Iphigena. Fortunately
Alphonsus's old father, who has gained entrance in a pilgrim's garb,
intervenes with parental remonstrance and by the exercise of a little
tact brings about both the marriage and general happiness.

A noticeable feature, which shows the closeness of the imitation, is the
absence of all intentionally humorous scenes, in spite of Greene's very
considerable natural aptitude for comic by-play. Everywhere the
influence of _Tamburlaine_ is markedly visible, in the subject, in
particular scenes, in such staging as the gruesome canopy, and above all
in the incessant bombast. Euphuism also is more pronounced than in his
other plays: Venus recites the prologues to the acts. All the male
characters are drawn on the same pattern, in differing degrees according
to their condition, and the two women, Iphigena and her mother, Fausta,
are without attractive qualities. Marlowe, as we know, rarely expended
any care on his female characters; Greene, however, proved capable in
his later, independent plays, of very different work. Utter disregard of
normal conceptions of time and distance produces occasional confusion in
the reader's mind as to his supposed imaginary whereabouts. From almost
every point of view, then, the play is a poor production. A redeeming
trait is the occasional vigour of the verse. For an illustrative passage
one 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 the
deliberate didacticism of the old Moralities. The lessons for London,
drawn from the sins of Nineveh, are formally and piously announced by
the prophets Oseas and Jonas after the exposure of each offence. Devoid
of any proper plot, the play merely brings together various incidents to
exhibit such social evils as usury, legal corruption, filial
ingratitude, friction between master and servant. Intermingled, with
only the slightest connexion, are the widely different stories of King
Rasni's amours, of the thirsty career of a drunken blacksmith, and of
the prophet Jonah--his disobedience, strange sea-journey, mission in
Nineveh and subsequent ill-temper being set forth in full. Vainglorious
Rasni talks like Alphonsus, and his ladies are even less charming than
Iphigena. Ramilia boasts as outrageously as her brother, and is only
prevented by sudden death from an incestuous union with him; Alvida,
after poisoning her first husband to secure Rasni, shamelessly attempts
to woo the King of Cilicia. Quite the most successful character, perhaps
the most amusing of all Greene's clowns, is Adam, the blacksmith. His
loyal defence of his trade against derogatory aspersions, his rare
drunkenness, his detection and beating of the practical joker who comes
disguised as a devil to carry him off like a Vice on his back, his
tactful replenishings of his cup at the king's table, and his
dissemblings to avoid being discovered in possession of food during the
fast are most entertaining. Poor fellow, he ends on the gallows, but
goes to his death with a stout heart and a full stomach. No better
example is needed of the prose which Greene puts into the mouths of his
low characters than that which Adam uses. The following incident occurs
during 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's
poem, need not delay us long. It is the story of Orlando's madness (due
to jealousy) and the sufferings of innocent, patient Angelica. In this
heroine we have the first of several pictures from the author's hand of
a gentle, constant, ill-used maiden, but she is very little seen. Most
of the play is taken up with warfare, secret enmities, and Orlando's
madness. The evil genius, Sacripant, may be the first, as Iago is the
greatest, of that school of villains whose treachery finds expression in
the deliberate undermining of true love by forged proofs of infidelity.
There is less rodomontade than in the previous plays, but again we have
to record an absence of humour. In the following lines Orlando is
meditating 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, with
titanic heroes and a generous supply of kings, queens, and great
captains: no less than twenty crowned heads compete for places on the
list of dramatis personae in his first three plays. The character of
Angelica, 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 camps
to the fresh countryside. To the end Greene retained his kings, possibly
for their spectacular effect. But he abandoned warfare as a theme.

_Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_ was written under the new inspiration. We
have already referred to the motley nature of this drama. No other of
the writer's plays exhibits so many and such rapid changes of scene,
some situations actually demanding the presentation of two scenes at the
same time. In spite of this the different sections of the story remain
tolerably clear as we proceed, and the interest never flags for longer
than the brief minutes when prosy Oxford dons talk learnedly. Four
groups of characters attract attention in turn; the young noblemen and
Margaret, the three kings and the Spanish princess, the country yokels
and squires, and the magicians. By careful interweaving all four groups
are related to one another and none but the Margaret plot is permitted
to 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 taken
refreshment at her father's farm after a hunt, and the prince has fallen
a captive to her beauty and simplicity. It is decided that a double
attack must be made upon her heart, Prince Edward invoking the magic aid
of Bacon, while Lacy stays behind to woo her on his behalf. Lacy's part
is not easy. Disguised as a farmer he meets Margaret at a village fair
and does his best to plead for 'the courtier all in green', only to be
himself pierced by the arrow that struck his prince. When, therefore,
Prince Edward arrives at the friar's cell and peers into his marvellous
crystal, he sees Lacy and Margaret exchanging declarations of love,
with Friar Bungay standing by ready to wed them. The power of Friar
Bacon prevents the ceremony by whisking his cowled brother away, and the
furious prince hurries back to Fressingfield. He is resolved to slay
Lacy; nor does that remorseful earl ask for other treatment; Margaret,
however, offers so brave and noble a defence of her lover, taking all
blame upon herself and avowing that his death will be instantly followed
by her own, that at length more generous impulses rise in the royal
breast, and instead of death a blessing is bestowed. Together the prince
and 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 be
Prince Edward's wife. In their absence other admirers appear upon the
scene, 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 kill
each other. By an unhappy coincidence their absent sons are looking into
Bacon's magic crystal at that very time, and, seeing the fatal
consequences of the conflict, turn their weapons hastily against each
other, with the result that their fathers' fate becomes theirs. Margaret
remains loyal to Lacy, but mischief prompts the latter to send her one
hundred pounds and a letter of dismissal on the plea of a wealthier
match being necessary for him. Unhappy Margaret, rejecting the money,
prepares to enter a convent. Fortunately Lacy himself comes down to set
matters in order for their marriage before she has taken the vows, and
though his second wooing is done in a very peremptory, cavalier fashion,
she returns to his arms. Their wedding is celebrated on the same day as
that of Prince Edward and Elinor of Castile.--Independent of this
romance, but linked to it through the person of Prince Edward, are the
visit of the kings to Oxford, the wonder-workings of Friar Bacon, and
the mischievous fooling of such light-headed persons as the king's
jester, Ralph Simnell, and the friar's servant, Miles. Friar Bacon's
power is exercised in the spiriting hither and thither of desirable and
undesirable folk, the most notable victim being a much vaunted and
self-confident German magician who has been brought over by the emperor
to outshine his English rivals. There is some fun when Miles is set to
watch for the first utterance of the mysterious brazen head, and,
delaying to wake his master, lets the supreme moment pass unused. The
curses which this mistake calls upon him from Friar Bacon bring about
his ultimate removal to hell on a devil's back.

Here then is a slight but charming story of romance, supported through
the length of a whole play by all the adventitious aids which Greene can
command. One of the minor characters, Ralph Simnell, invites passing
notice as the rough sketch of a type which Shakespeare afterwards
perfected, the Court Fool: his jesting questions and answers may be
compared with those of Feste in _Twelfth Night_. Disguised as the
prince, to conceal the identity of the real prince at Oxford, he is
served by the merry nobles and proves himself humorously unprincely. But
that which has given most fame to the author is the love-plot. The
Fressingfield scenes bring upon the stage a direct picture of simple
country life--of a dairy-maid among her cheeses, butter and cream, and
of a country fair with farm-lads eager to buy fairings for their
lassies. Unfortunately, under the influence of the fashionable
affectation, Margaret is unusually learned in Greek mythology, citing
Jove, Danae, Phoebus, Latona and Mercury within the compass of a bare
five lines. The indebtedness of Greene to Lyly's _Campaspe_ for the idea
of a simple love romance as plot has been acknowledged. In the use of
pastoralism, too, he borrowed a hint, perhaps, from Peele. Yet, when
both debts have been allowed, the reader of Greene's comedy is still
left with the conviction that his author had the secret of it all in
himself. 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,
    Checked 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 chronicle
history play. It is the story of that king's love for Ida, the daughter
of the Countess of Arran, and of the consequent unhappiness of his young
queen, Dorothea. Technically it is Greene's most perfect play, being
carefully divided into acts and scenes, and containing a plot ample
enough to dispense with much of that extraneous matter which obscured
his former plays. An amusing stratum of comic by-play underlies the main
story without interfering with it. Nevertheless the central details are
unattractive, presenting intrigue rather than romance, so that the
effect is less pleasing than that of the previous comedy.

In the hour of the Scottish monarch's union with Dorothea, daughter of
the English king, his wandering eyes fall upon and become enamoured of
Ida, who is standing by amongst the ladies of the court. With
dissembling lips he bids farewell to his new father-in-law; then, alone,
soliloquizes on his own wretchedness. Ateukin, a poor, unscrupulous and
ambitious courtier, overhears him and offers his services, which are
accepted. Ateukin, accordingly, makes overtures to Ida, but without
success. Returning, he persuades the king to sanction the murder of his
queen, to be accomplished by the French hireling, Jaques. By accident
the 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 and
accompanied by her dwarf. They are followed, however, by Jaques, who,
after stabbing her, returns to announce the news to Ateukin. The latter
informs the king and at once sets out to secure Ida's acceptance of her
royal suitor, only to find her already married to a worthy knight,
Eustace. Aware of the consequences to himself of failure he flees the
country. Meanwhile Queen Dorothea, who was not mortally wounded, is
successfully tended in a hospitable castle, her disguise remaining
undiscovered. This produces a temporary difficulty, the lady of the
castle falling in love with her knightly patient; but that trouble is
soon removed, without leaving any harm behind. The King of England
invades Scotland on behalf of his ill-used daughter; a reward is offered
for 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 and
Dorothea. In the outline given above small space is assigned to the
former because her part is almost entirely confined to minor scenes in
which she and her mother talk together over their fancy-work, and
Eustace pays successful court for her hand. But by her purity and
maidenly reserve she merits our attention. It is a pity that her virtue
makes her rather dull and prosaic. Dorothea's adventures in disguise
show Greene profiting perhaps by the example of Peele, although the loss
of so many contemporary plays warns us against naming models too
definitely. The popularity of disguised girls in later drama and their
appearance in the works of Peele, Lyly and Greene, point to their having
been early accepted as favourites whenever an author sought for an easy
addition to the entanglement of his plot. Faithful love in the face of
desertion and cruelty is the dominant note in Dorothea's character as it
was in that of Angelica.--Slipper and Nano, two dwarf brothers, engaged
as attendants respectively on Ateukin and Queen Dorothea, provide most
of the humour. More worthy of note are Oberon, King of the Fairies, and
Bohan, the embittered Scotch recluse, who together provide an Induction
to the play. We are reminded of the Induction to _The Taming of the
Shrew_. Ben Jonson also makes use of this device. In this particular
Induction the story of James the Fourth is supposed to be played before
Oberon to illustrate the reason of Bohan's disgust with the world; but
these two persons recur several times to round off the acts with fairy
dances and dumb shows, which have no reference to the main play. In
Greene's verse we discover a half-hearted return to rhyme, passages in
it, and even odd couplets, being interspersed plentifully through his
blank verse.

To make amends for our slight notice of Ida in the outline of the play
we 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 the
panoplied splendour of conquerors to treat of the pursuit of love in
peace he descended from the exclusive ranks of high-born lords and
ladies to the company of simple working folk, presenting a farmer's
daughter, winsome, loving and virtuous, and worthy to become the wife of
an earl. This aspect of the Fressingfield romance must have had a
special appeal for those of his audiences who stood outside the pale of
wealth and aristocracy. An earlier bid for their applause has been seen
in the figure of the blacksmith, Adam, whose sturdy defence of his trade
was referred to when we discussed _A Looking-Glass for London and
England_. If Greene wrote _George-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield_,
and there is a strong probability that he did, he carried forward the
glorification of the lower classes, in this play, to its furthest point.

It is a hearty yeoman play; the time represented, the reign of one of
the Edwards. The plot revolves about the rebellion of an Earl of Kendal.
The principal figure is just such a stout typical hero of a countryside
as Robin Hood himself, but more law-abiding. His rough honest loyalty is
up in arms at once on the least disrespect to the crown. When Sir
Nicholas Mannering, on behalf of the rebel Earl of Kendal, insolently
demands a contribution of provisions from Wakefield, George tears up his
commission and makes him swallow the three seals. By craft--being
disguised as a hermit-seer--he takes prisoner Kendal and another
nobleman, and so single-handed crushes the rebellion. About the same
time the ally of Kendal, James of Scotland, is captured by another
country hero, Musgrove, a veteran of great renown but no less in age
than 'five score and three'. Thus the yeomen prove their superiority
over traitor nobles. But George has other affairs to manage. Fair
Bettris, who runs away from a disagreeable father to join him, suddenly
refuses to marry him without her father's consent, not easily obtainable
in the circumstances. However a trick overcomes that difficulty too in
the end. Meanwhile the fame of the lass excites the rival jealousy of
Maid Marian, who insists on Robin Hood's challenging George's supremacy.
In three single fights Robin's two comrades, Scarlet and Much, are
overthrown and Robin himself is driven to call a halt: his identity
being discovered, George treats him with great honour. In accordance
with former practices kings are brought upon the scene. The King of
Scotland, as we have seen, is captured by Musgrove. King Edward of
England and his nobles, in disguise, visit Yorkshire to see the
redoubtable George who has crushed the king's rebels. An ancient custom
of 'vailing (_trailing_) the staff' through Bradford, or, as an
alternative, fighting the shoemakers of that town, produces a laughable
episode. The king at first 'vails' at discretion, but is compelled by
George and Robin to adopt a bolder attitude; George then beats all the
shoemakers, who, at the finish, however, recognizing him, award him a
hearty welcome. All are brought to their knees at the revelation of the
king's identity, but Edward is merry over the affair, offering to dub
George a knight. This distinction the latter begs to be allowed to
refuse, 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 of
shoemakers.

    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 in
the verse, pointing to hasty production. But the whole play is humorous,
vigorous and healthy. George's man, Jenkin, a dull-witted, faint-hearted
fellow, is the clown. There is an abundance of incident, though not the
complexity of _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_. We have noticed the
historical atmosphere repeated from that play and from _James the
Fourth_. 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 her
titled 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 loyal
yeoman, defies Sir Nicholas Mannering, the traitorous noble, and flouts
his commission. Those present include the local Justice and an assembly
of 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. The
qualities of that work have been pointed out as they occurred, but it
may be as well to recapitulate them in a final paragraph. Foremost of
all will stand the crowded medley of his plots, filling the stage with
an amount of incident and action which is in striking contrast to Lyly's
conversations and monologues. The public appetite for complex plots was
stimulated, but unfortunately very little progress was made in the art
of orderly dramatic arrangement and evolution. Indeed, this feature of
Greene's plays may be thought to have been almost as much a loss as a
gain to drama. Its popularity licensed an indifference on the part of
lesser authors to clarity and restraint, and encouraged the development
of those dual plots which are to be found, connected by the flimsiest
bonds, in the works of such men as Dekker and Heywood. To the same
influence may be traced Shakespeare's frequent but skilful use of
subordinate plots. For the second quality of Greene's work we name the
charm and purity of his romantic conceptions. The fresh air of his
pastoralism, the virtue, constancy and patience of his heroines, entitle
him to an honourable position among the writers who have reached success
by this path. Thirdly, but of equal importance, is his sympathetic
presentment of men and women of the middle and lower classes; he was
here an innovator, and some of our most pathetic dramas may be traced
ultimately to his example. His admirable 'low comedy' scenes, on the
other hand, though they prove their author to have been gifted with
considerable humour, merely continued the practice of Lyly, as his rant
and noisy warfare echoed the thunder of Marlowe. The general soundness,
even occasional excellence, of his verse and prose must be allowed to be
largely his own.

