The Growth of English Drama

it. We have only to recall the dull speeches of Gorboduc, the severe formality of The Misfortunes of Arthur, to recognize the change that had to take place before the level of such a t

ter we dealt with the divergence of that play from the English Senecan school of tragedy. This diver

ose. But the purpose remained unfulfilled-at least, for an English audience nurtured on more vigorous diet than mere words. The ear cannot comprehend horror in its fullness as can the eye. Even the author of Tancred and Gismunda was conscious of this, for at the end he placed the deaths of both father and daughter, with horrible accompaniments, upon the stage. He gave his audience what it wanted. Nor were the English people slow to demand the same from others. We shall find, in fact, t

attempted in The Misfortunes of Arthur, not without a measure of success. But both called for improvement, the former particularly having struck too tremendous a pitch. The third and fourth elements were almost unknown, thanks to the exclusion of all action from the

atic work is tragic and who must therefore be included in this chapter. Since his tragedy stands,

sistless 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

en back to the days of Gorboduc rather than to the year of Marlowe's Edward the Second. Save in two quite uncalled-for humorous episodes, the language used maintains a monotonous level of stateliness or emotion

ing close imprisonment, if n

sweet ladies,

d, where honou

r rule of R

chains about

ould combine your

shall adorn your

s, where you sha

s Europe-na

ea, the fierce

nges and Hyd

e, and smooth

and Cornelia

t should guard yo

housand gallant

cross-barr'd wit

like coursers

he mountain-to

ills of brig

ct and bring yo

la, ladies,

arius holds wi

ies, for ladie

ylla and for

Marius vaunt th

hem old Marius

s both triumphs

r; in which case 1587 may be guessed as the date of the latter. Different but strong internal evidence points to Kyd's authorship of Soliman and Perseda. It has many features corresponding to those found in The Spanish Tragedy. The Chorus of Love, Fortune and Death, in its attitude to the play, closely resembles that of the Ghost and Revenge. Most of the characters come to a violent end, and in each play the list of deaths is carefully e

1

my hope full lo

lf is lost, or

'd, yet bound

then forc'd fr

m faith, for

misery but

st if faith b

nd Perseda

2

in his hand he b

sword he fierc

r he gave me d

ounds he force

elding I bec

sh Tragedy

author deliberately altered the plot of a well-known play. Yet we know from Ben Jonson that Kyd's tragedies were very popular. We shall be more safe in concluding that the wide popularity of that scene in The Spanish Tragedy led him to extend the minor play to the pr

n and dull, it is merely a translation of a French play of 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. T

, discontent

aws look like th

yebrows hang

washed in rape a

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

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

1

. Andrea and Baltheza

e Balthezar,

n Andrea? yes, in t

age, a never

day, his hour, n

ne and this, pos

. O, let

erstand thee

sword's soci

s wealth I'd n

a? I tell thee

the knees in

anish carcases

he gaspi

Woot tho

or that I l

love me, man, wh

ogether; wo

sting set

shall

2

eld Andrea search

-Prince

's valia

ur foe, the he

oul of tru

y thy right n

ss the left win

elf again am

find him out.-

ace I'l

wide, and blo

t the heavy t

n as thick as if

im the long-hair

ll, so fast to

cal moment approaches when a chance recognition will decide everything. Undoubtedly the author has achieved a genuine triumph in all this. Some of us may see the germ of his villain in Edwards's Carisophus; there is the same element of craft and double-dealing, of laying unseen snares for the innocent. But it is no more than the germ. The advance beyond the earlier sketch is immense. Lazarotto, the perfect instrument for crime, has not Lorenzo's position, wealth or motive; nevertheless a family likeness exists between the two. Lazarotto's cynicism is of an intellectual order, as is his ready lying to avert suspicion from his master. Perhaps the most shuddering moment of the play is when he leans carelessly against the wall

e resemblance between him and Polonius. Tradition bids us regard Polonius as an intentionally humorous creation. Jeronimo's humour is of the same family. We feel sure that this newly appointed Marshal of Spain pottered about the Court, wagging his beard sagaciously over the unwisdom of youth, his mind full of responsibility, his heart of courage, but his tongue letting fall, every now and then, simple half-foolish sayings which betrayed the approach of dotage. He is very s

