Chapter 21

‘Youth that opens like perpetual spring,’

and promises the rich harvest of love and pleasure that succeeds it. Her first presenting herself before Cæsar, when she is brought in by Sceva, and the impression she makes upon him, like a vision dropt from the clouds, or

‘Like some celestial sweetness, the treasure of soft love.’

are exquisitely conceived. Photinus is an accomplished villain, well-read in crooked policy and quirks of state; and the description of Pompey has a solemnity and grandeur worthy of his unfortunate end. Septimius says, bringing in his lifeless head,

‘’Tis here, ’tis done! Behold, you fearful viewers,Shake, and behold the model of the world here,The pride and strength! Look, look again, ’tis finished!That that whole armies, nay, whole nations,Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at,And fled before, wing’d with their fear and terrors,That steel War waited on, and Fortune courted,That high-plum’d Honour built up for her own;Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness,Behold that child of war, with all his glories,By this poor hand made breathless!’

‘’Tis here, ’tis done! Behold, you fearful viewers,

Shake, and behold the model of the world here,

The pride and strength! Look, look again, ’tis finished!

That that whole armies, nay, whole nations,

Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at,

And fled before, wing’d with their fear and terrors,

That steel War waited on, and Fortune courted,

That high-plum’d Honour built up for her own;

Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness,

Behold that child of war, with all his glories,

By this poor hand made breathless!’

And again Cæsar says of him, who was his mortal enemy (it was not held the fashion in those days, nor will it be held so in time to come, to lampoon those whom you have vanquished)—

——‘Oh thou conqueror,Thou glory of the world once, now the pity,Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee onTo trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger,That honourable war ne’er taught a nobleness,Not worthy circumstance shew’d what a man was?That never heard thy name sung but in banquets,And loose lascivious pleasures? to a boy,That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,No study of thy life to know thy goodness?Egyptians, do you think your highest pyramids,Built to outdure the sun, as you suppose,Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes,Are monuments fit for him! No, brood of Nilus,Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven;No pyramids set off his memories,But the eternal substance of his greatness,To which I leave him.’

——‘Oh thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity,

Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee on

To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?

The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger,

That honourable war ne’er taught a nobleness,

Not worthy circumstance shew’d what a man was?

That never heard thy name sung but in banquets,

And loose lascivious pleasures? to a boy,

That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,

No study of thy life to know thy goodness?

Egyptians, do you think your highest pyramids,

Built to outdure the sun, as you suppose,

Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes,

Are monuments fit for him! No, brood of Nilus,

Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven;

No pyramids set off his memories,

But the eternal substance of his greatness,

To which I leave him.’

It is something worth living for, to write or even read such poetry as this is, or to know that it has been written, or that there have been subjects on which to write it!—This, of all Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays, comes the nearest in style and manner to Shakespear, not excepting the first act of the Two Noble Kinsmen, which has been sometimes attributed to him.

TheFaithful Shepherdessby Fletcher alone, is ‘a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.’ The author has in it given a loose to his fancy, and his fancy was his most delightful and genial quality, where, to use his own words,

‘He takes most ease, and grows ambitiousThro’ his own wanton fire and pride delicious.’

‘He takes most ease, and grows ambitious

Thro’ his own wanton fire and pride delicious.’

The songs and lyrical descriptions throughout are luxuriant and delicate in a high degree. He came near to Spenser in a certain tender and voluptuous sense of natural beauty; he came near to Shakespear in the playful and fantastic expression of it. The whole composition is an exquisite union of dramatic and pastoral poetry; where the local descriptions receive a tincture from the sentiments and purposes of the speaker, and each character, cradled in the lap of nature, paints ‘her virgin fancies wild’ with romantic grace and classic elegance.

The place and its employments are thus described by Chloe to Thenot:

——‘Here be woods as greenAs any, air likewise as fresh and sweetAs where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleetFace of the curled stream, with flow’rs as manyAs the young spring gives, and as choice as any;Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,Arbours o’ergrown with woodbine; caves, and dells;Chuse where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing,Or gather rushes, to make many a ringFor thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyesShe took eternal fire that never dies;How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,His temples bound with poppy, to the steepHead of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,To kiss her sweetest.’

——‘Here be woods as green

As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet

As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet

Face of the curled stream, with flow’rs as many

As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;

Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,

Arbours o’ergrown with woodbine; caves, and dells;

Chuse where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing,

Or gather rushes, to make many a ring

For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,

How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,

First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes

She took eternal fire that never dies;

How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep

Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,

Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,

To kiss her sweetest.’

There are few things that can surpass in truth and beauty of allegorical description, the invocation of Amaryllis to the God of Shepherds, Pan, to save her from the violence of the Sullen Shepherd, for Syrinx’ sake:

——‘For her dear sake,That loves the rivers’ brinks, and still doth shakeIn cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit!’

——‘For her dear sake,

That loves the rivers’ brinks, and still doth shake

In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit!’

Or again, the friendly Satyr promises Clorin—

‘Brightest, if there be remainingAny service, without feigningI will do it; were I setTo catch the nimble wind, or getShadows gliding on the green.’

‘Brightest, if there be remaining

Any service, without feigning

I will do it; were I set

To catch the nimble wind, or get

Shadows gliding on the green.’

It would be a task no less difficult than this, to follow the flight of the poet’s Muse, or catch her fleeting graces, fluttering her golden wings, and singing in notes angelical of youth, of love, and joy!