       *       *       *       *       *

George Peele has left behind him a name associated with sweetness of
versification and graceful pastoralism. When, however, we try to recall
other features of his work, the men and women of his creation, or scenes
from his plots, we find our memory strangely indistinct. It is not easy
at first to see why; but probably the cause is in his lack of strong
individuality. He had not the gift of his greater contemporaries of
throwing vitality into his work. When they took up an old story they
entered into possession of it, creating fresh scenes and introducing new
and effective actors; above all, in their most successful productions,
they grasped the necessity of having one or more clearly defined
figures, which, by their strongly human appeal, or their exaggerated
traits, should grip the attention of the spectators with unforgettable
force. Marlowe was the supreme master of this art; Diogenes, Sir Tophas,
Margaret of Fressingfield, Queen Dorothea, and others are examples of
what Lyly and Greene could do. The same vitality is visible in their
best known plots and scenes. Apelles loved Campaspe long ago in the
pages of history, and was forgotten there; Lyly made him woo and win her
again, and now their home is for ever between the covers of his little
volume. Greene tells the story of Earl Lacy's love for Margaret, and the
details of that delightfully human romance return to us whenever his
name is mentioned. But what characters or scenes spring up to proclaim
Peele's authorship? He dramatized the narrative of Absalom's rebellion,
and, as soon as the end of the play is reached, the theme, with the
possible exception of the first scene, slips back, in our minds, into
its old biblical setting; it belongs to the writer of _The Book of
Samuel_, not to Peele. He wrote a Marlowesque play, similar to Greene's
_Alphonsus, King of Arragon_, but failed to create out of his several
leaders a single dominant figure to compare with Alphonsus. The same
might be said of his _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_ and his _Edward the
First_; and his _Old Wives' Tale_ is a by-word for confusion. Only in
the sub-plot of _The Arraignment of Paris_ does he present a character
that may be said to owe its permanence in English literature to him. The
first love of Paris is there told so prettily, with so pathetic a
presentation of the heart-broken Oenone, that at once the deserted
maiden won a place in English hearts and minds; Tennyson's poem is an
exquisite wreath laid at the foot of the monument raised by Peele to her
memory. On the other hand, the main plot, retelling the old legend of
the Apple of Discord, is painted in the same neutral tints as coloured
his other plays. Such slight distinction as it may have it draws from
association with a matter of extraneous interest, the conversion of the
action into an elaborate compliment to Queen Elizabeth; the goddesses,
and Paris in his relation to them, gain nothing at his hands, while
Hobbinol, Diggon and Thenot are the dullest of shepherds. Unapt for
witty or clownish dialogue, Peele rarely attempts, as Lyly and Greene
did, to give fresh piquancy to an old story by the addition of
subordinate 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 two
features of his work mentioned in our opening sentence, namely,
sweetness of versification and graceful pastoralism. Of these the latter
is found only in a single play, _The Arraignment of Paris_, and is one
of the few products of the author's originality. Lyly was possibly
indebted 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 of
passive Nature.[56] The preponderance of mythology, however, the dearth
of real human beings, the unnaturalness permitted to invade nature--so
that even the flowers are grouped, as in an absurd parterre, to
represent the forms of goddesses--make Peele's pastoralism, despite the
undeniable charm of many passages, inferior to Greene's representation
of English country life.

Turning next to his verse, we recognize that it is here above all that
his 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 seems
almost a pity to remind them that he wrote more than two plays, and
that the same brain that composed the favourite passages in _David and
Bethsabe_ also produced quantities of very indifferent poetry in other
dramas. _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_ is written in tedious
alliterative heptameters. From _Edward the First_ the most ardent
admirer of Peele would be puzzled to find half a dozen speeches meriting
quotation. The verse of _The Battle of Alcazar_ is in all points similar
to that of Greene's Marlowesque plays, imitating and falling short of
the same model. In fact Peele's reputation as a versifier rests almost
entirely on the contents of those two plays which most students of his
work read, _The Arraignment of Paris_ and _David and Bethsabe_. Of the
first it may be said boldly, without fear of contradiction, that,
considered metrically, the verse is unsuited to ordinary drama. The
arbitrary and constantly changing use of heroic couplet, blank verse
(pentameters), rhyming heptameters, alternate heptameters and hexameters
rhyming together, and the swift transition from one form to another in
the same speech, possibly help towards the lyrical effect aimed at; the
nature of the plot licenses a deviation from the ordinary dramatic
rules; but such metric irresponsibility would be out of place in any
ordinary play. There is a rare daintiness in some of the lines; they are
truly poetic; but we must remember that goddesses and the legendary
dwellers about Mount Ida may be permitted to speak in a language which
would be condemned as an affectation among folk of commoner clay.
Setting these objections aside--though they are important, as
demonstrating the limited amount of Peele's widely praised dramatic
verse--we may offer one general criticism of the verse of both plays.
The best lines and passages charm us by their exquisite finish, their
seductive rhythm and imagery, not by their thought. Sometimes the warm
glow of his patriotism, which was his most sincere emotion, inspired
verses 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 dramas
for lines like those quoted on an earlier page from _Friar Bacon and
Friar 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 the
famous 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 of
Tennyson's _Lotos Eaters_ without the message. The others have the
energy of thought, of passion; they do not soothe the ear as do Peele's
verses, but they strike the deeper chords of the human heart. None of
the three passages should be taken as fairly representing its author's
normal style, but the contrast illustrates the essential nature of the
difference between the work of Peele and Greene.

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

It has been claimed that he was also, to some extent, an artist in
plot-structure. The mingle-mangle of scarcely connected incidents which
did duty with Greene for a plot, the irrepressible by-play with which
Lyly loved to interrupt his main story, were rejected by him. _Edward
the First_ is an exception; in his best plays he achieved a certain
dignified directness and simplicity. But he was as incapable as Greene
of concentration upon one point, or of working up the interest to an
impending catastrophe. He was content with chronological order for his
guide; his directness is the directness of the Chronicle History. _The
Battle of Alcazar_ and _David and Bethsabe_ follow this method as
completely as his avowedly chronicle play, _Edward the First_. It is a
strange thing how plot-structure fell into abeyance in comedy after its
long and strenuous evolution through the Interludes to _Ralph Roister
Doister_ and _Gammer Gurton's Needle_. We must confess, however
reluctantly, that those early plays set an example in unity and
concentration of interest that was never surpassed by any of the
comedies of the University Wits. Lyly may be said to have come nearest
to it, though, handicapped by a passing affectation, he could never
excite the same degree of interest. Greene's plots lack unity, and
Peele's emphasis. We have to wait for Shakespeare before we can see
comedy 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 of
Alcazar_ (printed 1594), _The Old Wive's Tale_ (printed 1595), _David
and Bethsabe_ (printed 1599).

_The Arraignment of Paris_ sets forth, in five acts, the old Greek tale
of Paris, the three goddesses, and the golden apple. Juno, Pallas and
Venus graciously condescend to visit the vales of Ida, and are loyally
welcomed by the minor deities of the earth, Flora especially making it
her 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 give
judgment, and awards the prize to Venus. There the Greek tale ends. But
Peele adds an ingenious sequel. Juno and Pallas, indignant at the slight
put 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 a
solution to such a knotty problem of wounded pride. Paris is summoned
before this high court, but clears himself from the charge of unjust
partiality. Finally it is agreed that the arbitrament of Diana shall be
invited and accepted as conclusive. She, by a delicate compromise,
satisfies the jealous susceptibilities of the three goddesses by
preferring above them a nymph, Eliza, whose charms surpass their
totalled attributes of wealth, wisdom, and beauty. The story is
provided with two under-plots, presenting opposite aspects of rejected
love. In the one, Colin dies for love of disdainful Thestylis, who in
her turn dotes despairingly upon an ugly churl. In the other, Oenone
holds and loses the affections of Paris, stolen from her by the beauty
of Venus; this is the most delicate portion of the whole play. Pretty
songs are imbedded in the scenes--_Cupid's Curse_ is a famous one--and
many lines of captivating fancy will be found by an appreciative reader.
On a well-furnished stage the valley of Mount Ida, where Pan, Flora and
others of Nature's guardians direct her wild fruitfulness, where
shepherds converse in groups or alone sing their grief to the skies, and
Paris 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 carrying
splendour wherever they went, seriously detracted from the appearance of
free 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 as
he reads, is the watchful provision for spectacular effect in every
scene. It is this, combined with the author's choice of subject and
characters, which has led to the comparison of this comedy with a
Masque. The resemblance, too manifest to be overlooked, gives an
additional interest to a play which thus is seen to hold something like
an intermediary position between drama proper and that other, infinitely
more ornate, form of court entertainment. Viewing it in this light, we
are 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'. After
all, the play, like a Masque, is little more than an exaggerated and
richly designed compliment, the most beautiful of its kind. In selecting
suitable extracts one is drawn from scene to scene, uncertain which
deserves preference. The two offered here illustrate respectively the
tuneful variety of Peele's verse and the delicate embroidery of Diana's
famous 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 curled 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 because
it contains the earliest known example of a girl disguised as a page,
the Princess Neronis waiting upon her lover in that office. As has been
pointed out, however, in the discussion of _Gallathea_, Peele makes no
really dramatic use of the novel situation. If the dramatist had been
content with one knight instead of two, or had even vouchsafed the aid
of acts and scenes, his readers would have been able to follow the
succession 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 chivalrous
romance. A writer who could allow one of his heroes to begin his career
by a piece of schoolboy trickery followed by headlong flight to escape
detection, and could make the sea-sickness of his other hero the cause
of his introduction to the lady of his heart, had not the true spirit of
romance in him. We meet our old acquaintances, the thinly disguised Vice
and the rude clown of uncouth dialect, under the names of Subtle Shift
and Corin; abstractions also reappear in Rumour and Providence. The
crudity 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 as
complete a medley as the most tangled play of Greene's. Peele's lack of
power to concentrate interest makes itself lamentably felt throughout.
We are conscious, as we read, that King Edward, or Longshanks, as he is
always named, is intended to impress us with his sterling English
qualities. He overcomes all difficulties, and if we could only unravel
his thread from the skein of characters, we should acknowledge him to be
a worthy monarch, brave, loving, wise, just and firm. One or two scenes,
we feel, are inserted deliberately for the sake of heightening his
character, notably that in which he elects to face single-handed a man
whom he supposes to be the redoubtable Robin Hood and who proves to be
no less than Llewellyn, Prince of Wales. Unfortunately these excellent
intentions are not seconded by the rest of the play. Some of the scenes
in which Edward takes part are not at all calculated to increase his
dignity; in the last of all, for instance, it is hardly an English act
on his part to conceal his identity in a monk's cowl and spy upon the
secrets of his queen's dying confession. That, however, may have been
pardoned by an Elizabethan audience; any trick may have been thought
good enough which exposed Spanish villany. A more serious defect is the
undue prominence given to Llewellyn and to Queen Elinor. This is not
accidental, for the full title of the play states that it is to include
'also the life of Llevellen rebell in Wales; lastly, the sinking of
Queene Elinor, who sunck at Charingcrosse, and rose againe at
Potters-hith, now named Queenehith'. Peele chose three distinct points
of interest because he knew no better. It seemed to him, just as it did
to Greene, that by so doing he would treble the interest of the play as
a whole; both were a long way from comprehending the wisdom underlying
the 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's
character. A Spaniard, she figures as a monster of cruelty, pride and
vanity, capable of wishes and deeds which we have no desire to remember.
At this distance of time, however, righteous indignation at the
injustice done to a fair name is perhaps uncalled for. The play is only
read by the curious student, and it is quite apparent, as others have
pointed out, that the attack is directed more against the Spanish nation
than against an individual. We may still regret the injustice, but we
know better than to wonder at any misconception sixteenth-century
Englishmen may have formed of their hated foe.

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

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

     (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, he
benefited 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 the
course of events, the distraction of humorous prose scenes is banished,
independent plots are forbidden their old parallel existence, everything
moves steadily towards the tragic conclusion. Lest there should still
arise uncertainty as to the drift of the various incidents as they
occur, a 'Presenter' is at hand to serve as prologue to each act and
explain, not merely what must be understood as having happened off the
stage 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 often
vigorous, though the vigour sometimes appears forced, and the constant
stream of end-stopt lines becomes monotonous. Murders that cannot find
room elsewhere are perpetrated in dumb-show, ghosts within the wings cry
out _Vindicta!_, and the leading characters suffer the usual inflatus of
windy rant to make their dimensions more kingly. Still the play fails to
achieve the right effect. There is no dominant hero, the central figure,
if such there is, being the villain, Muly Mahamet the Moor. But his is
not the career, nor his the character, at all likely to win either the
sympathy or the interest of an English audience. Defeated, exiled, twice
seen in desperate flight, treacherous, and incapable of anything but
amazing speeches, he thoroughly deserves the ignominious fate reserved
for him. Of the three other claimants to pre-eminence, Sebastian lends
his aid to the base Moor and is defeated and slain; Stukeley, the
Englishman, is a traitor to his country, and is murdered on the
battlefield in cold blood by his comrades; while Abdelmelec, who is
alone successful in war, does not appear in more than five of the
thirteen scenes, and is killed in the last battle. In action, too, there
is a divided interest. The first act is entirely devoted to the campaign
which places Abdelmelec on the throne of the usurping Moor; not until
the fourth scene of the second act does King Sebastian of Portugal come
upon the stage; only from that point onward are we concerned with his
unsuccessful attempt--in which he is assisted by Stukeley--to restore
the crown of Morocco to Muly Mahamet. Once more we have to lament that
absence of unity and grip, though under improved conditions, which we
noticed 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 prefatory
note to the play in his edition of Peele's works. The surprising thing
is that he was not hissed from the boards by indignant patriots. But his
exploits, and his thoroughly English pride, seem to have awakened the
sympathies of his countrymen, for his memory was cherished as that of a
popular hero. His traitorous intention to conquer Ireland for the Pope,
however, receives noble reproof from Peele in the mouths of Don Diego
Lopez and King Sebastian. The latter's speech well deserves perusal. But
we have quoted sufficiently already from Peele's patriotic eloquence.

The extravagant language of the Moor has been made immortal by
Shakespeare: 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 the
inconsistencies over which rant unblushingly careers, we give two
consecutive 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 is
written mainly in prose, without any division into acts. It appears to
have been an experiment in broad comedy to the exclusion of all things
serious, for wherever a graver tone threatens to direct the action some
absurd character or incident is hastily introduced to save the
situation. Regarded as such, it cannot be said to be either successful
or wholly unsuccessful. The opening scene is certainly one of the most
racy and homely Inductions to be found in dramatic literature, while one
or two of the other scenes, though they make poor reading, are
calculated to rouse laughter when acted; the lower characters, at least,
display plenty of animation, and the creation of that fantastic person
of royal pedigree, Huanebango--'Polimackeroeplacidus my grandfather, my
father Pergopolineo, my mother Dionora de Sardinia, famously
descended'--with his effort to 'lisp in numbers' of classical
accentuation--'Philida, phileridos, pamphilida, florida,
flortos'--reveals humour of a finer edge than the mere laughter-raising
kind. Against this moderate praise, however, must be set some blame. It
has been said before that the play is a by-word for confusion. An
extraordinary recklessness rules the introduction of characters,
participation in one scene being, apparently, sufficient justification
for the inclusion of a fresh character at any stage of the play. As
vital an error is the neglect to excite our pity for Delia, round whom
the whole story revolves; she is represented as thoroughly happy with
her captor and so utterly forgetful of her brothers that she is content
to ill-treat them at the will of Sacrapant. True, we are told that magic
has wrought the change in her. But a skilful dramatist would have left
her some unconquered emotions of reluctance or distress to quicken our
sympathy.