ady made a demonstration,

are you braving

ill as you. Str

a flourish o

Thou inch

hy hose downward

tle longer th

ig words; they'l

o! words great

st no

u long thing of P

t art ful

gallows, upper

pparel, thou

rce make thee a

I almost

done, impat

from the beginning of the third act, is concerned with Hieronimo's revenge. It is a terrible story. His first information as to the names of the murderers reaches him in a message, written in blood, from Bell'-Imperia. This, however, he fears as a trap, and attempts to corroborate it from the girl's own lips. Unfortunately he only succeeds in awakening the suspicions of Lorenzo, who, to make the secret surer, bribes Pedringano to murder Serberine, at the same time arranging for watchmen to arrest Pedringano. Balthazar is drawn into the matter that he may press forward the execution of Serberine's murderer, while Lorenzo poses to the wretch as his friend with promises of pardon. Pedringano consequently is beguiled to death. Lorenzo is now at ease, and enlarges his sister's liberty. The suggestion of a political marriage between her and Balthazar is warmly supported by the king. Alone among the courtiers Hieronimo is plunged in unabated grief, uncertain where to seek revenge. By good fortune Pedringano, before his trial, wrote a confess

thou chang'd in d

ne no pity o

y fair crimson-

winter to be

art older th

he girl and the old man, in which she denounces his apparently weakening thirst for revenge, only to learn the secret of that gentle exterior. Unhappily, the delay of justice has preyed too grievously upon the mind of Isabella. There have been moments when she ran frantic. In a final throe of madness, having hacked down the fatal tree, she thrusts the knife into her own breast. The great day comes, and before the Viceroy of Portugal (father of Balthazar), the Spanish king, the Duke of Castile, and their train, Hieronimo's tragedy is acted. Real daggers, however, have been substituted for wooden ones. As the play proceeds, Bell'-Imperia kills Balthazar and h

a son, and a section of the last scene. The strange hand is easily recognizable in the rugged irregularity and forcefulness of the lines. Attributable to it is the major portion of Hieronimo's madness, which accordingly occupies but a small space in our outline of the play. Structurally, the plot gains

ven is he

is Nemesis

gs call'

imes do meet w

ays escape, tha

time steals on, and

aps forth, like

all of

ring confusio

on, and steals, and steals'; Isabella, tired of waiting, kills herself; Hieronimo himself threatens to fail us, so terrible are his sufferings; the crime seems forgotten by t

ot with that of any preceding tragedy, or of any play by Lyly, Greene, or Peele. In none of them shall we find anything approaching the masterful grip upon its spectators, the appeal to their sympathies, the alternation of fea

o the point of weariness before the last great scene is reached. Yet the sense of tragedy must not be entirely absent from the first part; otherwise the gravity of the crisis will come with too great a shock. Kyd's purpose in introducing the Villuppo incident is here discovered. He uses it with much skill as a counterbalance to the aspect of the main plot. Thus, immediately after the apparent satisfaction of the rival claims of Horatio and Lorenzo, he places the unsuspected treachery of Villuppo to Alexandro, as if to warn us not to judge merely from the surface: but when the wickedness of Lorenzo attains its blackest moment in the murder of Horatio, he supplies a ray of hope by th

k from it. The most critical element in the general harmony of the play is the character of Bell'-Imperia. Kyd's women are his weak point, and this heroine is no brilliant exception. We certainly do not fall in love with her. But his sense of what is needed for the right tragic effect carries him through successfully in essential matters. Were Bell'-Imperia weak, irresolute, had she the feeble constancy of Massinger's or Heywood's famous heroines, there would be a wrecking flaw in the accumulated, resistless demand for revenge. As it is, her love for Horatio is passionate (though lacking delicacy), her responses to Balthazar's advances are cold, and her reproachful words to Hieronimo, for his delay in striking, proclaim her entirely at one with him in his final action. The part played by Isabella is also subordinated to the total effect. It may be questioned whether her madness does not weaken by exaggeration the impression made by Hieronimo's frenzy; but it must be remembered that her part was provided before the additional mad scenes, the work of the later hand, were included in the play. Kyd deliberately chose that her madness should precede and prepare us for the madness of Hieronimo, and it must be admitted that the interpolator's departure from this order has little to be said in its favour. As the weaker character, Isabella should be the f

vents upon character-not the easily portrayed action of character upon events-are the marks by which we recognize the work of the master-artists in characterization. We can guess at the tragic intensity of human sorrow from the difference between the simple-minded little Marshal who acts as Master of the Revels in arranging a 'show' and illustrates his reason for preferring Horatio's claim to be Balthazar's captor by quaint parallels from some old fable, and the arch-deceiver who can converse easily with the Duke of Castile as he fixes up the curtain that is to conceal Horatio's corpse and be the background to the murder of the duk

ractised by Lorenzo upon Pedringano, and the consequently mocking spirit of jest which pervades the hall of judgment during the misguided wretch's trial. The pert confid

edge of the quarry, or Antonio stabs the child Julio, or Bosola heaps torments upon the Duchess of Malfi, we turn away with loathing because the deed is either cruelly undeserved or utterly unwarranted by the gain expected from it. Alice Arden's murder of her husband is mainly detestable because her ulterior motive is detestable. Again, the ghosts which Marston and Chapman give us are absurd creatures of 'too, too solid flesh', who will sit on the bed to talk comfortably to one, draw the curtains when one wishes to sleep, or play the scout and call out in warning whenever danger threatens. Kyd does not serve up crime and the supernatural world thus. He shows us terrible things, it is true. But the causes are to be found deep down in the primary impuls