There is only one affected and ridiculous character in this drama, that of Thenot in love with Clorin. He is attached to her for her inviolable fidelity to her buried husband, and wishes her not to grant his suit, lest it should put an end to his passion. Thus he pleads to her against himself:

——‘If you yield, I dieTo all affection; ’tis that loyaltyYou tie unto this grave I so admire;And yet there’s something else I would desire,If you would hear me, but withal deny.Oh Pan, what an uncertain destinyHangs over all my hopes! I will retire;For if I longer stay, this double fireWill lick my life up.’

——‘If you yield, I die

To all affection; ’tis that loyalty

You tie unto this grave I so admire;

And yet there’s something else I would desire,

If you would hear me, but withal deny.

Oh Pan, what an uncertain destiny

Hangs over all my hopes! I will retire;

For if I longer stay, this double fire

Will lick my life up.’

This is paltry quibbling. It is spurious logic, not genuine feeling. A pedant may hang his affections on the point of a dilemma in this manner; but nature does not sophisticate; or when she does, it is to gain her ends, not to defeat them.

The Sullen Shepherd turns out too dark a character in the end, and gives a shock to the gentle and pleasing sentiments inspired throughout.

The resemblance of Comus to this poem is not so great as hasbeen sometimes contended, nor are the particular allusions important or frequent. Whatever Milton copied, he made his own. In reading the Faithful Shepherdess, we find ourselves breathing the moonlight air under the cope of heaven, and wander by forest side or fountain, among fresh dews and flowers, following our vagrant fancies, or smit with the love of nature’s works. In reading Milton’s Comus, and most of his other works, we seem to be entering a lofty dome raised over our heads and ascending to the skies, and as if nature and every thing in it were but a temple and an image consecrated by the poet’s art to the worship of virtue and pure religion. The speech of Clorin, after she has been alarmed by the Satyr, is the only one of which Milton has made a free use.

‘And all my fears go with thee,What greatness or what private hidden powerIs there in me to draw submissionFrom this rude man and beast? Sure I am mortal:The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,And she that bore me mortal: prick my hand,And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, andThe self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,Makes me a-cold: my fear says, I am mortal.Yet I have heard, (my mother told it me,And now I do believe it), if I keepMy virgin flow’r uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair,No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusionDraw me to wander after idle fires;Or voices calling me in dead of nightTo make me follow, and so tole me onThro’ mire and standing pools to find my ruin;Else, why should this rough thing, who never knewManners, nor smooth humanity, whose heatsAre rougher than himself, and more misshapen,Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there’s a pow’rIn that great name of Virgin, that binds fastAll rude uncivil bloods, all appetitesThat break their confines: then, strong Chastity,Be thou my strongest guard, for here I’ll dwell,In opposition against fate and hell!’

‘And all my fears go with thee,

What greatness or what private hidden power

Is there in me to draw submission

From this rude man and beast? Sure I am mortal:

The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,

And she that bore me mortal: prick my hand,

And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and

The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,

Makes me a-cold: my fear says, I am mortal.

Yet I have heard, (my mother told it me,

And now I do believe it), if I keep

My virgin flow’r uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair,

No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,

Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,

Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion

Draw me to wander after idle fires;

Or voices calling me in dead of night

To make me follow, and so tole me on

Thro’ mire and standing pools to find my ruin;

Else, why should this rough thing, who never knew

Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats

Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,

Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there’s a pow’r

In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast

All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites

That break their confines: then, strong Chastity,

Be thou my strongest guard, for here I’ll dwell,

In opposition against fate and hell!’

Ben Jonson’s Sad Shepherd comes nearer it in style and spirit, but still with essential differences, like the two men, and without any appearance of obligation. Ben’s is more homely and grotesque, Fletcher’s is more visionary and fantastical. I hardly know which to prefer. If Fletcher has the advantage in general power andsentiment, Jonson is superior innaivetéand truth of local colouring.

TheTwo Noble Kinsmenis another monument of Fletcher’s genius; and it is said also of Shakespear’s. The style of the first act has certainly more weight, more abruptness, and more involution, than the general style of Fletcher, with fewer softenings and fillings-up to sheathe the rough projecting points and piece the disjointed fragments together. For example, the compliment of Theseus to one of the Queens, that Hercules

‘Tumbled him down upon his Nemean hide,And swore his sinews thaw’d’

‘Tumbled him down upon his Nemean hide,

And swore his sinews thaw’d’

at sight of her beauty, is in a bolder and more masculine vein than Fletcher usually aimed at. Again, the supplicating address of the distressed Queen to Hippolita,

——‘Lend us a knee:But touch the ground for us no longer timeThan a dove’s motion, when the head’s pluck’d off’—

——‘Lend us a knee:

But touch the ground for us no longer time

Than a dove’s motion, when the head’s pluck’d off’—

is certainly in the manner of Shakespear, with his subtlety and strength of illustration. But, on the other hand, in what immediately follows, relating to their husbands left dead in the field of battle,

‘Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-siz’d field lay swoln,Shewing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,What you would do’—

‘Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-siz’d field lay swoln,

Shewing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,

What you would do’—

I think we perceive the extravagance of Beaumont and Fletcher, not contented with truth or strength of description, but hurried away by the love of violent excitement into an image of disgust and horror, not called for, and not at all proper in the mouth into which it is put. There is a studied exaggeration of the sentiment, and an evident imitation of the parenthetical interruptions and breaks in the line, corresponding to what we sometimes meet in Shakespear, as in the speeches of Leontes in the Winter’s Tale; but the sentiment is overdone, and the style merely mechanical. Thus Hippolita declares, on her lord’s going to the wars,

‘We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep,When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,Or tell of babes broach’d on the lance, or womenThat have seethed their infants in (and after eat them)The brine they wept at killing ’em; then ifYou stay to see of us such spinsters, weShould hold you here forever.’