The story is this. Three lads, Antic, Frolic and Fantastic, having lost
their way, are given shelter by a countryman, Clunch--a smith, by the
way, like our old friend, Adam--whose goodwife, Madge, entertains two of
them with a tale while the other sleeps with her husband. She begins
correctly enough with a 'Once upon a time', but soon lands herself in
difficulties amongst the various facts that require preliminary
explanation before the story can be properly launched. At the right
moment the people referred to themselves appear and the story passes
from narration to action. We learn from two brothers that they are
seeking their sister, Delia, who has been carried off by a wicked
magician, Sacrapant--not to be confused with Greene's Sacripant. This
same sorcerer has also separated a loving couple; by his art the lady,
Venelia, has gone mad, and the youth, Erestus, is converted into an old
man by day and a bear by night. The aged-looking Erestus is regarded
throughout the countryside as a soothsayer. His neighbour, Lampriscus,
cursed by two daughters, one of whom is frightfully ugly while the other
is a virago, consults him about their marriages. By his advice they take
their pitchers to a magic well, where, by a coincidence, each finds a
husband. She of the hideous face easily satisfies Huanebango, while the
vile-tempered maiden as readily contents the heart of Corebus, for
Sacrapant has previously hurled blindness upon the former, and upon the
latter deafness, because they dared to enter his realms in search of
Delia. Meanwhile the brothers continue their quest and eventually come
upon Sacrapant and their sister making merry together at a feast. At
once the lady is sent indoors, thunder and lightning herald disaster,
and Sacrapant's magic takes them captive. Subsequently they are set to a
task, with Delia standing over to speed their labours with a sharpened
goad. It now becomes known that Sacrapant's power depends on the
continued existence of a light enclosed within a glass vessel and buried
in the earth. Delia has a lover, Eumenides. Acting on a generous
impulse, this youth pays for the burial of one, Jack, whose friends are
too poor to find the sexton's fees. Jack's ghost, in no more horrible
form than that of an honest boy, forthwith repays the kindness by
appointing himself Eumenides' guide, leading him to Sacrapant's castle,
and obligingly slaying the magician at the critical moment by a touch of
his ghostly hand. The buried light is dug up, Venelia, qualified by her
madness to fulfil the conditions imposed by an old prophecy, breaks the
glass and blows out the flame, and instantly all Sacrapant's wickedness
is nullified. Venelia and Erestus are re-united, Delia is restored to
her brothers and lover; we are not told of the shocks that must have
come to Huanebango and Corebus when they suddenly became conscious of
their respective wives' most prominent qualities. Into the midst of the
rejoicing comes a demand from Jack's ghost for the fulfilment of
Eumenides' 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 the
play ends happily.

We have given the story in full on account of its association, in the
minds of some critics, with the plot of _Comus_. Because Milton, in
another work, has shown himself acquainted with Peele's writings, they
feel encouraged to see in the Ghost of Jack, Sacrapant, and Delia the
prototypes of the Attendant Spirit, Comus, and the Lady. One may
suppose that the same foundation of resemblance establishes Peele as
also the inspirer of the first book of _The Faerie Queene_ through his
_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, with its knight and lady and dragon and
magician, Sansfoy. Professor Mason, on the other hand, prefers to regard
as mere coincidences those points which are common to both. By the
outline given, the reader who has not Peele's comedy at hand will be
assisted in making his own choice between the two opinions.

_David and Bethsabe_ presents the two stories of David's love for
Bathsheba and of the revolt of Absalom, as found in the Second Book of
Samuel (Chapters xi-xix). The succession of events is carefully
observed, each least pleasant detail jealously retained, and in some
places even the language closely imitated. Except in the old Bible
plays, one does not often meet with such rigorous adherence to the
original in the transference of facts from a narrative to a drama. To
this adherence are due certain features which any one not fresh from
reading the account in Samuel might easily attribute to the dramatist's
skill--the differentiation of the characters, the varying moods of joy,
sorrow, indignation, hope and despair, besides the unusual vigour of
some of the scenes. Dramatic art, however, is frequently as severely
tested 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 he
only possessed the ability to construct a plot; for there is an
abundance of the right dramatic material in his subject, and in his best
moments he displays wonderful mastery in the moulding of hard facts to
his use. Nothing could be more perfectly done than the sublimation of
the contents of three plain verses (Chapter xi. 2-4) to the delicate
poetry of his famous opening scene. Unfortunately the method adopted is
that of the chronicle history-plays or of the nearly forgotten
Miracles, to which class of drama _David and Bethsabe_, as a late
survival, may be said to belong. It has other marks of retrogression to
methods 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 previous
tragedy. There is also, despite the occasional vigour shown in the
portrayal of David, Absalom and Joab, the familiar weakness in
concentration, the old lack of a dominant figure. We cannot help feeling
that the author lost a great opportunity in not recognizing more fully
the tragic potentialities of such a character as the rebel prince. And
yet the play holds, and will continue to hold, a worthy place in
Elizabethan drama on account of its poetry. The special qualities of
Peele's poetic gift have been discussed in our consideration of his work
as a whole. All that need be added here in praise is that had he written
nothing else but _David and Bethsabe_ and _The Arraignment of Paris_ he
might 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 a
favourable 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's
Last Will and Testament_ (1592) is the only example of his independent
dramatic work preserved for us. ''Tis no play neither, but a show', says
one of its characters in describing it; and the same person, continuing,
supplies this brief summary to its contents: 'Forsooth, because the
plague reigns in most places in this latter end of summer, Summer must
come in sick; he must call his officers to account, yield his throne to
Autumn, make Winter his executor, with tittle-tattle Tom-boy.' The
officers thus called to account are Ver, Solstitium, Sol, Orion, Harvest
and Bacchus. Each enters in appropriate guise, with a train of
attendants 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 his
neck, and all his reapers with sickles, and a great black bowl with a
posset in it, borne before him: they come in singing': 'Enter Bacchus,
riding upon an ass trapped in ivy, himself dressed in vine leaves, and
a garland of grapes on his head; his companions having all jacks in
their hands, and ivy garlands on their heads; they come singing.'
Several of the songs have the true ring of country choruses; probably
they were such, borrowed quite frankly by the dramatist, who would
expect his audience to be familiar with them and even possibly to join
in 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 certain
charming artlessness about them. A verse may be quoted from the Spring
Song.

    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 unaffected
country scenes. It must have followed not long after Greene's _Friar
Bacon 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 in
plot, action and character. Approving mention must be made of Will
Summer--no relation to Summer, the season of the year, who is referred
to in the title--Henry the Eighth's Court Jester, who plays the part of
'presenter' and general critic, standing apart from the main action but
thrusting in his remarks as the spirit moves him. He is responsible for
the description of the performance as a show. His purpose is fully
declared at the start, when he announces that he will 'sit as a chorus
and flout the actors and him (_the author_) at the end of every scene'.
Forthwith he proceeds to offer advice to the actors about their
behaviour: 'And this I bar, over and besides, that none of you stroke
your beards to make action, play with your cod-piece points, or stand
fumbling on your buttons, when you know not how to bestow your fingers.
Serve God, and act cleanly.' Always his honesty exceeds his
consideration for the feelings of others. Three clowns and three maids
have 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 you
that the wenches of the parish do not see you!' And his yawn carries a
world 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 a
sermon.' Historically he is interesting as being another example of the
attempts made at this time, as in _James the Fourth_ and _The Old Wives'
Tale_, to provide a means of entertainment, more popular than formal
prologues, epilogues or choruses, to fill up unavoidable pauses between
scenes.

Far more than most plays _Summer's Last Will and Testament_ contains
references to contemporary events,--the recent plague, drought, flood,
and short harvests are all mentioned. Satire, too, enlivens some of the
longest speeches; for the writer was primarily and by profession a
satirist. Although the finer graces of poetry are not his, his verse
indicates the gradual advance that was being made to greater ease and
freedom; his lines are not weighted with sounding words, nor is the
'privilege of metre' restricted to the expression of beautiful, wise or
emotional thought, as was commonly the case elsewhere. The country
freshness of his lyrics has been already praised. Altogether, despite
the slight amount of his work in drama, Nash is not a dramatist to be
dismissed with a mere expression of indifference or contempt. Several
things in it make _Summer's Last Will and Testament_ a production worth
remembering. The following extract illustrates the qualities of Nash's
blank 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 advance
made by Kyd and Marlowe in Tragedy was greater. Indeed it may almost be
said that they created Tragedy as we know it. We have only to recall the
dull speeches of _Gorboduc_, the severe formality of _The Misfortunes of
Arthur_, to recognize the change that had to take place before the level
of such a tragedy as _Romeo and Juliet_ could be reached. Yet between
the two last-mentioned tragedies, if 1591 be accepted as the date of
Shakespeare's play, there lies a period of but four years. The nature of
the change was foreshadowed by the tragi-comedy, _Damon and Pythias_. In
an earlier chapter we dealt with the divergence of that play from the
English Senecan school of tragedy. This divergence, accepted as right,
set Tragedy on its feet. Great things, however, still remained to be
done.

The supreme quality of Tragedy is in its power to raise feelings of
intense emotion, of horror or grief, or of both. Failing in this, it
fails altogether. To this end Seneca introduced his Ghost, and his
disciples filled their speeches with passionate outcry and lurid
pictures 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 and
murder, for the same purpose. But the purpose remained unfulfilled--at
least, for an English audience nurtured on more vigorous diet than mere
words. The ear cannot comprehend horror in its fullness as can the eye.
Even the author of _Tancred and Gismunda_ was conscious of this, for at
the end he placed the deaths of both father and daughter, with horrible
accompaniments, upon the stage. He gave his audience what it wanted. Nor
were the English people slow to demand the same from others. We shall
find, in fact, that tragedy continued to borrow the exaggerated violence
of the Senecan school, even when it was most emphatically rejecting its
dramatic principles. It would be a mistake, however, to conclude that
the work of Kyd and Marlowe was merely to substitute actions for
descriptions, and sights for sounds. The difference between classic and
romantic tragedy is not so simple. We shall understand their task more
readily if we pause to consider what are the chief elements of
Shakespearian 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 had
never been lost since Sackville and Norton. The second had been
attempted in _The Misfortunes of Arthur_, not without a measure of
success. But both called for improvement, the former particularly having
struck too tremendous a pitch. The third and fourth elements were almost
unknown, thanks to the exclusion of all action from the stage; and
finally, no appeal could be wholly successful which wearied the audience
with so stiff and monotonous a diction. Verse, plot, scenes, characters,
catastrophe--these are the features which we must watch if we would know
what Kyd and Marlowe did for tragedy.

Before we turn to their plays, however, there is one other of the
University Wits whose chief dramatic work is tragic and who must
therefore be included in this chapter. Since his tragedy stands, in its
inferiority, quite apart from the tragedies of the other two, we shall
dispose of it first.

       *       *       *       *       *

Apart from his undefined share in _A Looking-Glass for London and
England_, all that we have of Thomas Lodge's dramatic work is _The
Wounds of Civil War_, or, as its other title ran, _The Most Lamentable
and True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla_ (about 1588). The author went to
Plutarch for his facts and characters, and shows, in his treatment of
the subject, that he caught at least a measure of inspiration from that
famous biographer's vivid portraits. Marius and Sylla are clearly,
though not impartially, discriminated, the former appearing as the
dauntless veteran, ready to die sooner than acknowledge himself too old
for command, the latter figuring as the man of resistless force and
intense pride. Partiality is seen in the allocation of most of the
insolence and cruelty to Sylla, while our sympathy is constantly being
evoked on the side of Marius. It is Sylla who first draws his sword
against the peace of the state; it is Marius who magnanimously sends
Sylla's wife and daughter to him unharmed. Moreover, wooden as they
sometimes are, these great antagonists and their fellow-senators show
the right Roman nature at need. Marius sleeping quietly under the menace
of death; his heroic son, with his little band of soldiers, committing
suicide rather than surrender at Praeneste; Octavius scorning to imitate
the vacillation and cowardice of his colleagues; Sylla plunging back
alone into battle, that his example may reanimate the courage of his
fleeing army: these are scenes that recall the best traditions of Rome.
They are taken from Plutarch, it is true; but they are presented
sympathetically and with stimulating effect. Thus, though the order of
events has necessarily to be mainly historical, each is intimately
related to the central clash of ambitions, with the result that
singleness of interest is never lost until the death of Marius. In
carrying history down to Sylla's abdication and death, the author
betrays that ignorance of dramatic unity common to most of his
contemporaries.

The play is divided into five acts, but though there are obviously more
than that number of scenes, the subdivisions are not formally
distinguished. By the stiff, rhetorical style of its verse we seem to be
taken back to the days of _Gorboduc_ rather than to the year of
Marlowe's _Edward the Second_. Save in two quite uncalled-for humorous
episodes, the language used maintains a monotonous level of stateliness
or emotion. The plot is eminently suited for indignant and defiant
speeches, but Lodge's poetic inspiration has not the wings to bear him
much above the 'middle flight'. The following passage fairly illustrates
his 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_ continues
the story of _Jeronimo_ with so much care in the perpetuation of each
character--Villuppo and Pedringano are examples--that it is natural to
suppose them both by the same author; in which case 1587 may be guessed
as the date of the latter. Different but strong internal evidence points
to Kyd's authorship of _Soliman and Perseda_. It has many features
corresponding to those found in _The Spanish Tragedy_. The Chorus of
Love, Fortune and Death, in its attitude to the play, closely resembles
that of the Ghost and Revenge. Most of the characters come to a violent
end, and in each play the list of deaths is carefully enumerated by the
triumphant spirit, Death or the Ghost. Then there are similarities of
lines and phrases and remarkable identity in certain tricks of style,
notably in the love of repetition and in a peculiar form of reasoning
after the fashion of a sorites.--Curiously enough, these same tricks are
found, in equally emphatic form, in _Locrine_, an anonymous play of
somewhat later date.--We may compare, for example, the two following
extracts:

     (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_ comprises
the main characters and general drift (with marked differences) of the
plot of _Soliman and Perseda_. This, in itself no proof of authorship,
provides us with a clue to date. It is not likely that the author
deliberately altered the plot of a well-known play. Yet we know from Ben
Jonson that Kyd's tragedies were very popular. We shall be more safe in
concluding that the wide popularity of that scene in _The Spanish
Tragedy_ led him to extend the minor play to the proportions of a
complete drama, making such changes as would then be most suitable to a
larger groundwork. This view is supported by the decreased use of
rhyme, intermingled with the blank verse, in _Soliman and Perseda_. The
play, then, may be approximately dated 1588-90.