mps itself on our memory. And the procrastinating evolution of the plot keeps us in fear, in hope, in uncertainty to the last. If this estimate of the greatness of the play seems exaggerated, we may fairly ask what other tragedy, before its date, combines all four qualities in the same degree of excellence. Doctor Faustus

those set forth above have been expressed by other writers. Perhaps

the standard of his contemporaries. The uncertainty of priority in time encourages a comparison between Kyd and Marlowe. It is fairly clear that the former was not much influenced by the latter, or he would have caught the taint of rant and bombast which infected Greene and Peele. If, then, Kyd's blank verse is an original development of the verse of Gorboduc and other Senecan plays, and if he is the author of Jeronimo-the verse of which, as may have been seen from the quotations offered, is very much freer than that of The Spanish Tragedy-he must share some of the honour accorded to Marlowe as the father of dr

1

ts all medicine

you say this herb

h, but none of them

medicine left

recure the dead.

O, where'

am, affright n

e for your

quiet in the

I not give you gown

istle and a whi

ged on thei

ese humours do

, poor soul; thou

what: my soul h

up unto the hi

y, there sit

troop of fie

t his newly-

mns, and chantin

to greet hi

, died a mirr

all I find the me

ratio? Whith

t that murdered

2

mental balance, perceives t

thee, now thou

lively imag

ace my sorro

'd with tears, th

oubled, and thy

ords abruptl

ndy sighs thy

sorrow riseth

sorrow feel

man, thou sha

; I thee, thou

, and she, wil

ne, but all of d

ords, but let

cord Horati

ess distribution of death is such that every one of the fourteen named characters come to a violent end, besides numerous nameless wretches referred to generically as witnesses or executioners. Nor is any attempt made to show just cause for their destruction. We could almost deny that the author of the previous tragedy had any hand in this play, did we not know, on the authority of

in a play almost entirely exempt from either, read like an intentional burlesque of Tamburlaine. If so, and the suggestion is not ill-founded or improbable, it

seda, for rejecting his love, but is overcome by her beauty. It is quite short, but is handled with power and embellished

1

s to him the two faires

ent pleaseth more

arments turn'd fr

eem'd them Juno

white doves, s

'd with beau

his kind turtle

d use her at

d turtle is

tivity may t

embling Phoebus

, like the tabl

yebrows, like two

s, like heav'n's t

coral, brea

he rose and lil

than the sno

eature natur

ainted Solim

. .

ill not yield to his

hen kneel

s receive the

elf by thine o

ke; thy words pierce

hide her; for her

hides her w

ou hast not

Venus with Cu

aces smiling r

rdon, that I

is cover'd over

so. O Brusor,

neck, that a

he edge of my

ying back, wil

he is all cov

y, now at l

Christ, rec

Brusor; she c

her to him. Her

music that in

nder from war

ll from skirmis

ve would not l

would turn de

sword, humbl

, that gover

rdon for my

2

declare his country a

to say, the ear

he fowl or the

d fish. I repute

shall mount;

my fore pas

there happene

f Belgia, that

ith the Sun-

icy to put th

limate to

tears might reliev

e women wept, an

Friesland ho

ould have mo

n of that wh

contemporaries chiefly for their antiquarian interest; we are pleased to discover in them the first beginnings of many features popular in later productions; one or two appeal to us by their own beauty or strength, but the majority are remembered only for their relationship to

effeminacy. Greene drew the outline of his characters more strongly. But Marlowe alone possessed the power, in its fullest degree, of projecting himself into his chief character, of filling it with his own driving force, his own boundless imagination, his own consuming passion and profound capacity for gloomy emotion. Each of his first three plays-counting the two parts of Tamburlaine as one play-is wholly given up to the presentment of one man; his tongue speaks on nearly every page, his purpose is the mainspring of almost every action; by mere bulk he fills our mental view as we read, and by the fervour, the poetry of his language, he burns the impression of himsel

ote, it now becomes a problem to select the best. It has been said, indeed, that he is too poetical for a dramatist, but a very little consideration of the plays of Shakespeare will tell us how much the greatest dramatic productions owe to poetry. When, therefore, we say that Marlowe's greatness as a dramatist depends on his poetry, that outside his poetry his best known work reveals a

p against him as a serious weakness; but it is possible that just here lies the strength of his contribution to drama. His work in literature was to set a standard

cond (about 1590), Dido, Queen of Carthage (printed 1549). Fortunately for the reader, he can now obtain a volume containing all these plays in one of the cheap modern editions of the English classics. There will