‘We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep,

When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,

Or tell of babes broach’d on the lance, or women

That have seethed their infants in (and after eat them)

The brine they wept at killing ’em; then if

You stay to see of us such spinsters, we

Should hold you here forever.’

One might apply to this sort of poetry what Marvel says of some sort of passions, that it is

‘Tearing our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.’

‘Tearing our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.’

It is not in the true spirit of Shakespear, who was ‘born only heir to all humanity,’ whose horrors were not gratuitous, and who did not harrow up the feelings for the sake of making merebravuraspeeches. There are also in this first act, several repetitions of Shakespear’s phraseology: a thing that seldom or never occurs in his own works. For instance,

——‘Past slightlyHis careless execution’—‘The very leesof such, millions of ratesExceedthe wineof others’———‘Letthe event,Thatnever-erring arbitrator, tell us’—‘Likeold importment’s bastard’—

——‘Past slightlyHis careless execution’—

——‘Past slightly

His careless execution’—

‘The very leesof such, millions of ratesExceedthe wineof others’—

‘The very leesof such, millions of rates

Exceedthe wineof others’—

——‘Letthe event,Thatnever-erring arbitrator, tell us’—

——‘Letthe event,

Thatnever-erring arbitrator, tell us’—

‘Likeold importment’s bastard’—

There are also words that are never used by Shakespear in a similar sense:

——‘All our surgeonsConventin their behoof’—‘Weconventnought else but woes’—

——‘All our surgeonsConventin their behoof’—

——‘All our surgeons

Conventin their behoof’—

‘Weconventnought else but woes’—

In short, it appears to me that the first part of this play was written in imitation of Shakespear’s manner; but I see no reason to suppose that it was his, but the common tradition, which is however by no means well established. The subsequent acts are confessedly Fletcher’s, and the imitations of Shakespear which occur there (not of Shakespear’s manner as differing from his, but as it was congenial to his own spirit and feeling of nature) are glorious in themselves, and exalt our idea of the great original which could give birth to such magnificent conceptions in another. The conversation of Palamon and Arcite in prison is of this description—the outline is evidently taken from that of Guiderius, Arviragus, and Bellarius in Cymbeline, but filled up with a rich profusion of graces that make it his own again.

‘Pal.How do you, noble cousin?Arc.How do you, Sir?Pal.Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners,I fear for ever, cousin.Arc.I believe it;And to that destiny have patientlyLaid up my hour to come.Pal.Oh, cousin Arcite,Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?Where are our friends and kindreds? Never moreMust we behold those comforts; never seeThe hardy youths strive for the games of honour,Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,Like tall ships under sail: then start amongst ’em,And as an east wind, leave ’em all behind usLike lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,Outstript the people’s praises, won the garlands,Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. Oh, neverShall we two exercise, like twins of honour,Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now(Better the red-eyed God of war ne’er wore)Ravish’d our sides, like age, must run to rust,And deck the temples of those Gods that hate us:These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning,To blast whole armies more.Arc.No, Palamon,Those hopes are prisoners with us: here we are,And here the graces of our youth must wither,Like a too-timely spring: here age must find us,And which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;The sweet embraces of a loving wifeLoaden with kisses, arm’d with thousand Cupids,Shall never clasp our necks! No issue know us,No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see,To glad our age, and like young eaglets teach ’emBoldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,And in their songs curse ever-blinded fortune,Till she for shame see what a wrong she has doneTo youth and nature. This is all our world:We shall know nothing here, but one another;Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes;The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;Summer shall come, and with her all delights,But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.Pal.’Tis too true, Arcite! To our Theban hounds,That shook the aged forest with their echoes,No more now must we halloo; no more shakeOur pointed javelins, while the angry swineFlies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,Struck with our well-steel’d darts! All valiant uses(The food and nourishment of noble minds)In us two here shall perish; we shall die(Which is the curse of honour) lazily,Children of grief and ignorance.Arc.Yet, cousin,Even from the bottom of these miseries,From all that fortune can inflict upon us,I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,If the Gods please to hold here; a brave patience,And the enjoying of our griefs together.Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perishIf I think this our prison!Pal.Certainly,’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunesWere twinn’d together; ’tis most true, two soulsPut in two noble bodies, let ’em sufferThe gall of hazard, so they grow together,Will never sink; they must not; say they could,A willing man dies sleeping, and all’s done.Arc.Shall we make worthy uses of this place,That all men hate so much?Pal.How, gentle cousin?Arc.Let’s think this prison a holy sanctuaryTo keep us from corruption of worse men!We’re young, and yet desire the ways of honour:That, liberty and common conversation,The poison of pure spirits, might, like women,Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessingCan be, but our imaginationsMay make it ours? And here, being thus together,We are an endless mine to one another;We’re father, friends, acquaintance;We are, in one another, families;I am your heir, and you are mine; this placeIs our inheritance; no hard oppressorDare take this from us; here, with a little patience,We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us:The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seasSwallow their youth; were we at liberty,A wife might part us lawfully, or business;Quarrels consume us; envy of ill menCrave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,Where you should never know it, and so perishWithout your noble hand to close mine eyes,Or prayers to the Gods: a thousand chances,Were we from hence, would sever us.Pal.You have made me(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wantonWith my captivity; what a miseryIt is to live abroad, and every where!’Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here,I’m sure a more content; and all those pleasures,That woo the wills of men to vanity,I see thro’ now: and am sufficientTo tell the world, ’tis but a gaudy shadowThat old time, as he passes by, takes with him.What had we been, old in the court of Creon,Where sin is justice, lust and ignoranceThe virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,Had not the loving Gods found this place for us,We had died as they do, ill old men unwept,And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses!Shall I say more?Arc.I would hear you still.Pal.You shall.Is there record of any two that lov’dBetter than we do, Arcite?Arc.Sure there cannot.Pal.I do not think it possible our friendshipShould ever leave us.Arc.Till our deaths it cannot.’

