CHAPTER VI

As to the weary wandering wights whom waltering waves environ.

The Famous Chronicle History of King Edward the Firstis 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 enoughwhich 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 pathosto 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 beheldThy 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' feetThat govern with familiar majesty.But if their sovereigns once gin swell with pride,Disdaining commons' love, which is the strengthAnd sureness of the richest commonwealth,That prince were better live a private lifeThan rule with tyranny and discontent.

If Peele wroteThe 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'sTamburlaineor Greene'sAlphonsus, 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 outVindicta!, 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 Henrythe Fourth, II. iv). To show the inconsistencies over which rant unblushingly careers, we give two consecutive speeches by this terrible fellow.

[The Moor's Sonhas 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 makeAs through the stream and bloody channels deepOur Moors shall sail in ships and pinnacesFrom Tangier-shore unto the gates of Fess.The Moor's Son.And of those slaughter'd bodies shall thy sonA hugy tower erect like Nimrod's frame,To threaten those unjust and partial godsThat to Abdallas' lawful seed denyA long, a happy, and triumphant reign.

The Moor's Son.And of those slaughter'd bodies shall thy sonA hugy tower erect like Nimrod's frame,To threaten those unjust and partial godsThat to Abdallas' lawful seed denyA long, a happy, and triumphant reign.

[At this point aMessengerenters, reports general disaster, and urges flight.]

The Moor.Villain, what dreadful sound of death and flightIs this wherewith thou dost afflict our ears?But if there be no safety to abideThe favour, fortune and success of war,Away in haste! Roll on, my chariot-wheels,Restless till I be safely set in shadeOf some unhaunted place, some blasted groveOf 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 Taleis 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 haswrought 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 andlightning 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 ofComus. 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, andthe Lady. One may suppose that the same foundation of resemblance establishes Peele as also the inspirer of the first book ofThe Faerie Queenethrough hisSir 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 Bethsabepresents 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 dramaDavid 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 butDavid and BethsabeandThe Arraignment of Parishe 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 voiceThat 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 wordsTo 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 windsDelight to play, and love to make it curl;Wherein the nightingales would build their nests,And make sweet bowers in every golden tressTo 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 roesAnd 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 inThe Tragedy of Dido, butSummer'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, anda 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 HarvestHome 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'sFriar 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 inJames the FourthandThe 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 playsSummer's Last Will and Testamentcontains 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 ofmetre' 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 makeSummer's Last Will and Testamenta 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 diseaseAnd find out means to ease them of their grief.Special good surgeons to cure dangerous wounds:For, stricken with a stake into the fleshThis 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, becauseUlcers 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 feetThey 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, unadvisedlyTo slander such rare creatures as they be?

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 ofGorboduc, the severe formality ofThe Misfortunes of Arthur, to recognize the change that had to take place before the level of such a tragedy asRomeo and Julietcould 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.Gorboducrained death upon a whole nation,Tancred and Gismundainvoked 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 ofTancred and Gismundawas 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 inThe 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 oneother 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 inA Looking-Glass for London and England, all that we have of Thomas Lodge's dramatic work isThe 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. Theyare 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 ofGorboducrather than to the year of Marlowe'sEdward 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.

[CorneliaandFulvia,expecting close imprisonment, if not death, are set at liberty.]

Marius.Virtue, sweet ladies, is of more regardIn 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' streamShall 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 handsHonour 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.

Marius.Virtue, sweet ladies, is of more regardIn 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' streamShall 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 handsHonour 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) andCornelia(printed 1594), are definitely known to have been written by Thomas Kyd. There are two others, however, which are commonly attributed to him,JeronimoandSoliman and Perseda.The Spanish Tragedycontinues the story ofJeronimowith 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 ofSoliman and Perseda. It has many features corresponding to those found inThe 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 inthe 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, inLocrine, 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 ofThe Spanish Tragedycomprises the main characters and general drift (with marked differences) of the plot ofSoliman 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 inThe Spanish Tragedyled 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 bythe decreased use of rhyme, intermingled with the blank verse, inSoliman and Perseda. The play, then, may be approximately dated 1588-90.

It would be as well to dismissCorneliaat 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.

Jeronimoderives 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 spotto 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 deathare 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.

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