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

_Jeronimo_ derives its name from one of the principal characters, but it
is really the tragedy of Andrea. This nobleman's appointment as
ambassador from Spain to Portugal arouses the jealous enmity of the Duke
of Castile's son, Lorenzo: it is also the means of his introduction to
the man who is to bring about his death at the end, Prince Balthezar of
Portugal. The catastrophe, therefore, may be said to start from that
point. Lorenzo's intrigues begin at once. Casting around for some one
apt 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 he
schemes 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 absent
nobleman, and in order to avert her suspicions he has it noised about
the Court that Andrea is about to return. Fortunately it is just here
that his plans conflict. Lazarotto, hearing the false rumour, loiters
about in expectation of seeing Andrea, and, perceiving the disguised
Alcario exchanging affectionate greetings with Bell'-Imperia, has no
doubt of his man. Alcario falls. But Lorenzo is on the spot to cover up
his traces. Promising Lazarotto a certain pardon, he leads the
unsuspecting villain into foolhardy lies until sentence of instant
execution is passed, when a check upon his further speech is immediately
applied and his tongue silenced for ever. Meanwhile, Andrea has been
carrying a bold front in Portugal, passing swiftly from the tactful
speech of diplomacy to the fierce language of defiance. Herein he
arouses the hot spirit of Balthezar. Word leaps to word, challenge to
challenge. Each recognizes the honour and valiancy of the other, and it
is arranged that they shall seek each other out in battle, to settle
their rivalry by single combat. Andrea returns to Spain. War follows.
Twice Andrea and Balthezar meet. On the first occasion Andrea is saved
only by the intervention of a gallant youth, his devoted friend,
Horatio. On the second occasion he overthrows his opponent but, in the
moment of victory, is slain by the pikes of Portuguese soldiery. Horatio
arrives on the scene in time to witness Balthezar's exultation over the
corpse. Taking the combat upon himself he forces the prince to the
ground, but is robbed of the full glory of such a capture by the
baseness of Lorenzo, who darts in and himself receives Balthezar's
surrendered sword. Victory ultimately rests with the Spaniards. Andrea's
body is buried with full military honours, his Ghost personally
attending, with Revenge, to indicate to Horatio, by gestures, his
sensibility of his friend's kindness. The epilogue is spoken by
Horatio's father, Jeronimo, even as the opening lines of the play are
concerned with his promotion to the high office of marshal.

The weak point of the play lies in the second half of the plot; Andrea's
death, lamentable as a catastrophe, achieves nothing, except, perhaps,
the satisfaction of a hidden destiny. Those purposes which openly aim at
his death are left incomplete. Lorenzo's deep schemes, from which much
is expected, come to nothing; his revenge is certainly not glutted.
Balthezar seeks to gain honour in victory, but is robbed of it by
Horatio and his own soldiers. Then, too, the interest excited by
Lorenzo's hatred leads us into something like a blind alley; Andrea
escapes and the whole scene is transferred to the battle-field.
Nevertheless, the play offers compensations. It provides one or two
striking scenes, possibly the best being that in which we watch, in
suspense, the mutual destruction of Lorenzo's plans. The verse, again,
has many fine lines and vigorous passages. On the whole it is perhaps
less studied, more natural and animated than Kyd's later verse. Rhyme is
used freely, yet without forcing itself upon our notice with leaden
pauses. From among many quotable passages the following may be selected
for 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 this
character gains and holds our attention by the intellectuality of his
wickedness. He is no common stabber, nor the kind of wretch who murders
for amusement. Jealousy, the darkest and most potent of motives, lies
behind his hate. He would have Andrea dead. But his position as the Duke
of 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 either
by bribery or death, preferably by death. A double plot, too, must be
laid, so that, if one part fails, the other may bring success. So we
watch the net being spread around the feet of the unwary victim, and
hold our breath as the critical moment approaches when a chance
recognition will decide everything. Undoubtedly the author has achieved
a genuine triumph in all this. Some of us may see the germ of his
villain in Edwards's Carisophus; there is the same element of craft and
double-dealing, of laying unseen snares for the innocent. But it is no
more 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 lying
to avert suspicion from his master. Perhaps the most shuddering moment
of the play is when he leans carelessly against the wall, waiting for
his victim, 'like a court-hound that licks fat trenchers clean.' We fear
and loathe him for the callous brutality of that simile and for that
careless posture. Yet even he cannot fathom the blackness of Lorenzo's
soul, and falls a prey to a greater treachery than his own. This cunning
removal of a lesser villain by a greater is repeated in _The Spanish
Tragedy_ and is closely imitated by Marston in _Antonio's Revenge_ (or
_The Second Part of Antonio and Mellida_). Lorenzo and Lazarotto
together are the first of a famous line of stage-villains. Amongst their
celebrated descendants may be named Tourneur's D'Amville and Borachio,
Webster's Ferdinand and Bosola, and the already referred-to Piero and
Strotzo of Marston.

All the other characters, except one, reproduce familiar types of brave
soldiers and proud monarchs. Jeronimo himself, however, stands apart.
Though completely overshadowed in our memory by his terrible development
in the next play, he has here a certain independent interest on account
of age and humour. True, he announces that he is just fifty, which is no
great age. But he is old, as Lear is old; he is called the father of his
kingdom. Vague, fleeting yet recurrent is the resemblance between him
and Polonius. Tradition bids us regard Polonius as an intentionally
humorous creation. Jeronimo's humour is of the same family. We feel sure
that this newly appointed Marshal of Spain pottered about the Court,
wagging his beard sagaciously over the unwisdom of youth, his mind full
of responsibility, his heart of courage, but his tongue letting fall,
every now and then, simple half-foolish sayings which betrayed the
approach of dotage. He is very short, and exhibits a childish vanity in
constantly referring to his shortness. 'As short my body, short shall be
my stay.' 'My mind's a giant, though my bulk be small.' By such quaint
speeches does he excite our smiles. And yet, by a very human touch, he
is represented as furiously resenting any slighting allusion, by any one
else, to his stature. In the _pourparlers_ before battle Prince
Balthezar grows impertinent. But we will quote the lines, and so take
leave 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 (the
spelling has changed) is brought back to Spain, the joint captive of
Horatio and Lorenzo: to the former, however, is allotted the ransom,
while to the latter falls the privilege of guarding the prisoner in
honourable captivity. The Portuguese prince now falls in love with
Bell'-Imperia, and has her brother's full consent to the match. But that
lady has already transferred her affections to young Horatio. Lorenzo
encourages Balthazar to solve the difficulty by the young man's death.
While Bell'-Imperia and Horatio are making love together by night in a
garden-bower, Lorenzo, Balthazar and two servants (Serberine and
Pedringano) surprise them and hang Horatio to a tree beside the
entrance. They then decamp with the lady, whom they forthwith shut up
closely in her room at home. Old Hieronimo (formerly Jeronimo), alarmed
by the outcry, rushes into the garden, closely followed by his wife
Isabella. The body is instantly cut down, but life is extinct.--The rest
of the play, from the beginning of the third act, is concerned with
Hieronimo's revenge. It is a terrible story. His first information as to
the names of the murderers reaches him in a message, written in blood,
from Bell'-Imperia. This, however, he fears as a trap, and attempts to
corroborate it from the girl's own lips. Unfortunately he only succeeds
in awakening the suspicions of Lorenzo, who, to make the secret surer,
bribes Pedringano to murder Serberine, at the same time arranging for
watchmen to arrest Pedringano. Balthazar is drawn into the matter that
he may press forward the execution of Serberine's murderer, while
Lorenzo 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 political
marriage 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 his
trial, wrote a confession, which the hangman finds and delivers to the
Marshal. This corroborates the statement of Bell'-Imperia. Yet it brings
small comfort, as it seems impossible to strike so high as at Lorenzo
and Balthazar. In his despair Hieronimo contemplates suicide, until he
remembers that the act would leave the murderers unpunished. He cries
aloud before the king for justice, digs frantically into the earth with
his dagger in mad excess of misery, then hurries away without telling
his wrong. He haunts his garden at night-time; and in the silence of
that darkness at last hits upon a scheme: under the appearance of
quietness and simplicity he will return to Lorenzo's society, awaiting
his time to strike. As if to soothe him with the thought that his griefs
are shared by others, chance brings before him one, Bazulto, an old man
also bereaved of his son by murder. The reminder, however, is too sharp:
Hieronimo becomes temporarily mad, mistaking Bazulto for Horatio and
uttering pathetic laments over the change that has passed over his
youthful 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 their
misery. But the guileful scheme is not forgotten. Some one has observed
the strained relations between the Marshal and Lorenzo: Lorenzo's father
insists on a reconciliation, and Hieronimo cordially agrees. Even when
the final ratification is given to Bell'-Imperia's marriage with
Balthazar, Hieronimo is all smiles and acquiescence. He is willing to
heighten the festivities with a play. Lorenzo, Balthazar, Bell'-Imperia
and himself are to be the actors, though two of them demur at first at
the choice of a tragedy. Still Lorenzo suspects no harm, for he is not
present at the interview between the girl and the old man, in which she
denounces his apparently weakening thirst for revenge, only to learn the
secret of that gentle exterior. Unhappily, the delay of justice has
preyed too grievously upon the mind of Isabella. There have been moments
when she ran frantic. In a final throe of madness, having hacked down
the fatal tree, she thrusts the knife into her own breast. The great day
comes, and before the Viceroy of Portugal (father of Balthazar), the
Spanish king, the Duke of Castile, and their train, Hieronimo's tragedy
is acted. Real daggers, however, have been substituted for wooden ones.
As the play proceeds, Bell'-Imperia kills Balthazar and herself, while
Hieronimo slays Lorenzo. The only one left alive, Hieronimo, now
explains the terrible realism behind all this seeming. Castile and the
Viceroy learn that their children are dead, two of them killed to
revenge the murder of Horatio. The drawing aside of the curtain at the
back of the stage reveals that youth's corpse, avenged at last. Horrible
scenes follow, Hieronimo being prevented from hanging himself as he
intended. But, desperate, he bites out his tongue, stabs the Duke of
Castile, and succeeds in killing himself. The Ghost of Andrea and
Revenge, who opened the play and served as chorus to three previous
acts, now close the play in triumph.

We may omit from our consideration the additions to the original
supplied by Ben Jonson or some other dramatist of genius. These include
the famous 'Painter' episode, part of the scene where Hieronimo finds
his son's body hanging to a tree, his wonderful discourse to the 'two
Portingals' on the nature of a son, and a section of the last scene. The
strange hand is easily recognizable in the rugged irregularity and
forcefulness of the lines. Attributable to it is the major portion of
Hieronimo's madness, which accordingly occupies but a small space in our
outline of the play. Structurally, the plot gains nothing by the
additions; indeed, the 'Painter' episode duplicates and thereby weakens
the effect of the conversation between Hieronimo and Bazulto.
Nevertheless we will venture to quote a few lines from the speech to the
Portingals, inasmuch as they aptly describe the underlying principle of
the 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 fall
upon 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 who
committed it; its reward is about to drop into Balthazar's hands; and
then, at last, 'violence leaps forth, like thunder, ... and so doth
bring 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_ a
triumph of dramatic genius. Fully to appreciate its greatness we have
only to compare the plot with that of any preceding tragedy, or of any
play by Lyly, Greene, or Peele. In none of them shall we find anything
approaching the masterful grip upon its spectators, the appeal to their
sympathies, the alternation of fear and hope, the skilful subordination
of many incidents to one purpose, the absolute rightness yet horror of
the conclusion (the inset play), of Kyd's tragedy. It will repay us to
examine some of the details of its workmanship.

The crisis begins, for the first time, to gravitate towards the centre
of the play. In Classical Drama tragedies open with the crisis. English
tragedies of the Senecan type tend to adopt the same practice:
_Gorboduc_ begins with Videna's report of the proposal to divide the
kingdom; _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 Mephistophilis
enters in the third scene. By delaying the crisis, however, two great
advantages are secured: the necessity of the catastrophe is more fully
recognized by the spectators; and their capacity for emotion is not
strained to the point of weariness before the last great scene is
reached. Yet the sense of tragedy must not be entirely absent from the
first part; otherwise the gravity of the crisis will come with too great
a shock. Kyd's purpose in introducing the Villuppo incident is here
discovered. He uses it with much skill as a counterbalance to the aspect
of the main plot. Thus, immediately after the apparent satisfaction of
the rival claims of Horatio and Lorenzo, he places the unsuspected
treachery of Villuppo to Alexandro, as if to warn us not to judge
merely from the surface: but when the wickedness of Lorenzo attains its
blackest moment in the murder of Horatio, he supplies a ray of hope by
the presentment of Villuppo's punishment, to let us know that justice
still reigns in the world. Further, the intense (though needless) grief
of the Viceroy over the supposed death of his son prepares us for the
agony of Hieronimo, while the narrow escape of the innocent Alexandro
excites our repugnance for hasty revenge and makes us sympathetically
tolerant of Hieronimo's equally extreme caution in ascertaining that
Lorenzo really is the murderer. We could wish, perhaps, that Kyd had
found material for these two scenes in the Spanish Court: the transition
to the Portuguese palace is a far and sudden flight. But his recognition
of the artistic need of such scenes is notable and sound.

It is worth while to observe the close interweaving, the subtle irony
and contrasts, the perfect harmony of the details. We must review them
quite 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 takes
Lorenzo's message, and its incriminating contents have been clearly
indicated; nothing, moreover, could be more in order than that it should
be found on him by the hangman and delivered to the judge who passed
sentence. Or again, the success of Hieronimo's masque in the first act
supplies the reason for Balthazar's request for a play at his wedding;
that last tragedy is not suggested fortuitously to accommodate some
previous scheme of Hieronimo's. The powerful nature of the meeting
between Hieronimo and Bazulto was recognized by that other writer who
added the 'Painter' episode in close imitation of it. But almost as
bitter in its irony is the position of Hieronimo as judge, executing
justice upon Serberine's murderer while his own son's murderers go scot
free. Grimly ironical, too, is Castile's satisfaction in the
reconciliation of Lorenzo and the Marshal, and grimmer and more ironical
still the request for the fatal play by Lorenzo and Balthazar
themselves, who of all men should most have shrunk from it. The most
critical element in the general harmony of the play is the character of
Bell'-Imperia. Kyd's women are his weak point, and this heroine is no
brilliant exception. We certainly do not fall in love with her. But his
sense of what is needed for the right tragic effect carries him through
successfully in essential matters. Were Bell'-Imperia weak, irresolute,
had she the feeble constancy of Massinger's or Heywood's famous
heroines, there would be a wrecking flaw in the accumulated, resistless
demand for revenge. As it is, her love for Horatio is passionate (though
lacking delicacy), her responses to Balthazar's advances are cold, and
her reproachful words to Hieronimo, for his delay in striking, proclaim
her entirely at one with him in his final action. The part played by
Isabella is also subordinated to the total effect. It may be questioned
whether her madness does not weaken by exaggeration the impression made
by Hieronimo's frenzy; but it must be remembered that her part was
provided before the additional mad scenes, the work of the later hand,
were included in the play. Kyd deliberately chose that her madness
should precede and prepare us for the madness of Hieronimo, and it must
be admitted that the interpolator's departure from this order has little
to be said in its favour. As the weaker character, Isabella should be
the first to collapse. Her frantic death, just before the 'play',
emphasizes the imperative necessity that the long postponement of
justice should be ended at last. With never failing watchfulness of his
audience Kyd softens the tension directly afterwards with a few light
touches on the staging and disguises required for the forthcoming
performance. Lastly, the choice of a court tragedy as the instrument of
Hieronimo's revenge is admirable alike for its naturalness and for
dramatic effect as a flashlight re-illumination of Lorenzo's and
Balthazar's crime in all its horror, in the very hour of their
punishment. Lorenzo, under the figure of Erastus, is forced to occupy
the position once held by Horatio; Hieronimo, for the time being,
becomes a second Lorenzo, abettor to the treacherous guest; thus Lorenzo
falls by the same fate that he visited upon Horatio. Balthazar plays his
own part under a new name; he is still the stranger basely seeking the
love given to another; but this time he meets the reward due to
treachery, 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 we
accept, as inexplicable, the 'Out, vile jelly!' of _King Lear_. To seize
upon 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 are
mere continuations, serviceable enough but without improvement, of those
in _Jeronimo_, Pedringano being a second edition of Lazarotto. But from
the outline sufficient may be gathered to make unnecessary a long
analysis of the author's new and greatest creation. We see in it
originality of conception; we are touched by its intense humanness and
by its inherent simplicity; but we are startled by its change, its
growth, under the influence of circumstances, to a certain subtle
complexity. All are great qualities, but the last is the greatest.
Growth, the reaction of events upon character--not the easily portrayed
action of character upon events--are the marks by which we recognize the
work of the master-artists in characterization. We can guess at the
tragic intensity of human sorrow from the difference between the
simple-minded little Marshal who acts as Master of the Revels in
arranging a 'show' and illustrates his reason for preferring Horatio's
claim to be Balthazar's captor by quaint parallels from some old fable,
and the arch-deceiver who can converse easily with the Duke of Castile
as he fixes up the curtain that is to conceal Horatio's corpse and be
the background to the murder of the duke's only son and daughter.
Hieronimo's smallest claim to greatness, yet a considerable one, is the
fact that he revealed to playwrights the strength and horror of madness
on the stage. Of the extent to which Shakespeare made use of this
character and certain scenes a reminder may be added. In _Hamlet_ is
found madness, assumed simplicity, delay in action, the invisible
influence of the supernatural, and sacrifice of the avenger's life in
the attainment of revenge, besides the ordinarily remembered adoption of
an inset play. _King Lear_, in the scene between the king and Edgar on
the heath, echoes the scene between Hieronimo and Bazulto.