‘Pal.How do you, noble cousin?

Arc.How do you, Sir?

Pal.Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners,I fear for ever, cousin.

Pal.Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,

And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners,

I fear for ever, cousin.

Arc.I believe it;And to that destiny have patientlyLaid up my hour to come.

Arc.I believe it;

And to that destiny have patiently

Laid up my hour to come.

Pal.Oh, cousin Arcite,Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?Where are our friends and kindreds? Never moreMust we behold those comforts; never seeThe hardy youths strive for the games of honour,Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,Like tall ships under sail: then start amongst ’em,And as an east wind, leave ’em all behind usLike lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,Outstript the people’s praises, won the garlands,Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. Oh, neverShall we two exercise, like twins of honour,Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now(Better the red-eyed God of war ne’er wore)Ravish’d our sides, like age, must run to rust,And deck the temples of those Gods that hate us:These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning,To blast whole armies more.

Pal.Oh, cousin Arcite,

Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?

Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more

Must we behold those comforts; never see

The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,

Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,

Like tall ships under sail: then start amongst ’em,

And as an east wind, leave ’em all behind us

Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,

Outstript the people’s praises, won the garlands,

Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. Oh, never

Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,

Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,

Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now

(Better the red-eyed God of war ne’er wore)

Ravish’d our sides, like age, must run to rust,

And deck the temples of those Gods that hate us:

These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning,

To blast whole armies more.

Arc.No, Palamon,Those hopes are prisoners with us: here we are,And here the graces of our youth must wither,Like a too-timely spring: here age must find us,And which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;The sweet embraces of a loving wifeLoaden with kisses, arm’d with thousand Cupids,Shall never clasp our necks! No issue know us,No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see,To glad our age, and like young eaglets teach ’emBoldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,And in their songs curse ever-blinded fortune,Till she for shame see what a wrong she has doneTo youth and nature. This is all our world:We shall know nothing here, but one another;Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes;The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;Summer shall come, and with her all delights,But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

Arc.No, Palamon,

Those hopes are prisoners with us: here we are,

And here the graces of our youth must wither,

Like a too-timely spring: here age must find us,

And which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;

The sweet embraces of a loving wife

Loaden with kisses, arm’d with thousand Cupids,

Shall never clasp our necks! No issue know us,

No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see,

To glad our age, and like young eaglets teach ’em

Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,

Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!

The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,

And in their songs curse ever-blinded fortune,

Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done

To youth and nature. This is all our world:

We shall know nothing here, but one another;

Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes;

The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;

Summer shall come, and with her all delights,

But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

Pal.’Tis too true, Arcite! To our Theban hounds,That shook the aged forest with their echoes,No more now must we halloo; no more shakeOur pointed javelins, while the angry swineFlies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,Struck with our well-steel’d darts! All valiant uses(The food and nourishment of noble minds)In us two here shall perish; we shall die(Which is the curse of honour) lazily,Children of grief and ignorance.

Pal.’Tis too true, Arcite! To our Theban hounds,

That shook the aged forest with their echoes,

No more now must we halloo; no more shake

Our pointed javelins, while the angry swine

Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,

Struck with our well-steel’d darts! All valiant uses

(The food and nourishment of noble minds)

In us two here shall perish; we shall die

(Which is the curse of honour) lazily,

Children of grief and ignorance.

Arc.Yet, cousin,Even from the bottom of these miseries,From all that fortune can inflict upon us,I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,If the Gods please to hold here; a brave patience,And the enjoying of our griefs together.Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perishIf I think this our prison!

Arc.Yet, cousin,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,

From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,

If the Gods please to hold here; a brave patience,

And the enjoying of our griefs together.

Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish

If I think this our prison!

Pal.Certainly,’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunesWere twinn’d together; ’tis most true, two soulsPut in two noble bodies, let ’em sufferThe gall of hazard, so they grow together,Will never sink; they must not; say they could,A willing man dies sleeping, and all’s done.

Pal.Certainly,

’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes

Were twinn’d together; ’tis most true, two souls

Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer

The gall of hazard, so they grow together,

Will never sink; they must not; say they could,

A willing man dies sleeping, and all’s done.

Arc.Shall we make worthy uses of this place,That all men hate so much?

Arc.Shall we make worthy uses of this place,

That all men hate so much?

Pal.How, gentle cousin?