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

Hard words have been written about the horrible scenes in the play, as
though it were a huddled-up bundle of bloodshed and ghosts. Such a
conception is far from the truth. Horror is an element in almost all
powerful tragedies; it is hardly to be separated from any unexpected or
violent death. We reject it as monstrous only when its cause is the
product of a vile and unnatural motive, or of a motive criminally
insufficient to explain the impulse. What is repulsive in _Arden of
Feversham_, and in such recognized 'Tragedies of Blood' as have
Tourneur, Marston and Webster for their authors, is the utter
callousness of the murderers, and their base aims, or disgusting lack of
any reasonable excuse for their crimes. When D'Amville pushes his
brother over the edge of the quarry, or Antonio stabs the child Julio,
or Bosola heaps torments upon the Duchess of Malfi, we turn away with
loathing because the deed is either cruelly undeserved or utterly
unwarranted by the gain expected from it. Alice Arden's murder of her
husband is mainly detestable because her ulterior motive is detestable.
Again, the ghosts which Marston and Chapman give us are absurd creatures
of 'too, too solid flesh', who will sit on the bed to talk comfortably
to one, draw the curtains when one wishes to sleep, or play the scout
and call out in warning whenever danger threatens. Kyd does not serve up
crime and the supernatural world thus. He shows us terrible things, it
is true. But the causes are to be found deep down in the primary
impulses of man, in jealousy, in fear, in despair, in blood-revenge.
These impulses are not vile; our moral code does not cry out against
them as it does against lust, greed, and motiveless cruelty. When we
rise from the play it is not with a sense that we have moved amongst
base creatures. Lorenzo repels us; but it is Hieronimo who dominates the
stage, filling us with pity for his wrongs and weakness. The
supernatural remains outside nature, crude, as all stage
representations of it must be, but unobtrusive (and, in the prologue,
at least, thoroughly dignified), serving a useful purpose in keeping
before us the imminence of Nemesis biding its appointed hour. It is not
easy to suggest how better an insistence upon this lofty _motif_ could
have been maintained.

If we now revert to our former statement of the essential elements of a
successful tragedy we find that each has been included and lifted to a
high level in Kyd's masterpiece. The catastrophe is not only
overwhelming but greatly just. The figure of Hieronimo has set a new
standard in characterization. Scene after scene stamps itself on our
memory. And the procrastinating evolution of the plot keeps us in fear,
in hope, in uncertainty to the last. If this estimate of the greatness
of the play seems exaggerated, we may fairly ask what other tragedy,
before its date, combines all four qualities in the same degree of
excellence. _Doctor Faustus_ and _The Jew of Malta_ contain far more
wonderful verse, and the former holds within it grander material for
tragedy, but as an example of tragic craftmanship _The Spanish Tragedy_
is inferior to neither. It can be shown that both suffer very seriously
from the neglect of one or more of the four essentials which we have
named.

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

It remains to illustrate Kyd's verse. In _The Spanish Tragedy_ it still
clings to the occasional use of rhyme, as in _Jeronimo_. Moreover it is
becoming, if anything, more restrained, less spontaneously natural. The
weight of tragedy seems to oppress the poetic inspiration, so that it
rarely ventures outside the limits of melancholy dignity or regulated
passion. Kyd's formalism is, unfortunately for him, magnified by its
contrast with the superb freedom of the interpolated passages. If we
resolutely shut our eyes to these patches of fierce irregularity, we
shall be better able to criticize the author's own work by the standard
of his contemporaries. The uncertainty of priority in time encourages a
comparison between Kyd and Marlowe. It is fairly clear that the former
was not much influenced by the latter, or he would have caught the taint
of rant and bombast which infected Greene and Peele. If, then, Kyd's
blank verse is an original development of the verse of _Gorboduc_ and
other Senecan plays, and if he is the author of _Jeronimo_--the verse of
which, as may have been seen from the quotations offered, is very much
freer than that of _The Spanish Tragedy_--he must share some of the
honour accorded to Marlowe as the father of dramatic blank verse. The
two men are not on the same level as poets. Marlowe's muse soars
repeatedly to heights which Kyd's can only reach at rare moments.
Nevertheless, a comparison of Kyd's better passages with those of
Sackville and Hughes will demonstrate how much blank verse might have
owed to his creative spirit had not Marlowe arisen at the same time to
eclipse him by his greater genius. Isolated extracts offer a poor
criterion, but the following--to be read in conjunction with those
selected from _Jeronimo_ and _Soliman and Perseda_--will help the reader
to 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 which
one scene and one character alone demand. Its sharp descent from the
tremendous force of _The Spanish Tragedy_ is, however, slightly redeemed
by the poetic warmth of its love passages. Love is the motive of the
plot. Apart from that it sins unforgivably against probability, good
taste, reason, and justice. Its reckless distribution of death is such
that every one of the fourteen named characters come to a violent end,
besides numerous nameless wretches referred to generically as witnesses
or executioners. Nor is any attempt made to show just cause for their
destruction. We could almost deny that the author of the previous
tragedy had any hand in this play, did we not know, on the authority of
his own signature, that the same author thought it worth his labour to
translate _Cornelie_ for the English stage. The fact was that dramatists
had not yet the courage always to place their own artistic inclinations
above the need of gratifying an unformed public taste, so that the same
man 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 the
very freest of blank verse, in a play almost entirely exempt from
either, read like an intentional burlesque of _Tamburlaine_. If so, and
the suggestion is not ill-founded or improbable, it may be interpreted
as an emphatic rejection of the influence of Marlowe and as a claim, on
Kyd'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 Turkish
Emperor, Soliman, attempts to kill his fair captive, Perseda, for
rejecting his love, but is overcome by her beauty. It is quite short,
but is handled with power and embellished with touches of delicate
poetry. The best of it may be quoted here, together with a specimen of
the 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 been
reserved to the last because in his work we rise nearest to the
excellence of Shakespearian drama. By the inexhaustible force of his
poetic genius he created literature for all time. We read the plays of
his contemporaries chiefly for their antiquarian interest; we are
pleased to discover in them the first beginnings of many features
popular in later productions; one or two appeal to us by their own
beauty or strength, but the majority are remembered only for their
relationship to greater plays. This is not so with Marlowe's works.
Having once been so fortunate as to have had our attention directed to
them, we return again and again for the sheer joy of reading his
glorious outbursts of poetry, of being thrilled with the intensity of
his greater scenes.

Marlowe placed upon the stage men who live intensely, terrible men, for
the most part, endued with surpassing power for good or evil. Around
them he grouped hostile, enchaining circumstances, which they confront
fearlessly and, for a time perhaps, master, until the hour comes when
they can no longer conquer. Their lips he touched with a live coal from
the altar of his muse, so that their words fire the heart with their
flaming zeal or sear it with their despair. In the dramas of Peele we
lamented the weakness of his characters, his inability to provide a
dominant central figure for his action; we also saw how something of the
same weakness softened his verse almost to effeminacy. Greene drew the
outline of his characters more strongly. But Marlowe alone possessed
the power, in its fullest degree, of projecting himself into his chief
character, of filling it with his own driving force, his own boundless
imagination, his own consuming passion and profound capacity for gloomy
emotion. Each of his first three plays--counting the two parts of
_Tamburlaine_ as one play--is wholly given up to the presentment of one
man; his tongue speaks on nearly every page, his purpose is the
mainspring of almost every action; by mere bulk he fills our mental view
as we read, and by the fervour, the poetry of his language, he burns the
impression of himself upon our memory. It is not by what they do that we
remember Marlowe's heroes or villains. Their deeds probably fade into
indistinctness. Few of us quite remember what were Tamburlaine's
conquests, or Faustus's wonder-workings, or Barabas's crimes. But we
know that if we would recall a mighty conqueror our recollections will
revive the image of the Scythian shepherd; if we would picture a soul
delivered over to the torments of the lost there will rush back upon us
that terrible outcry of Faustus when the fatal hour is come; if we would
imagine the feelings of one for whom wealth is the joy, the meaning, the
whole 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 an
astonishing thing to pass from the dramas which occupied our attention
in the previous chapter to one of Marlowe's, and then realize that his
were written first. Whereas before it was a matter of difficulty to find
passages beautiful enough to quote, it now becomes a problem to select
the best. It has been said, indeed, that he is too poetical for a
dramatist, but a very little consideration of the plays of Shakespeare
will tell us how much the greatest dramatic productions owe to poetry.
When, therefore, we say that Marlowe's greatness as a dramatist depends
on his poetry, that outside his poetry his best known work reveals
almost every kind of weakness, we have not denied his claim to be the
greatest of Shakespeare's predecessors. Into indifferent material poetry
can breathe that quickening flame without which the most dramatic
situations fail to satisfy. Marlowe had a supreme gift for creating
moments, sometimes extended to whole scenes; he had to learn, from
repeated failures, the art of creating plays.

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

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

The First and Second Parts of _Tamburlaine the Great_ may be discussed
together, although they did not appear together, the second owing its
existence to the immediate success of the first. Nevertheless there is
such unbroken continuity in their representation of the career of the
hero, and their style is so uniform, that it will be more convenient to
refer to them conjointly under the one title. Reference has already been
made to this famous production in the early portion of our discussion of
Greene's work. The reader will recall what was said there of its
contents, its popularity and influence, and of the meaning of the term
Marlowesque, an adjective referring more directly to _Tamburlaine_ than
to any other of Marlowe's plays. It is in this play that our ears are
dinned 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; vast
empires are shaken to their foundations, kings are overthrown and new
ones crowned as easily as the wish is expressed; everywhere pride calls
unto pride with the noise of its boastings. There is no plot, unless we
give that name to a succession of battles, pageants and camp scenes.
There is not the least attempt at characterization: in their glorious
moments Bajazeth, the Soldan of Egypt, Orcanes are indistinguishable
from the Scythian shepherd himself. The popularity of _Tamburlaine_ was
not won by fine touches, but by spectacular magnificence, by the pomp
and excitement of war, and by the thrills of responsive pride and
boastfulness awakened in the hearers by the convincing magniloquence of
the speeches. This was possibly the first appearance upon the public
stage 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; so
did Lyly; and it was there that _The Arraignment of Paris_ was acted.
But Marlowe, like Kyd, laid his work before a larger, more
unsophisticated audience, unrolling before its astonished gaze the full
sweep of a five act play, crowded with warriors, headlong in its changes
of fortune, and irresistible in its 'drum and trumpet' appeal to man's
fighting instincts. From men of humble birth, in that age of adventure
and romance, the victorious career of the Scythian shepherd won instant
applause; with him they too seemed to rise; they shared in his glory,
exulted with him in the chariot drawn by kings, forgave his savage
massacres, and echoed his vaunts.

Yet there is something beyond all this, which has a lasting value, and
appeals to the modern world as it appealed to Elizabethan England.
Through the smoke of 'frantic boast and foolish word' may be discerned
the fiery core of an idealized human grandeur. Breathing the
intoxicating air of the Renaissance, Marlowe conceives man equal to his
loftiest ideals, able to climb to the highest point of his thoughts.
Choosing imperial conquest as the most striking theme he bids the
shepherd aim at a throne, then bears him on the wings of unwavering
resolution straight to his goal. The creation of Tamburlaine is the
apotheosis of man on the earth. In such words as these does the
conqueror 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. But
the author, magnificent in his optimism, believed in the thought beneath
the imagery. The same idea in different guises proclaims itself aloud
throughout the play. Sometimes it chooses simple language, sometimes it
is clothed in expressions of noble dignity, most often it hurls itself
abroad in foaming rant. But everywhere the message is the same, that
man's power is equal to the achievement of the aspiration planted within
his breast, and that, to realize himself, he must follow it, with
undivided effort, until it is reached. Tamburlaine, contemplating the
possibility 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 his
message:

    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 below
it should have been struck. For the dramatist, sending his imagination
beyond earth to heaven, reserves one peak unscalable in the ascent of
man 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', nor
cannon to 'batter the shining palace of the sun, and shiver all the
starry firmament', restore her. Tamburlaine himself must die, defiantly,
it may be, yielding nothing through cowardice, but as certainly as time
must pass and age must come. Techelles seeks to encourage him with the
hope that his illness will not last. But he brushes the deception aside
with 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. In
electing to follow his desires to the uttermost Faustus reaps the reward
but also incurs the punishment of all who choose the upper road of
complete self-expression. He approaches the last gate, confident that
his strength will suffice to open it; he finds it locked and keyless. In
that hour of bitter disappointment that which is withheld seems more
desirable than the total of all that has preceded it.

The dramatic greatness of _Tamburlaine_ lies in the perfect harmony of
the central figure with the general purpose of the play. Marlowe sought
to present a world conqueror and he creates no less a man. Outwardly the
shepherd is formed in a mould of strength and grace; his countenance
might serve as a model for a bust of Achilles. Inwardly his mind is full
of 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 and
dare the gods.' Menaphon reports, 'His lofty brows in folds do figure
death.' Cosroe describes him as 'His fortune's master and the king of
men.' His own speeches and actions reveal no unsuspected flaw, no
unworthy weakness; rather they almost defeat their own purpose by their
exaggeration of his greatness. It would be possible to show by numerous
quotations how Marlowe has everywhere selected epithets and imagery of
magnitude to enhance the impressiveness of his hero in proportion to his
astounding achievements. We will be content with only one more. It
describes Tamburlaine's attitude towards those that resist him, and, by
its slow, measured intensification of colour to a terrible climax,
forces home resistlessly the suggestion of invincible power and
relentlessness.