Arc.Let’s think this prison a holy sanctuaryTo keep us from corruption of worse men!We’re young, and yet desire the ways of honour:That, liberty and common conversation,The poison of pure spirits, might, like women,Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessingCan be, but our imaginationsMay make it ours? And here, being thus together,We are an endless mine to one another;We’re father, friends, acquaintance;We are, in one another, families;I am your heir, and you are mine; this placeIs our inheritance; no hard oppressorDare take this from us; here, with a little patience,We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us:The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seasSwallow their youth; were we at liberty,A wife might part us lawfully, or business;Quarrels consume us; envy of ill menCrave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,Where you should never know it, and so perishWithout your noble hand to close mine eyes,Or prayers to the Gods: a thousand chances,Were we from hence, would sever us.

Arc.Let’s think this prison a holy sanctuary

To keep us from corruption of worse men!

We’re young, and yet desire the ways of honour:

That, liberty and common conversation,

The poison of pure spirits, might, like women,

Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be, but our imaginations

May make it ours? And here, being thus together,

We are an endless mine to one another;

We’re father, friends, acquaintance;

We are, in one another, families;

I am your heir, and you are mine; this place

Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor

Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience,

We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us:

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas

Swallow their youth; were we at liberty,

A wife might part us lawfully, or business;

Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men

Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,

Where you should never know it, and so perish

Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,

Or prayers to the Gods: a thousand chances,

Were we from hence, would sever us.

Pal.You have made me(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wantonWith my captivity; what a miseryIt is to live abroad, and every where!’Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here,I’m sure a more content; and all those pleasures,That woo the wills of men to vanity,I see thro’ now: and am sufficientTo tell the world, ’tis but a gaudy shadowThat old time, as he passes by, takes with him.What had we been, old in the court of Creon,Where sin is justice, lust and ignoranceThe virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,Had not the loving Gods found this place for us,We had died as they do, ill old men unwept,And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses!Shall I say more?

Pal.You have made me

(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton

With my captivity; what a misery

It is to live abroad, and every where!

’Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here,

I’m sure a more content; and all those pleasures,

That woo the wills of men to vanity,

I see thro’ now: and am sufficient

To tell the world, ’tis but a gaudy shadow

That old time, as he passes by, takes with him.

What had we been, old in the court of Creon,

Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance

The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,

Had not the loving Gods found this place for us,

We had died as they do, ill old men unwept,

And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses!

Shall I say more?

Arc.I would hear you still.

Pal.You shall.Is there record of any two that lov’dBetter than we do, Arcite?

Pal.You shall.

Is there record of any two that lov’d

Better than we do, Arcite?

Arc.Sure there cannot.

Pal.I do not think it possible our friendshipShould ever leave us.

Pal.I do not think it possible our friendship

Should ever leave us.

Arc.Till our deaths it cannot.’

Thus they ‘sing their bondage freely:’ but just then enters Æmilia, who parts all this friendship between them, and turns them to deadliest foes.

The jailor’s daughter, who falls in love with Palamon, and goes mad, is a wretched interpolation in the story, and a fantastic copy of Ophelia. But they readily availed themselves of all the dramatic common-places to be found in Shakespear, love, madness, processions, sports, imprisonment, &c. and copied him too often in earnest, to have a right to parody him, as they sometimes did, in jest.—The story of the Two Noble Kinsmen is taken from Chaucer’s Palamon and Arcite; but the latter part, which in Chaucer is full of dramatic power and interest, degenerates in the play into a mere narrative of the principal events, and possesses little value or effect.—It is not improbable that Beaumont and Fletcher’s having dramatised this story, put Dryden upon modernising it.

I cannot go through all Beaumont and Fletcher’s dramas (52 in number), but I have mentioned some of the principal, and the excellences and defects of the rest may be judged of from these. The Bloody Brother, A Wife for a Month, Bonduca, Thierry and Theodoret, are among the best of their tragedies: among the comedies, the Night Walker, the Little French Lawyer, and Monsieur Thomas, come perhaps next to the Chances, the Wild Goose Chase, and Rulea Wife and Have a Wife.—Philaster, or Love lies a Bleeding, is one of the most admirable productions of these authors (the last I shall mention); and the patience of Euphrasia, disguised as Bellario, the tenderness of Arethusa, and the jealousy of Philaster, are beyond all praise. The passages of extreme romantic beauty and high-wrought passion that I might quote, are out of number. One only must suffice, the account of the commencement of Euphrasia’s love to Philaster.

——‘Sitting in my window,Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a GodI thought (but it was you) enter our gates;My blood flew out, and back again as fastAs I had puffed it forth and suck’d it inLike breath; then was I called away in hasteTo entertain you. Never was a manHeav’d from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais’dSo high in thoughts as I: you left a kissUpon these lips then, which I mean to keepFrom you forever. I did hear you talkFar above singing!’

——‘Sitting in my window,

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a God

I thought (but it was you) enter our gates;

My blood flew out, and back again as fast

As I had puffed it forth and suck’d it in

Like breath; then was I called away in haste

To entertain you. Never was a man

Heav’d from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais’d

So high in thoughts as I: you left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you forever. I did hear you talk

Far above singing!’

And so it is our poets themselves write, ‘far above singing.’[23]I am loth to part with them, and wander down, as we now must,

‘Into a lower world, to theirs obscureAnd wild—To breathe in other airLess pure, accustomed to immortal fruits.’

‘Into a lower world, to theirs obscure

And wild—To breathe in other air

Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits.’

Ben Jonson’s serious productions are, in my opinion, superior to his comic ones. What he does, is the result of strong sense and painful industry; but sense and industry agree better with the grave and severe, than with the light and gay productions of the Muse. ‘His plays were works,’ as some one said of them, ‘while others’ works were plays.’ The observation had less of compliment than of truth in it. He may be said to mine his way into a subject, like a mole, and throws up a prodigious quantity of matter on the surface, so that the richer the soil in which he labours, the less dross and rubbish we have. His fault is, that he sets himself too much to his subject, and cannot let go his hold of an idea, after the insisting on it becomes tiresome or painful to others. But his tenaciousness of what is grand and lofty, is more praiseworthy than his delight inwhat is low and disagreeable. His pedantry accords better with didactic pomp than with illiterate and vulgar gabble; his learning engrafted on romantic tradition or classical history, looks like genius.

‘Miraturque novas frondes et non sua poma.’

He was equal, by an effort, to the highest things, and took the same, and even more successful pains to grovel to the lowest. He raised himself up or let himself down to the level of his subject, by ponderous machinery. By dint of application, and a certain strength of nerve, he could do justice to Tacitus and Sallust no less than to mine Host of the New Inn. His tragedy of the Fall of Sejanus, in particular, is an admirable piece of ancient mosaic. The principal character gives one the idea of a lofty column of solid granite, nodding to its base from its pernicious height, and dashed in pieces, by a breath of air, a word of its creator—feared, not pitied, scorned, unwept, and forgotten. The depth of knowledge and gravity of expression sustain one another throughout: the poet has worked out the historian’s outline, so that the vices and passions, the ambition and servility of public men, in the heated and poisoned atmosphere of a luxurious and despotic court, were never described in fuller or more glowing colours.—I am half afraid to give any extracts, lest they should be tortured into an application to other times and characters than those referred to by the poet. Some of the sounds, indeed, may bear (for what I know), an awkward construction: some of the objects may look double to squint-eyed suspicion. But that is not my fault. It only proves, that the characters of prophet and poet are implied in each other; that he who describes human nature well once, describes it for good and all, as it was, is, and I begin to fear, will ever be. Truth always was, and must always remain a libel to the tyrant and the slave. Thus Satrius Secundus and Pinnarius Natta, two public informers in those days, are described as

‘Two of Sejanus’ blood-hounds, whom he breedsWith human flesh, to bay at citizens.’

‘Two of Sejanus’ blood-hounds, whom he breeds

With human flesh, to bay at citizens.’

But Rufus, another of the same well-bred gang, debating the point of his own character with two Senators whom he has entrapped, boldly asserts, in a more courtly strain,

‘——To be a spy on traitors,Is honourable vigilance.’

‘——To be a spy on traitors,

Is honourable vigilance.’

This sentiment of the respectability of the employment of a government spy, which had slept in Tacitus for near two thousandyears, has not been without its modern patrons. The effects of such ‘honourable vigilance’ are very finely exposed in the following high-spirited dialogue between Lepidus and Arruntius, two noble Romans, who loved their country, but were not fashionable enough to confound their country with its oppressors, and the extinguishers of its liberty.

‘Arr.What are thy arts (good patriot, teach them me)That have preserv’d thy hairs to this white dye,And kept so reverend and so dear a headSafe on his comely shoulders?Lep.Arts, Arruntius!None but the plain and passive fortitudeTo suffer and be silent; never stretchThese arms against the torrent; live at home,With my own thoughts and innocence about me,Not tempting the wolves’ jaws: these are my arts.Arr.I would begin to study ’em, if I thoughtThey would secure me. May I pray to JoveIn secret, and be safe? aye, or aloud?With open wishes? so I do not mentionTiberius or Sejanus? Yes, I must,If I speak out. ’Tis hard, that. May I think,And not be rack’d? What danger is’t to dream?Talk in one’s sleep, or cough! Who knows the law?May I shake my head without a comment? SayIt rains, or it holds up, and not be thrownUpon the Gemonies? These now are things,Whereon men’s fortunes, yea, their fate depends:Nothing hath privilege ’gainst the violent ear.No place, no day, no hour (we see) is free(Not our religious and most sacred times)From some one kind of cruelty; all matter,Nay, all occasion pleaseth. Madman’s rage,The idleness of drunkards, women’s nothing,Jesters’ simplicity, all, all is goodThat can be catch’d at.’

‘Arr.What are thy arts (good patriot, teach them me)That have preserv’d thy hairs to this white dye,And kept so reverend and so dear a headSafe on his comely shoulders?

‘Arr.What are thy arts (good patriot, teach them me)

That have preserv’d thy hairs to this white dye,

And kept so reverend and so dear a head

Safe on his comely shoulders?

Lep.Arts, Arruntius!None but the plain and passive fortitudeTo suffer and be silent; never stretchThese arms against the torrent; live at home,With my own thoughts and innocence about me,Not tempting the wolves’ jaws: these are my arts.

Lep.Arts, Arruntius!

None but the plain and passive fortitude

To suffer and be silent; never stretch

These arms against the torrent; live at home,

With my own thoughts and innocence about me,

Not tempting the wolves’ jaws: these are my arts.

Arr.I would begin to study ’em, if I thoughtThey would secure me. May I pray to JoveIn secret, and be safe? aye, or aloud?With open wishes? so I do not mentionTiberius or Sejanus? Yes, I must,If I speak out. ’Tis hard, that. May I think,And not be rack’d? What danger is’t to dream?Talk in one’s sleep, or cough! Who knows the law?May I shake my head without a comment? SayIt rains, or it holds up, and not be thrownUpon the Gemonies? These now are things,Whereon men’s fortunes, yea, their fate depends:Nothing hath privilege ’gainst the violent ear.No place, no day, no hour (we see) is free(Not our religious and most sacred times)From some one kind of cruelty; all matter,Nay, all occasion pleaseth. Madman’s rage,The idleness of drunkards, women’s nothing,Jesters’ simplicity, all, all is goodThat can be catch’d at.’