    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 of
blank verse has probably been over-estimated. Quite good blank verse had
been used in drama some years before his plays were written.
_Gorboduc_, the 1572 version of _Tancred and Gismunda_, and at least two
long speeches in _The Arraignment of Paris_ arise in one's mind as
containing very creditable examples of it. Moreover it would be wrong to
suppose that this earlier blank verse was always stilted and cut up into
end-stopt lines and unrhymed couplets. True, the overflow of one line
into another was not common, but neither is it so in _Tamburlaine_.
Marlowe accepts the end-stopt line almost as naturally as did his
predecessors. Overflow may be found in _Gorboduc_. The following passage
from _Tancred and Gismunda_ is worth quoting to show how far liberty in
this 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 see
how completely free Peele was from any inherited bondage of the couplet
measure. It is not easy to define exactly what Marlowe did give to blank
verse. His famous Prologue to the First Part of _Tamburlaine_ makes it
quite clear that the general public were indebted to him for the
introduction of blank verse upon their unpolished stage, it having
previously been heard only at court or at the universities. But while
this attempt on his part to displace the 'jigging veins of rhyming
mother-wits' by the mere roll and crash of his 'high astounding terms'
was a courageous step, it cannot be counted for originality in the
development of the verse itself. Two features of his verse, however, are
original and of his own creation. The first, its conversational ease and
freedom, will be found more perfectly developed in _Doctor Faustus_ and
the later tragedies. Tamburlaine and the other mighty kings, emperors
and captains have little skill in converse; when they speak they orate.
This is true of the speeches in the earlier plays. Peele's are long
monologues, and when Sackville's or Wilmot's characters discourse it is
in the fashion of a set debate. Faustus and Mephistophilis, on the other
hand, meet in real conversation, and it is in their question and answer
that the flexibility and naturalness of blank verse are shown to
advantage for the first time by Marlowe. The second feature is the
infusion of pure poetry into drama. Hitherto the opinion seems to have
held that dramatic verse must keep as close to prose as possible in
order to combine the grace of rhythm with the solid commonsense of
ordinary human speech. Nothing illustrates this more remarkably than a
comparison of Sackville's poetry in his Induction to the _Mirror for
Magistrates_ with his verse in _Gorboduc_. We have remarked before on
the tendency of all Senecan dramas to sententiousness and argument, than
which nothing could be less poetical. The poetry of _The Arraignment of
Paris_, again, is more lyrical than dramatic, harmonizing with the
general approximation of that play to the nature of a masque. Marlowe
was the first to demonstrate that imagination could riot madly in a
wealth of imagery, or soar far above the realms of logic and cold
philosophy to summon beautiful and terrible pictures out of the
cloud-land of fancy, without losing hold upon earth and the language of
mortals. He knew that the unspoken language of the impassioned heart is
charged with poetry, however the formality of utterance, the fear of
derision and the unreadiness of our vocabulary may freeze its expression
on our lips; and he trusted to the hearts of his hearers to understand
and appreciate the intense humanness of the feelings that forced
themselves to the surface in that form. Nor was he mistaken. His
'raptures' are more truly natural, more sympathetic and truthful
expressions of human emotion than the most stately and reasonable
declamations of those earlier writers who clung to what they believed to
be natural. Often quoted as it has been, Drayton's eulogy of Marlowe may
be quoted again--it merits a place in every discussion of Marlowe's
verse--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's
fondness for classical allusions, his use--Miltonic, if we may
anticipate the term--of the sonorous effect of names, his introduction
of sustained similes, his trick of repeating a sound at intervals (a
trick borrowed by Greene later), his habit of letting a speaker refer to
himself in the third person (Tamburlaine loves to boast the greatness of
Tamburlaine), and his occasional slovenliness, especially in the
insertion of a few lines of prose into the midst of his verse. All these
and others are minor features which the student will search out for
himself. Some of them, however, may be detected in the following excerpt
from 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 story
of the man who sold his soul to the devil in return for complete
gratification of his desires during his life on earth. Something of its
fame is due to its association, through its main plot, with Goethe's
masterpiece; something may be attributed to the fascination of its
theme; something must be granted to the terrible force of one or two
scenes. It is hard to believe that its own artistic and dramatic
qualities could have secured unaided the reputation which it appears to
possess among some critics. More even than _Tamburlaine_, this play
hangs upon one central figure. There is no Bajazeth, no Soldan, no
Orcanes, no Zenocrate to help to bear the weight of impressiveness. The
low characters, who are intended to be humorous, drag the plot down
instead of buoying it up. Other figures are hardly more than dummies,
unable to excite the smallest interest. Mephistophilis deserves our
notice, but his is a shadowy outline removed from humanity. One figure
alone stands forth to hold and justify our attention; and he proves
himself unfit for the task. Those who insist on tracing one guiding
principle in all Marlowe's plays have declared that Faustus is the
personification of 'thirst for knowledge' or of 'intellectual _virtu_',
just as Tamburlaine personifies, for them, the 'thirst for power' or
'physical _virtu_'. Surely, if this is so, Marlowe has failed absolutely
in his presentment of the character; in which case the play may be
condemned out of hand, seeing that the character of Faustus is its all
in all. But the more we study Marlowe's other principal figures, the
more convinced we become of his absorption in them while they are in the
making. With Tamburlaine he himself grows terrible and glorious; the
spirit of pride and conquest colours every phrase, speech and
description, so that, as we have pointed out, the character of
Tamburlaine is masterfully consistent and attuned to the purpose of the
play. It is better, then, to examine the character of Faustus, as
revealed in his desires, requests, and prominent actions, and thence
educe the purpose of the play, than, by deciding upon this purpose, to
discover that the central figure is in continual discord with it.

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

Lest we should suppose that his choice has anything heroic in it, that
he is deliberately accepting a terrible debt of eternal torment in
exchange for what necromancy can give, we are informed that he has no
belief in hell or future pain, that to him men's souls are trifles. Deep
down in his conscience he has a fear of 'damnation', which only makes
itself felt, however, in unexalted moments. Such thoughts are set aside
as 'mere old wives' tales' in the triumphant hour of his signing the
contract.

With curiosity and longing, then, he enters unshudderingly into a
bargain that will give him what he seeks. We can readily discover, from
his own lips, what that is. He exults over the prospect of having
spirits 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 philosophy
stands below wealth and feasting in his wishes. He dismisses
Mephistophilis 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 in
him a desire for military glory: he would be 'great emperor of the
world', he would 'pass the ocean with a band of men'. But from what we
know 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 reality
of things, sees hell in every place where heaven is not. Faustus, on the
other hand, with flippant superficiality laughs at the idea. An
intellectual, 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, and
then suicide offers its dreadful means as a silencer of their disturbing
warnings. 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 gratification
of 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 rarer
delicacies are needed to satisfy his craving. Repentance!--that is
thrust 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, he
confesses in bitterness of spirit, 'for the vain pleasure of
four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity.'

This man is not one consumed with a thirst of knowledge. Once he asks
Mephistophilis a few questions on astrology; at another time he evinces
some curiosity concerning Lucifer and Hell, idle curiosity because he
regards it all as foolishness. We are _told_ of a journey through the
heavens and of voyages about the world, but we _see_ him exercising
his supernatural gifts in the most puerile and useless fashion.
It is impossible, therefore, to regard his ambition as a lust for
knowledge in the usual meaning of that term, differentiating it from
sensual experience. If Faustus is to be labelled according to his
dominant trait, then let us describe him as the embodiment of
sense-gratification. He is a sensualist from the moment that he takes up
the book of magic and ponders over what it may bring him. A degraded
form of him has been sketched in the Syriac scholar of a modern work of
fiction, who cherished, side by side with a world-wide reputation
for learning, a bestial appetite for profligacy. The message of
_Tamburlaine_ holds as true in the pursuit of pleasure as in that of
conquest. Faustus denies that there is a limit to pleasure, and the
horror of his career grows darker as his mounting desires bear him
further and further on, far beyond the reach of less eager minds, to
the impassable point whence he may only see the heaven beyond. That
point is the hell which once he laughed at as an old wives' tale.

The weakness of _Doctor Faustus_ appears exactly where _Tamburlaine_ is
strongest. In spite of his prodigious boasting and his callous
indifference to suffering, Tamburlaine appeals to us most powerfully as
the right titanic figure for a world-conqueror; his soul is ever above
his body, looking beyond the victory of to-day to the greater conquests
of the future: there is nothing sordid or commonplace about him.
Unfortunately, though it is given to few of us to be conquerors, it is
possible for all of us to gratify our senses if we will. Tamburlaine
gathers golden fruit, Faustus plucks berries from the same bush as
ourselves: only, he must have them from the topmost boughs. The
following passage has probably never been surpassed in its magic
idealization 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 underlying
meaning: Faustus enjoys a temporary transfiguration. But Marlowe's muse
flags in the effort to sublimate dross. Such a character as Faustus is
unfitted to support tragedy. His creator inspires him with his own
Bohemian joy in mere pleasure, his own thirst for fresh sensations, his
own vehement disregard of restraint--a disregard which brought Marlowe
to a tragic and unworthy end. But, as if in mockery, he degrades him
with unmanly, ignoble qualities that excite our derision. His mind is
pleased with toys that would amuse a child: at the conclusion of an
almost incredibly trivial Show of the Seven Deadly Sins he exclaims, 'O,
how this sight doth delight my soul!' His practical jokes are unworthy
of a court jester. The congealing of his blood agitates his
superstitious mind far more than the terrible frankness of
Mephistophilis. Miserably mean-spirited, he seeks to propitiate the
wrath of the fiend by invoking his torments upon an old man whose
disinterested 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 by
Faustus's screams of terror at the approach of Lucifer to claim him as
his own! Instinctively we think of Byron's Manfred and his scorn of hell
and its furies. It is his cowardice that spoils the effect of the
backward glances and twinges of conscience, the intention of which has
been rightly praised by so many. Marlowe probably wished to represent
the strife of good and evil in a man's soul. Under other circumstances
it is fair to suppose that he would have achieved success, and so have
anticipated Goethe. But his Faustus moves on too low a level. Of a moral
sense, independent of the dread of punishment, he knows nothing. Four
times his Good Angel suggests to him a return to the right path; once an
Old Man warns him; twice Mephistophilis says that which might fairly
have bid him pause; twice, at least, his own conscience advises
repentance. Yet only on two occasions is there any real revolt, and then
only because his cowardice has been enlisted on the side of
righteousness by the sudden thought of the devils that will tear him in
pieces or of the hell that 'claims his right, and with a roaring voice
says, "Faustus, come".' In proof of this we see his hesitation scared
away by the greater terrors of a present devil, a Lucifer clothed in
horror, or a threatening Mephistophilis. In his vacillations we see, not
the noble conflict of good and evil impulses, but an ignoble tug-of-war
between timidity and appetite.

If Faustus himself falls short of success as a tragic character, if his
aspirations are too mean, his qualities too contemptible to win our
sympathy save at rare moments of transcendent poetry, what shall be said
of the setting provided for the story of his career? Once more we are
offered the stale devices of the Moralities, the Good and Bad Angels,
the Devil, the Old Man (formerly known as Sage Counsel), the Seven
Deadly Sins, Heaven, Hell, and the carefully-pointed moral at the end.
Even the Senecan Chorus has been forced into service to tell us of
Faustus's early manhood and of the marvellous journeys taken in the
intervals. There are no acts, but that is not a great matter; they were
added later in the edition of 1616. What does matter very much is the
introduction of stupid scenes of low comedy into which Faustus is
dragged to play a common conjuror's part and which almost succeed in
shattering the impression of tragic intensity left by the few scenes
where poetry triumphs over facts. Here again, however, our criticism of
the author is softened by the knowledge that Dekker and Rowley made
undefined additions to the play, and may therefore be responsible for
the crudities of its humour. Nevertheless, even with this allowance,
Marlowe must be blamed for the utter incongruity of so many scenes with
high 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. In
discerning the suitability of the Teutonic legend for this purpose
Marlowe showed a far truer understanding of what tragedy should be, of
the superior terrors of moral over material downfall, than he displayed
in his more successful later tragedy.

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

Marlowe's adaptation of blank verse to natural conversation has been
spoken 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 this
play the dramatist has recovered his sense of harmony: he places his
central figure in circumstances that befit him, and maintains a
consistent balance between the strength of his character and the nature
of his deeds. The Jew does nothing that really jars on our conception of
him as a great villain. Nor in the minor scenes is there anything to
disturb the general impression of darkness. The gentleness of Abigail,
whose love and obedience alone draw her into the net of crime, only
makes her surroundings appear more cruel; while the introduction of the
Governor, the Grand Seignior's son, and a Vice-Admiral of Spain raises
the level of wickedness to something like dignified rank. Nevertheless,
the fact remains that the play is fundamentally unsound. True tragedy
should present more than a great change between the first and last
scenes; the change should be lamentable. We should feel that a much
better ending might, and would, have come but for the circumstance that
forms the crisis, or for other circumstances at the beginning of the
play. If we consider such tragic careers as those of Hamlet, Lear,
Macbeth and Othello we recognize that each might have come to a
different conclusion if it had not been for the blight of a father's
death or a single act of folly, of ambition or jealousy. These men all
excite our sympathy, especially Hamlet, whose tragedy is due not at all
to himself but to the overshadowing of another's crime. Macbeth and
Othello are each introduced as men of the noblest qualities, with one
flaw which events have not yet revealed. But Barabas the Jew is
deliberately painted as vile. We learn from his own lips of previous
villany atrocious enough in itself, without any of his subsequent
crimes, to justify his horrible fate. Moreover, he does not actually
lose his wealth. If that were all swept away we could understand
resentment boiling up into savage hate. But the truth is, he is so
little hurt financially that soon after the confiscation of his goods
he 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 inexcusably
vindictive, quite apart from the vile share in it which he forces upon
his daughter. The nunnery crime, again, is monstrous in its gross
injustice to Abigail's constancy and in its Herodian comprehensiveness.
After this his other murders and intrigues seem more justified. The two
friars, his servant Ithamore and the rest can well be spared by any
exit; his betrayal of the town is not unreasonable, considering the
treatment meted out to him within it; and his proposed second treachery
is based on sound policy.--We may observe, in passing, that the
self-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 final
doom does fall upon Barabas, we have begun to be vaguely doubtful
whether it is altogether deserved. Yet we feel that it is impossible to
let him live. Thus the conclusion, however horrible spectacularly,
neither excites pity for the Jew nor entirely satisfies justice. Barabas
is victimized by the governor at the beginning of the play; it seems
hardly fair that the two men should occupy the same relative positions
at the end. It may be urged that the early scenes do present Barabas as
meriting our pity, that our compassion does go out to him in his
oppression. But the sympathy that is won at first is falsely won by the
prominence given to his distress when he _fears_ all is lost: touched
by the pain caused by the governor's injustice, we almost overlook the
recovery effected by the Jew's cunning.

If we look for passages of tragic intensity we find a splendid hope
weakening to dreary disappointment. The whole of the first act and the
opening scene of the second act ring true to tragedy. Nothing could be
better planned than the swift transition from the golden harvesting of
wealth to its confiscation by the state. The contrast, too, between the
dignified resistance of Barabas and the weak surrender of his companions
artistically emphasizes the former's splendid isolation. For the brief
scene in which the Jew, haunting the vicinity of the nunnery like
'ghosts that glide by night about the place where treasure hath been
hid', regains his bags of gold and precious jewels, no praise can be too
high. After that, however, the ennobling mantle of human sorrow and pain
falls away; the crimes that follow are hideous in their
nakedness--murders or massacres, nothing more. Not the least attempt is
made 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 shall
call it not a tragedy proper, in the sense in which _Macbeth_ is a
tragedy, but rather a narrative play presenting the criminal career of a
villain 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 a
tragic narrative play.

In characterization Marlowe has made a distinct advance. With the
creation of Barabas he brings upon the stage a person of many commanding
qualities. The Jew is great in his own terrible way. He is far-seeing,
bold, subtle, relentless. He loves his daughter much, his gold
immeasurably. Tempests of emotion shake his frame when restraint is
thrown aside. But at need he can be calm and conciliatory in the face of
intense annoyance and blustering threats. In the hour of death he is own
brother to defiant Tamburlaine. The points of resemblance between him
and Shylock may be searched out by any curious student: the reality of
the likeness, scoffed at by a few whose admiration for Shakespeare is
inclined to prejudice their judgment, has been effectively demonstrated
by Professor Ward.[67] It would be an interesting exercise to pursue
Professor Ward's hint at the insincerity of the Jew's recital to
Ithamore of his early crimes. We might work back to an initial
conception of Barabas as an upright merchant, and so discover a real
tragedy in the moral downfall which results from the governor's
injustice. Such a point of view is attractive, and would raise the
character of the play considerably. But it has many obstacles in its
way, not the least being the Machiavellian prologue and the difficulty
of believing that any dramatist of the sixteenth century would wish, or
dare, to present to an English audience the picture of an honest,
ill-treated Jew. The confiscation which we regard as an injustice was
probably viewed in that day as an eminently sound and Christian act of
political economy.