Arr.I would begin to study ’em, if I thought

They would secure me. May I pray to Jove

In secret, and be safe? aye, or aloud?

With open wishes? so I do not mention

Tiberius or Sejanus? Yes, I must,

If I speak out. ’Tis hard, that. May I think,

And not be rack’d? What danger is’t to dream?

Talk in one’s sleep, or cough! Who knows the law?

May I shake my head without a comment? Say

It rains, or it holds up, and not be thrown

Upon the Gemonies? These now are things,

Whereon men’s fortunes, yea, their fate depends:

Nothing hath privilege ’gainst the violent ear.

No place, no day, no hour (we see) is free

(Not our religious and most sacred times)

From some one kind of cruelty; all matter,

Nay, all occasion pleaseth. Madman’s rage,

The idleness of drunkards, women’s nothing,

Jesters’ simplicity, all, all is good

That can be catch’d at.’

’Tis a pretty picture; and the duplicates of it, though multiplied without end, are seldom out of request.

The following portrait of a prince besieged by flatterers (taken from Tiberius) has unrivalled force and beauty, with historic truth.

——‘If this manHad but a mind allied unto his words,How blest a fate were it to us, and Rome?Men are deceived, who think there can be thrallUnder a virtuous prince. Wish’d libertyNe’er lovelier looks than under such a crown.But when his grace is merely but lip-good,And that, no longer than he airs himselfAbroad in public, there to seem to shunThe strokes and stripes of flatterers, which withinAre lechery unto him, and so feedHis brutish sense with their afflicting sound,As (dead to virtue) he permits himselfBe carried like a pitcher by the earsTo every act of vice; this is a caseDeserves our fear, and doth presage the nighAnd close approach of bloody tyranny.Flattery is midwife unto princes’ rage:And nothing sooner doth help forth a tyrantThan that, and whisperers’ grace, that have the time,The place, the power, to make all men offenders!’

——‘If this man

Had but a mind allied unto his words,

How blest a fate were it to us, and Rome?

Men are deceived, who think there can be thrall

Under a virtuous prince. Wish’d liberty

Ne’er lovelier looks than under such a crown.

But when his grace is merely but lip-good,

And that, no longer than he airs himself

Abroad in public, there to seem to shun

The strokes and stripes of flatterers, which within

Are lechery unto him, and so feed

His brutish sense with their afflicting sound,

As (dead to virtue) he permits himself

Be carried like a pitcher by the ears

To every act of vice; this is a case

Deserves our fear, and doth presage the nigh

And close approach of bloody tyranny.

Flattery is midwife unto princes’ rage:

And nothing sooner doth help forth a tyrant

Than that, and whisperers’ grace, that have the time,

The place, the power, to make all men offenders!’

The only part of this play in which Ben Jonson has completely forgotten himself, (or rather seems not to have done so), is in the conversations between Livia and Eudemus, about a wash for her face, here called afucus, to appear before Sejanus. Catiline’s Conspiracy does not furnish by any means an equal number of striking passages, and is spun out to an excessive length with Cicero’s artificial and affected orations against Catiline, and in praise of himself. His apologies for his own eloquence, and declarations that in all his art he uses no art at all, put one in mind of Polonius’s circuitous way of coming to the point. Both these tragedies, it might be observed, are constructed on the exact principles of a French historical picture, where every head and figure is borrowed from the antique; but somehow, the precious materials of old Roman history and character are better preserved in Jonson’s page than on David’s canvas.

Two of the most poetical passages in Ben Jonson, are the description of Echo in Cynthia’s Revels, and the fine comparison of the mind to a temple, in the New Inn; a play which, on the whole, however, I can read with no patience.