Leaving Abigail and Ithamore to the liking or loathing of readers of the
play, we hasten to conclude this discussion with examples of Marlowe's
verse. His poetry is once more the refining element, beautifying the
ugly, ennobling the mean, a vein of gold in the quartz. Having grown
more generous since the days of _Doctor Faustus_, the poet scatters gems
with lavish hand throughout the play. Rhymes begin to appear, as though
he scorned to seem dependent upon blank verse alone. Extensive as is
the choice, it is impossible, in fairness to those readers who have not
the play, to omit entirely the often-quoted opening scene of the second
act. After it, however, we quote a passage which, almost more than the
other, 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 us
long. Its only interest is in its attempt to represent quite recent
events (1572-89). As a history play it manages to reproduce the French
atmosphere of distrust, rivalry, intrigue and indiscriminate massacre,
but at the expense of unity. The hurried succession of scenes leads us
blindly to an unexpected conclusion: from first almost to last no
indication is given that the consummation aimed at is the ascent of
Navarre to the throne of France. Rarely has the merely chronological
principle been adhered to with so little meaning. Navarre, whose
marriage opens the play and whose triumph closes it, might be expected
to figure largely as the upholder of Protestantism in opposition to
Guise; instead he is relegated to quite a subordinate part. Anjou,
again, the later opponent of Guise, makes a very belated bid for our
favour after displaying a brutality equal to his rival's in the
massacre. The author is careful to paint Catherine in truly inky
blackness. But the only character which we are likely to remember is the
Duke of Guise. Yet his portrait is of inferior workmanship. The murders
by which he tries to reach the throne are too treacherous to be ranked
in the grander scale of crime. Even the vastness of his organized
massacre is belittled for us by the stage presentment of individual
assassination in which Guise himself plays a butcher's part. Greatness
is more often attributed to outward aloofness and inactivity than to
busy participation in the execution of a plot. Moreover, it was a
tactical error to give prominence to the personal quarrel between Guise
and 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 this
character and seem half to anticipate the Mortimer of the next play. The
following lines are taken from the second scene of the first act--there
are 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 the
elevation of the Chronicle History Play to its highest possibilities,
and is, at the same time, a deeply moving tragedy. One wonders how Peele
could write the medley of incongruous and ill-connected scenes which we
know under the abbreviated title of _Edward the First_ after having once
seen his rival's 'history' acted. For the strength of Marlowe's play
lies in its concentration upon the figure of the king and its skilful
omission of details not dramatically helpful. If there were any balance
of advantage in the choice of subject one must feel that it did not lie
with the earlier writer, who was undertaking the extremely difficult
task of presenting an inglorious monarch sympathetically without
allowing him to appear contemptible. We can imagine how magnificently he
could have set forth the masterful career of Edward I. His courage in
attempting a character less congenial to his natural temperament
deserved the success it achieved. The Tamburlaine element is not
withheld; the fierce baron, young Mortimer, inherits that conqueror's
ambitious nature, and fully maintains the great traditions of strength,
pride and defiance. But Mortimer is only the second figure in order of
importance. Upon the king Marlowe pours all the fruits of his experience
in dramatic work.

From the historical point of view the dramatist is signally successful
in making the men of the past live over again. His weak monarch is more
intensely human than any mightier, more kingly ruler would probably have
been in his hands. And the barons, in their haughtiness and easy
aptitude for revolt, are, to the life, the fierce men whose grandfathers
and fathers in turn fought against their sovereigns and whose
descendants fell in the fratricidal Wars of the Roses. Moreover the
chronicle of the reign is followed with reasonable accuracy, if we make
due allowance for dramatic requirements. It can hardly be said that the
author's representation of Edward is impartial: a kindly veil is drawn
over the lawlessness of his government and the disgrace brought upon
English arms by his military incapacity. But the political intrigue, the
friction between monarch and subjects, the helplessness of the king to
enforce his wishes, are all brought back vividly.

However, it is Marlowe's adaptation of a historical subject to a loftier
purpose than the mere renewal of the past which gives real greatness to
the play. Here at last his work attains to the full stature and noble
harmony of a tragedy, not on the highest level, it is true, but
dignified and moving. The catastrophe is physical, not moral, and thus
the play lacks the awful horror half-revealed in _Doctor Faustus_. But
whereas the latter, reaching after the greatest things, falls short of
success, _Edward the Second_, content with less, easily secures a first
place in the second rank.

By a neat device we are introduced, at the outset, to the king, his
favourite, and the fatal choice from which springs all the misery of the
reign. For the opening lines, spoken by Gaveston himself, are no less
than the royal message bidding him return to 'share the kingdom' with
his friend. From that point the first portion of the play easily
unfolds: it deals with the strife, the brief triumphs and the bitter
defeats which fill the eventful period of this ill-starred friendship.
The actual crisis falls within the third act: it is marked by the murder
of Gaveston and the resolution of the king at last to offer armed
resistance to the tyranny of the barons. The oath by which he seals his
decision 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. A
temporary victory, followed up by revengeful executions, is succeeded by
defeat, captivity, loss of the crown, and a fearful death.

King Edward is not portrayed as weak mentally or morally. Gaveston, in
the first scene, speaks of his master's effeminacy, and on more than one
occasion there are hints from the royal favourites that the king should
assert his majesty more vigorously. But over and over again Edward
breaks out into anger at the insolence of his subjects and only fails to
crush them through the impossibility of exacting obedience from those
about him. In Act I, Scene 4, it is Mortimer's order for the seizure of
Gaveston 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 king
refuses point blank, in the face of threatening insistence. 'I will not
yield', he cries; 'curse me, depose me, do the worst you can.' He only
gives way at last before a threat of papal excommunication, the crushing
power of which had been made abundantly clear by its effect on King John
just a century before. Indeed we need not go further than the first
scene to find that Marlowe is resolved to put the right spirit of
wilfulness and angry determination in his fated monarch. There we find
this 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 as
strong, though forced by circumstances and coaxed to give way, in the
pathetic scene where he is compelled to surrender his crown to
Mortimer's delegate. Nevertheless the weakness that brings and justifies
his downfall is placed prominently before us from the first. King Edward
prefers his own pleasure before the unity of his kingdom and the
strength of his rule. There is even something a little ignoble in his
love for Gaveston, something unmanly and contemptible, if the reports of
such prejudiced persons as the queen and Mortimer are to be believed.
But the fault is not a criminal or unnatural one. One can sympathize
with a heart that yearns for the presence of a single friend in a world
of cold-blooded critics or harsh counsellors. The not unattractive
character of Gaveston, too, affectionate, gay, proud, quick-tempered,
brave--with faults also, of deceit, vanity and vindictiveness--preserves
the royal friendship from the sink of blind dotage upon an unworthy
creature. The tragedy follows, then, from the king's preferment of
private above public good, or, we may say, from the conflict between the
king's wishes as a man and his duty as a monarch. It is to Marlowe's
perception of this vital struggle underlying the hostility between King
Edward and his nobles that the play owes its greatness. We pity the
king, we can hate those who beat him down to the mire, because his fault
appeals to us in its personal aspect as almost a virtue; he is willing
to sacrifice so much to keep his friends. At the same time we perceive
the justice of his dethronement, for we recognize that the duty of a
king must take precedence over everything else. He has brought his
punishment upon himself. Yet, inasmuch as Mortimer, serviceable to the
state as an instrument, offends our sense of what is due from a subject
to his sovereign, we applaud the justice of his downfall; we, perhaps,
secretly rejoice that this bullying young baron is humbled beneath a
king's displeasure at last. As a final touch Marlowe rescues the
sovereignty of the throne from the taint of weakness by the little
prince's vigorous assertion of his authority at the end.

Queen Isabella presents certain difficulties. The king's treatment of
her reflects little credit upon him, although one can hardly demand the
same affection in a political as in a voluntary union. Apparently she
really loves the king until his continued coldness chills her feelings
and 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 the
end she cherishes a warm love for her son. Probably the author intended
that her degeneracy should be attributed to the baneful influence of
Mortimer 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 it
is apparent that he is actuated by personal malice as much as by
righteous indignation on behalf of his misgoverned country. He confides
to his uncle that it is Gaveston's and the king's mocking jests at the
plainness of his train and attire which make him impatient. But the
unwisdom of the king serves him for a stalking-horse while secretly he
pursues the goal of his private ambition. In adversity he is uncrushed.
When he returns victorious he ruthlessly sweeps aside all likely
obstacles to his supremacy, the Spensers, Kent, and even the king being
hurried 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 diversifying
the hard facts of history with homely fiction of a more or less comic
nature. He declines to mingle clowns and courtiers. Variety is secured
by a slightly fuller delineation of the secondary characters than is
usual with him, with its consequent effect on the dialogue, and by
abrupt changes in the political situation. Two great scenes, King
Edward's abdication and his death, remain as memories with us long after
we have laid the book down; but while we are reading it there are many
others that touch the chords of indignation and sorrow. The verse
throughout is admirable: it has shaken itself free of rant and
extravagance; no longer are adjectives and nouns of splendour heaped
recklessly 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 what
portion of the play his work belongs. The supposition that Nash finished
the play does not necessarily imply that he wrote the last part. It may
have 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 the
addition of scenes here and there. The unusual shortness of the play
rather supports this theory. But it is best to let it stand uncertain.
At least this much is clear, that the genius of Marlowe is strongly
present both in the character of the queen and in the splendid passages
of poetry.

Again we have a well-constructed tragedy based on the loss of a dear
friend and ending in death. But here the friendship is elevated to the
passionate affection of a woman for her lover, and the conclusion moves
our pity with double force by its picture of suffering and by the fact
that the queen is the unhappy victim of a cruel fate. It is the old
story of love ending in desertion and a broken heart, only the faithless
lover would be true if the gods had not ordered otherwise; his regret at
parting is not the simulated grief of a hollow deceiver, but the sincere
emotion of a lover acting under compulsion. Constructively the play is
well balanced, although the incidents of the first two acts form,
perhaps, a rather too elaborate introduction to the main plot. Some
initial reference to the gods is necessary to set Aeneas's action in the
right light. The writer is inclined, however, to turn the occasion into
an opportunity for fine picture painting when he should be pressing
forward to the essential theme. The long story of the destruction of
Troy, also, has no proper place in this drama, inasmuch as Aeneas's
piety and prowess at that time are not even converted to use as an
incentive to Dido's love. Nevertheless it must be admitted that some of
the most charming passages are to be found in these first two acts. The
commencement of the third act at once sets the real business of the
tragedy in motion: by a delicate piece of deception Queen Dido is
persuaded to clasp young Cupid, instead of little Ascanius, to her
bosom--with fatal results. Before the act is over Dido and Aeneas have
plighted troth, romantically, in a cave where they are sheltering
together from a storm. With the fourth act comes the first warning of
impending shipwreck to their loves. Aeneas has a dream, and prepares to
sail for Italy. On this occasion, however, the queen is able to overcome
his doubts by bestowing upon him her crown and sceptre, thus providing
him with a kingdom powerful enough to content his ambitions. Yet the
gods are not to be satisfied so; Hermes himself is sent to command the
Trojan's instant departure for another shore. In vain now does Dido
plead. Aeneas departs, and there is nothing left for her in her anguish
but to fling herself upon the sacrificial fire raised on the pretence of
curing her love. A grim pretence, verily.

Besides the two principal characters there are Dido's sister Anna, and a
visiting king, Iarbas, several friends of Aeneas, Ascanius (as himself
and as impersonated by Cupid), and various gods and goddesses. None of
these are developed beyond a secondary pitch; but Ascanius (or Cupid) is
quite invaluable for the lightness and freedom which his presence
conveys to the atmosphere about him; while the unrequited loves of Anna
and Iarbas soften for us the severity of the blow that crushes the
Carthaginian queen. Aeneas himself is presented in a subdued light, his
soldier's heart being fairly divided between his mistress and empire.
Thus we have the figure of Dido set out in high relief. Marlowe was fond
of experiments in characterization, but he never diverged more
completely from the path marked out by his previous steps than when he
decided to give the first place in a tragedy to a woman. Hitherto his
women have not impressed us: Abigail is probably the best of a shadowy
group. Suddenly, in the Queen of Carthage, womankind towers up in
majesty, to hold our attention fixed in wonder and pity as she walks
with strong, unsuspecting tread the steep descent to death. She is
sister to Shakespeare's Cleopatra, yet with marked individual
differences. Her feelings startle us with their fierce heat and swift
transitions. The fire of love flames up abruptly, driving her speech
immediately into wild contradictions. She herself is amazed at the
change within her. Burning to tell Aeneas her secret, yet withheld by
womanly modesty, she endeavours to betray it indirectly by heaping
extravagant gifts upon him. She counts over the list of her former
suitors before him that he may see from the shrug of her shoulders that
her affections are not placed elsewhere. Like Portia to Bassanio before
he chooses the casket, she throws out hints, calls them back hastily,
half lets fall the word, then breaks off the sentence, laying bare her
heart to the most ordinary observer, yet despairing of his understanding
her. When at last, from the tempest of desire and uncertainty, she
passes into the harbour of his assured love, a rapture of content, such
as the divinest music brings, fills her soul. Then the shadows begin to
fall. At first the sincerity of Aeneas's love unites with her startled
and clinging constancy to dispel the gathering gloom. With splendid
gifts she dims the alluring brightness that draws him from her. A little
longer 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 Dido
implores him not to go. When that cannot melt his resolution the
resentment of thwarted love breaks out in passionate reproach. This
again changes to the wailing of sorrow as he turns and leaves her. Anna
is 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 to
madness, at length crystallize into the last fatal resolve. The pile is
made ready. Her attendants are all dismissed. One by one the articles
left 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 that
Marlowe could paint a faithful and impressive likeness of a woman when
he chose. Possibly his fiery spirit would have proved less sympathetic
to a gentler type. Yet there are touches in the slighter portraits of
Abigail and Queen Isabella which reveal flashes of true insight into the
tender emotions of a woman's heart. Had Marlowe died before writing
_Edward the Second_ we should have said that he was incapable of
portraying any type of man but the abnormal and Napoleonic. He showed
himself to be a daring and brilliantly successful voyager into untried
seas. In the face of what he has left behind him it would be a bold
critic indeed who named with confidence any aspect of tragedy as outside
the empire of his genius.

The verse of _Dido, Queen of Carthage_ shows no signs of retrogression
from the steady advance to a more natural and perfect style which we
have traced in the progress from _Tamburlaine_ to _Edward the Second_.
An exception to this improvement will be found in certain portions of
Aeneas's long speech in the second act, of which it is probably not
unjust to surmise that Nash was the author. There are in Dido's own
speeches elements of wild extravagance, but they are natural to the
intensity of her passion. Does not Shakespeare's Cleopatra rave in a
manner no less fervid and hyperbolic? and in Enobarbus's description of
her magnificence when she met Antony is there not a reminiscence of the
oriental 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 inaugurated
by Kyd and Marlowe, we record the progress made in characterization,
plot structure, and verse, and in the treatment of history. A play has
now become interesting for its delineation of character, not merely for
its events or 'story'. One or two figures monopolize the attention by
their lofty passions, their sufferings, and their fate. We look on at a
tremendous conflict waged between will and circumstance, between right
and wrong, or we watch the gradual decay of goodness by the action of a
poisonous thought introduced into the mind. The plot has undergone a
similar intensification. With resistless evolution it bears the chief
characters along to the fatal hour of decision or action, then drags
them down the descent which the wrong choice or the unwise deed suddenly
places at their feet. Our sympathies are drawn out, we take sides in the
cause, and demand that at least justice shall prevail at the end. There
is an art, too, in this evolution, a close interweaving of events, a
chain of cause and effect; a certain harmony and balance are maintained,
so that our feelings are neither jerked to extremes nor worn out by
strain. Even the history play has freed itself to some extent from the
leading strings of chronology, claiming the right to make the same
appeal to our common instincts as any other play. Verse has taken a
mighty bound from formalism to the free intoxicating air of poetry and
nature. Men and women no longer exchange dull speeches; they converse
with easy spontaneity and delight us by the beauty of their language. A
poet may be a dramatist at last without feeling that his imagination
must be held back like a restive horse lest the decorum of human speech
be violated.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Arden of Feversham_ (? 1590-2), by its persistent but almost certainly
mistaken association with Shakespeare's name, has received a wider fame
than some better plays. Into the question of its authorship, however, we
need not enter. Of itself it has qualities that call for reference in
this place. Its early date, also, brings it within the sphere of our
discussion of the growth of English drama.

Far more than any play of Kyd's, this drama, though it has no ghost and
slays 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 carefully
gathered up every horrible detail, every dreadful revelation concerning
a brutal crime which had horrified England forty years before; and
while the red and reeking abomination was still hot in his mind, sat
down to the awful task of re-enacting it. The victim was summoned from
his grave, the murderers from the gallows, the woman from the charred
stake at Canterbury, to glut the appetite of a shuddering audience. Too
revolting to be described in detail, the plot sets forth the story of
Alice Arden's illicit love for Mosbie, her determination to win liberty
by the murder of her husband, the many unsuccessful attempts to bring
about 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 great
one; it is not to be measured by its effect upon the mind, for the
crudest appeal to our instinctive dread of death will often suffice to
hold our attention spellbound. It deals in uncertainty, darkness,
unsuspecting innocence, hair-breadth escapes, and an ever-impending but
still delayed ruin. None of these are wanting to this play; in this
respect the dramatist was fortunate in his subject. No less than seven
times the spectator--for the effect upon the reader is naturally much
less--feels his nerves tingle, his pulse beat faster, as he waits in
instant expectation of seeing murder committed. The realism of everyday
scenery, the street, the high road, the ferry, the inn, the breakfast
room, cry out with telling emphasis that it is fact, hard deadly fact,
which is being shown, not the idle invention of an overheated brain. But
while these features impress the action upon our memory, they do not
raise it to the level of great drama. For this the supreme requirement
is truth to human nature. It is not enough that the actors arrest our
attention by their appearance, their speeches and their deeds. Freaks
and lunatics might do that. They must be human as we are, moved by
impulses common, in some degree, to us all. Generally speaking,
abnormality is weakness. It needs to be strongly built upon a foundation
of natural qualities to achieve success. Especially is this so when the
surrounding conditions are such as belong to ordinary existence. The
application of this principle reveals the essential weakness of _Arden
of Feversham_. Carefully, almost minutely, the details of everyday life
are gathered together. The merchant sees to the unloading of his goods
at the quay, the boatman urges his ferry to and fro, the apprentice
takes down his shutters, the groom makes love to the serving-maid,
travellers meeting on the road halt for a chat and part with no more
serious word spoken than a hearty invitation to dine; on all sides life
is seen flowing in the ordinary current, with nothing worse than a piece
of malicious tittle-tattle to disturb the calmness of the surface. Into
this setting the author places as monstrous a group of villains as ever
walked the earth. Black Will and Shakbag belong to the darkest cesspool
of London iniquity. Clarke the Painter has no individuality beyond a
readiness to poison all and sundry for a reward. Michael would be a
murderer were he not a coward. Greene is a revengeful sleuth-hound,
tracking his victim down relentlessly from place to place. Arden is a
miser in business, and a weak, gullible fool at home, alternately raging
with jealous suspicion, and fawning with fatuous trustfulness upon the
man who is wronging him. Mosbie is a cold-blooded, underhand villain
whose pious resolutions and protestations of love could only deceive
those blinded by fate, and whose preference for crooked, left-handed
methods is in tune with his vile intention of murdering the woman who
loves him. Alice, the representative of womankind among these beast-men,
the wife, the passionately loving mistress, is an arch-deceiver, an
absolutely brazen liar and murderess, unblushing and tireless in
soliciting the affection of a man who hardly cares for her, desperately
enamoured. Alone in the group Franklin is endowed with the ordinary
human revulsion from folly and wickedness, but his character is sketched
too lightly to relieve the darkness. Such creatures may fascinate us by
their defiance of the laws that bind us. Alice, particularly, does so.
She possesses--as Michael does, to a less degree--at least a few natural
traits; her conscience is not quite dead, and her love is strong,
although even this is represented as a huge deformity, driving her to
the 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 a
certain individual strength, giving us glimpses of the workings of a
human heart. But the play as a whole offers no inspiration, presents no
aspects of beauty, holds up no mirror to ourselves. One lesson it
teaches, that happiness cannot be won by crime. Alice and Mosbie are
never permitted to escape from the consequences of their sin, in the
form of anxiety, suspicion, remorse, fear, mutual recrimination, and
death. But, throughout, the dramatist's purpose is not art. He is the
apostle of realism, coarsened by a love of the horrible and unclean. The
power of his realism is undeniable. His two protagonists are line for
line portraits of the beings they are intended to represent. The
silhouettes of Black Will and Shakbag are almost as perfect. It is when
we compare _Arden of Feversham_ with _Macbeth_ that we realize how the
meanness of the action and the comparative absence of morality outweigh
any accuracy of detail, degrading the dramatist to the level of a mere
purveyor of excitement. The truth is, even the interest palls, for there
is no skill displayed in the evolution of the plot. The story is merely
unrolled in a series of murderous attempts which agitate us less and
less as they are repeated, until, at the end, we are in danger of not
caring whether Arden is killed or not.

Among the eccentricities of this anonymous author's misdirected ability
is the disregard of appropriateness in the allocation of speeches to the
various characters. He is a poet; we can hardly believe that his work
would otherwise have survived the acting of it. Yet, as has been
frequently pointed out, one of the most delicate passages in the play is
spoken by the detestable ruffian, Shakbag, while Mosbie and even Michael
soliloquize in language of poetic imagery. In his handling of blank
verse he has not travelled beyond the limits of end-stopt lines, and too
often he gives it the false balance of unrhymed couplets; nevertheless
much that is vigorous and impressive forces the rhythm into a firm and
brisk response. The art of conversation in verse has advanced to
complete 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 in
any historical treatment of the drama. For it opened up a new and rich
field to writers of tragedies by its selection of characters from the
ordinary paths of life to reveal the passions of the human heart. Kyd
and Marlowe had sought for subjects in the little known world of kings'
courts or the still less familiar regions of immeasurable wealth and
power. This other writer found what he wanted in his neighbour's house.
His most direct disciples are the authors (uncertain) of _A Yorkshire
Tragedy_ and _A Warning for Fair Women_, but his influence may be traced
in the work of many well-known later dramatists. On the other hand the
play marks a retreat from the standard set by previous tragedies. In its
deliberate use of horror for horror's sake it fell away--dragging others
after it--from the conception of drama as a noble instrument in the
instruction 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 and
Marlowe wrote. When we took leave of the Miracle Plays we left them with
a movable 'pageant', open-air performances, and a large body of
carefully trained actors, who, however, normally followed a trade, only
turning aside to the task of rehearsing when the annual festival drew
near. The whole business of dramatic representation was in the hands of
public bodies--the Mayor and Corporation, if the town could boast of
such. Later years saw the appearance of the professional actor, by more
humble designation termed a strolling player. Many small companies--four
or five men and perhaps a couple of boys--came into existence, wandering
over England to win the pence and applause guaranteed by the immense
popularity of their entertainments. But the official eye learnt to look
upon them with suspicion, and it was not long before they fell under
condemnation as vagrants. In 1572 all but licensed companies were
brought within the scope of the vagrancy laws. Those exempt were the few
fortunate ones who had secured the patronage of a nobleman, and, greedy
of monopoly, had pressed, successfully, for this prohibitory decree
against their irregular rivals. From this date onwards we read only of
such companies as the Queen's Company, the Earl of Leicester's Company,
the Chamberlain's Company and the Admiral's Company. Yet while their
duties would primarily be concerned with the amusement of their
patrons, they found many occasions to offer their services elsewhere.
Travelling companies, therefore, still continued to carry into every
part of England the delights of play-acting. It is a pleasing conjecture
that the genius of the boy, Shakespeare, was first quickened by seeing a
performance in his native town.

We have said that a few men and one or two boys would suffice for a
company. The boys, of course, were to take the female parts, as
women-actors were not seen on the stage until some time after
Shakespeare's death, and only came into general favour after the
Restoration. Although some plays included a large number of characters,
the author was generally careful so to arrange their exits and entrances
that 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_ the
twelve characters are distributed amongst five actors: four actors are
shown to be sufficient for the eleven characters of _New Custom_; and
the thirty-eight characters of _Cambyses_ are grouped to fit eight
players.

When on tour a company began its stay in any town with a visit to the
mayor (or his equivalent), before whom a first performance was given.
His approval secured for the company a fee and the right of acting. Thus
the practice of public control over the Guild 'Miracles' was extended to
these independent performances in the form of a mayoral censorship. This
control, in London, was placed in the hands of the Court Master of the
Revels, who thereby became the State dramatic censor with power to
prohibit 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 of
Eton and Westminster histrionics was included amongst the subjects
taught. The singing school at St. Paul's studied the art with equal
industry. Most famous of all, the choir boys of the royal chapel took
rank as expert performers. It was doubtless for Eton, Westminster,
Merchant Taylors' and other schools that such plays as _The Disobedient
Child_ and _The Marriage of Wit and Science_ were written. It was, we
may remember, the head-master of Eton who wrote _Ralph Roister Doister_.
Lyly's plays, acted at Court, were all performed either by 'the children
of Paul's' or 'Her Majesty's children'. This may partly account for the
great number and prominence of his female characters as compared with
those found in the comedies of Greene and Peele; it will also suggest a
reason for his liberal introduction of songs.

Court performances, however, were also given by young men of rank for
amusement or to honour the queen. _Gorboduc_ was presented before
Elizabeth by 'the gentlemen of the Inner Temple'. 'The Gentlemen of
Gray's Inn' performed _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ at the Court at
Greenwich; Francis Bacon was one of the actors. In the latter part of
the reign the queen's own 'company' consisted of the best London
professional actors, and these were summoned every Christmas to
entertain Her Majesty with the latest plays. At Oxford and Cambridge
many plays were staged, the preference for some time apparently lying
with classical representation in the original tongue.

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

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

In the midst of the wide popularity of the drama arose Puritanism, full
of condemnation. Keeping our attention upon London as the centre of
things, we see this new enemy waging a fierce battle with the supporters
of the stage. The latter included the Queen and her Privy Council; the
former found spokesmen in the mayor and City Fathers. Between Privy
Council and Corporation there could be no compromise, for the
Corporation insisted that within its jurisdiction dramatic performances
should be entirely suppressed. The yearly outbreaks of the plague, with
its weekly death-roll of thirty, forty, fifty, periodically compelled
the summer performances to cease, and lent themselves as a powerful
argument against packed gatherings of dirty and clean, infected and
uninfected, together. At last one of the leading companies, fearing that
time would bring victory to the Puritans and to themselves extinction,
decided to solve the difficulty by migration beyond the jurisdiction of
the mayor. Accordingly, about the year 1572, 'The Theatre' was built
outside the city boundary and occupied by Leicester's company. Not long
afterwards other companies followed suit, and 'The Curtains' and
'Newington Butts' were erected. After that many other theatres rose. In
1599 was built the famous Globe Theatre in which most of Shakespeare's
plays were represented. But the three earlier theatres (and perhaps 'The
Rose') were probably all that Marlowe ever knew.

What we know of the Elizabethan theatre is based on information
concerning the Globe, Fortune and Swan Theatres. From this a certain
clear conception--not agreed upon, however, in all points by
critics--may be deduced with regard to the earlier ones. They were round
or hexagonal in shape. The stage was placed with its back to the wall
and projected well into the centre. The spectators were gathered about
its three sides, the poor folk standing in the area and crushing right
up to it, the rich folk occupying seats in the galleries that formed the
horse-shoe round the area. A roof covered the galleries but not the rest
of the building--the first completely roofed theatre was probably not
built before 1596. Performances took place between two and five o'clock
in the afternoon. The title of the piece was posted outside; a flag
flying from a turret informed playgoers in the city that a performance
was about to take place, and the sound of a trumpet announced the
commencement of the play. An orchestra was in attendance, not so much to
enliven the intervals--for they were few and brief--as to lend its aid
to the effect of certain scenes, in exactly the same way as it is used
to-day.

Of the stage itself little can be said positively, nor are surmises
about the Swan or Globe stage necessarily applicable to its
predecessors. But the following description will serve as a fair
conjecture. It was divided into two parts, a front and back stage,
separated by a curtain. By this device the back scene could be prepared
while the front stage was occupied, or two scenes could be presented
together, as in _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_, or a second scene could
be added to the main one, as occurs when Rasni, in _A Looking-Glass for
London and England_, 'draws the curtains' and reveals Remilia struck
with lightning. There was no curtain before the front stage. At the rear
of the back stage was a fixed structure like the outside of a house with
doors and an upper balcony. The doors led into the dressing rooms, and
through them, as through the curtain if the front stage only were in
use, the exits and entrances were made. The balcony was used in many
ways familiar to us in Shakespeare's works; when, in the Second Part of
_Tamburlaine_, the Governor of Babylon enters 'upon the walls' we
recognize that he is on the balcony. A roof extended over the whole or
part of the stage to protect the actors from rain; but it was also made
use of as a hiding-place from which angels or goddesses could descend.
In _Alphonsus, King of Arragon_ Venus's exit is managed thus: 'If you
can conveniently, let a chair come down from the top of the stage and
draw her up.' The stage floor was fitted with a trap-door; through it
Queen Elinor, in _Edward the First_, disappears and re-appears; through
it 'a flame of fire' appears and 'Radagon is swallowed', in _A
Looking-Glass for London and England_.

As far as can be gathered from records, there was no great attempt to
preserve, in the actor's dresses, the local colouring of the play.
Nevertheless various easy and obviously required concessions would be
made. Kings and queens would dress magnificently, mechanics and
serving-men humbly. In _Orlando Furioso_ we read that Orlando is to
enter 'attired as a madman' and that Marsilius and Mandricard are to
appear 'like Palmers'; in _Alphonsus, King of Arragon_ 'Calchas rises up
in a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre', and in _Edward the First_
Longshanks figures 'in Friar's weeds'. The list could be continued. It
is practically certain that there was no painted scenery, the absence of
which would greatly facilitate the expeditious passage from scene to
scene. Stage properties, however, were probably a valuable part of the
theatrical belongings. If we glance over the stage-directions in the
plays of Greene, Peele, Kyd and Marlowe, we come upon such visible
objects 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 canopy
with a king's head at each of three corners, Bungay's dragon shooting
fire, Remilia's 'globe seated in a ship', the 'hand from out a cloud
with a burning sword' (_A Looking-Glass_), and the Brazen Head casting
out flakes of fire (_Alphonsus_).

Considering Marlowe's plays in the light of this information we shall be
obliged to admit that they stood a good chance of having very fair
justice done to them. The points in which the staging differed from our
modern methods were in favour of greater realism. Daylight is more
truthful than foot-lights are; and if there was any poverty in the
setting, so much the more was attention centred upon the actors, who are
declared, by the authors themselves, to have attained a high level of
excellence. 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.

_Cornelie_, 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 a 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.



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