I must hasten to conclude this Lecture with some account of Massinger and Ford, who wrote in the time of CharlesI.I am sorry I cannot do itcon amore. The writers of whom I have chiefly had to speak were true poets, impassioned, fanciful, ‘musical as is Apollo’s lute;’ but Massinger is harsh and crabbed, Ford finical and fastidious. I find little in the works of these two dramatists, but a display of great strength and subtlety of understanding, inveteracy of purpose, and perversity of will. This is not exactly whatwe look for in poetry, which, according to the most approved recipes, should combine pleasure with profit, and not owe all its fascination over the mind to its power of shocking or perplexing us. The Muses should attract by grace or dignity of mien. Massinger makes an impression by hardness and repulsiveness of manner. In the intellectual processes which he delights to describe, ‘reason panders will:’ he fixes arbitrarily on some object which there is no motive to pursue, or every motive combined against it, and then by screwing up his heroes or heroines to the deliberate and blind accomplishment of this, thinks to arrive at ‘the true pathos and sublime of human life.’ That is not the way. He seldom touches the heart or kindles the fancy. It is in vain to hope to excite much sympathy with convulsive efforts of the will, or intricate contrivances of the understanding, to obtain that which is better left alone, and where the interest arises principally from the conflict between the absurdity of the passion and the obstinacy with which it is persisted in. For the most part, his villains are a sort oflusus naturæ; his impassioned characters are like drunkards or madmen. Their conduct is extreme and outrageous, their motives unaccountable and weak; their misfortunes are without necessity, and their crimes without temptation, to ordinary apprehensions. I do not say that this is invariably the case in all Massinger’s scenes, but I think it will be found that a principle of playing at cross-purposes is the ruling passion throughout most of them. This is the case in the tragedy of the Unnatural Combat, in the Picture, the Duke of Milan, A New Way to Pay Old Debts, and even in the Bondman, and the Virgin Martyr, &c. In the Picture, Matthias nearly loses his wife’s affections, by resorting to the far-fetched and unnecessary device of procuring a magical portrait to read the slightest variation in her thoughts. In the same play, Honoria risks her reputation and her life to gain a clandestine interview with Matthias, merely to shake his fidelity to his wife, and when she has gained her object, tells the king her husband in pure caprice and fickleness of purpose. The Virgin Martyr is nothing but a tissue of instantaneous conversions to and from Paganism and Christianity. The only scenes of any real beauty and tenderness in this play, are those between Dorothea and Angelo, her supposed friendless beggar-boy, but her guardian angel in disguise, which are understood to be by Deckar. The interest of the Bondman turns upon two different acts of penance and self-denial, in the persons of the hero and heroine, Pisander and Cleora. In the Duke of Milan (the most poetical of Massinger’s productions), Sforza’s resolution to destroy his wife, rather than bear the thought of her surviving him, is as much out of the verge of nature and probability, as it is unexpected and revolting,from the want of any circumstances of palliation leading to it. It stands out alone, a pure piece of voluntary atrocity, which seems not the dictate of passion, but a start of phrensy; as cold-blooded in the execution as it is extravagant in the conception.

Again, Francesco, in this play, is a person whose actions we are at a loss to explain till the conclusion of the piece, when the attempt to account for them from motives originally amiable and generous, only produces a double sense of incongruity, and instead of satisfying the mind, renders it totally incredulous. He endeavours to seduce the wife of his benefactor, he then (failing) attempts her death, slanders her foully, and wantonly causes her to be slain by the hand of her husband, and has him poisoned by a nefarious stratagem, and all this to appease a high sense of injured honour, that ‘felt a stain like a wound,’ and from the tender overflowings of fraternal affection, his sister having, it appears, been formerly betrothed to, and afterwards deserted by, the Duke of Milan. Sir Giles Overreach is the most successful and striking effort of Massinger’s pen, and the best known to the reader, but it will hardly be thought to form an exception to the tenour of the above remarks.[24]The same spirit ofcaprice and sullenness survives in Rowe’s Fair Penitent, taken from this author’s Fatal Dowry.

Ford is not so great a favourite with me as with some others, from whose judgment I dissent with diffidence. It has been lamented that the play of his which has been most admired (’Tis Pity She’s a Whore) had not a less exceptionable subject. I do not know, but I suspect that the exceptionableness of the subject is that which constitutes the chief merit of the play. The repulsiveness of the story is what gives it its critical interest; for it is a studiously prosaic statement of facts, and naked declaration of passions. It was not the least of Shakespear’s praise, that he never tampered with unfair subjects. His genius was above it; his taste kept aloof from it. I do not deny the power of simple painting and polished style inthis tragedy in general, and of a great deal more in some few of the scenes, particularly in the quarrel between Annabella and her husband, which is wrought up to a pitch of demoniac scorn and phrensy with consummate art and knowledge; but I do not find much other power in the author (generally speaking) than that of playing with edged tools, and knowing the use of poisoned weapons. And what confirms me in this opinion is the comparative inefficiency of his other plays. Except the last scene of the Broken Heart (which I think extravagant—others may think it sublime, and be right) they are merely exercises of style and effusions of wire-drawn sentiment. Where they have not the sting of illicit passion, they are quite pointless, and seem painted on gauze, or spun of cobwebs. The affected brevity anddivision of some of the lines into hemistichs, &c. so as to make in one case a mathematical stair-case of the words and answers given to different speakers,[25]is an instance of frigid and ridiculous pedantry. An artificial elaborateness is the general characteristic of Ford’s style. In this respect his plays resemble Miss Baillie’s more than any others I am acquainted with, and are quite distinct from the exuberance and unstudied force which characterised his immediate predecessors. There is too much of scholastic subtlety, an innate perversity of understanding or predominance of will, which either seeks the irritation of inadmissible subjects, or to stimulate its own faculties by taking the most barren, and making something out of nothing, in a spirit of contradiction. He does notdraw along withthe reader: he does not work upon our sympathy, but on our antipathy or our indifference; and there is as little of the social or gregarious principle in his productions as there appears to have been in his personal habits, if we are to believe Sir John Suckling, who says of him in the Sessions of the Poets—

‘In the dumps John Ford alone by himself satWith folded arms and melancholy hat.’

‘In the dumps John Ford alone by himself sat

With folded arms and melancholy hat.’

I do not remember without considerable effort the plot or persons of most of his plays—Perkin Warbeck, The Lover’s Melancholy, Love’s Sacrifice, and the rest. There is little character, except of the most evanescent or extravagant kind (to which last class we may refer that of the sister of Calantha in the Broken Heart)—little imagery or fancy, and no action. It is but fair however to give a scene or two, in illustration of these remarks (or in confutation of them, if they are wrong) and I shall take the concluding one of the Broken Heart, which is held up as the author’s master-piece.

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