'with his uplifted forehead strikes the sky': incredible victories are won, the vilest cruelties practised; vast empires are shaken to their foundations, kings are overthrown and new ones crowned as easily as the wish is expressed; everywhere pride calls unto pride with the noise of its boastings. There is no plot, unless we give that name to a succession of battles, pageants and camp scenes. There is not the least attempt at characterization: in their glorious moments Bajazeth, the Soldan of Egypt, Orcanes are indistinguishable from the Scythian shepherd himself. The popularity of Tamburlaine was not won by fine touches, but by spectacular magnificence, by the pomp and excitement of war, and by the thrills of responsive pride and boastfulness awakened in the hearers by the convincing magniloquence of the speeches. This was possibly the first appearance upon

uman grandeur. Breathing the intoxicating air of the Renaissance, Marlowe conceives man equal to his loftiest ideals, able to climb to the highest point of his thoughts. Choosing imperial conquest as the most striking theme he bids the sheph

ar resigns h

ke me general

e in arms, look

should pull him

out the play. Sometimes it chooses simple language, sometimes it is clothed in expressions of noble dignity, most often it hurls itself abroad in foaming rant. But everywhere the message is the same, that man's power is e

ane, shall we

fords in gre

ptless, faint,

s we sh

ers these fine lines, which may be accepted as M

framed us of

our breasts f

all to have

ose faculties

architecture

ery wandering

g after knowl

ing as the res

r ourselves, a

h the ripest

bliss and s

ition of an e

e been struck. For the dramatist, sending his imagination beyond earth to heaven, res

ace of the sun, and shiver all the starry firmament', restore her. Tamburlaine himself must die, defiantly, it may be, yielding nothing through cowardice, but as certa

helles! no, f

lave, the ugly

vering, pale an

at me with his

ay at every

ok away, comes

, and hie the

rmy come to

thousand mangl

goes! but see

se I

e punishment of all who choose the upper road of complete self-expression. He approaches the last gate, confident that his strength will suffice to open it;

profoundly impressed with a sense of his power. Theridamas murmurs in awe to himself, 'His looks do menace heaven and dare the gods.' Menaphon reports, 'His lofty brows in folds do figure death.' Cosroe describes him as 'His fortune's master and the king of men.' His own speeches and actions reveal no unsuspected flaw, no unworthy weakness; rather they almost defeat their own purpose by their exaggeration of his greatness. It would be possible

hen he pitcheth

hue, and on h

er spangled-w

he mildness

with spoil,

ora mounts th

carlet is h

dled wrath be que

any that can

threats move n

s colours, b

ield, his horse,

thers menace

ect of sex,

his foes with

The Arraignment of Paris arise in one's mind as containing very creditable examples of it. Moreover it would be wrong to suppose that this earlier blank verse was always stilted and cut up into end-stopt lines and unrhymed couplets. True, the overflow of one line into another was not com

second marriage of his young

, I sa

ade no farther

wounds. I ver

of this sm

cted, when y

ourse with us.

pes, that we

f by this h

daughter, wou

ke us? would sh

th clos'd up

tears bewail'

ace doth her

fates maintain

presence glads

han he willing

res the bitter

s in the earlier plays. Peele's are long monologues, and when Sackville's or Wilmot's characters discourse it is in the fashion of a set debate. Faustus and Mephistophilis, on the other hand, meet in real conversation, and it is in their question and answer that the flexibility and naturalness of blank verse are shown to advantage for the first time by Marlowe. The second feature is the infusion of pure poetry into drama. Hitherto the opinion seems to have held that dramatic verse must keep as close to prose as possible in order to combine the grace of rhythm with the solid commonsense of ordinary human speech. Nothing illustrates this more remarkably than a comparison of Sackville's poetry in his Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates with his verse in Gorboduc. We have remarked before on the tendency of all Senecan dramas to sententiousness and argument, than which nothing could be less poetical. The poetry of The Arraignment of Paris, again, is more lyrical than dramatic, harmonizing with the general approximation of that play to the nature of a masque. Marl

athed in the Th

ose brave tra

poets had; hi

e, which made h

madness still

should possess

Of Poets

eating a sound at intervals (a trick borrowed by Greene later), his habit of letting a speaker refer to himself in the third person (Tamburlaine loves to boast the greatness of Tamburlaine), and his occasional slovenliness, especially in

ve kings. Techelles has just urged that the a

l, Techelles.-Forwa

ye kings of

n ye hear this s

cities and con

alth and treasu

sea, north

t; the Caspian,

south, Sinu

oaden with the

vey with us

y native cit

ves of fresh J

beauty of her

ugh the furthe

alace royal sh

urrets shall di

ame of Ilion's

ets, with troops

golden armour

a triple plum

diamonds, danc

eror of the th

lmond tree y

fty and cel

n Selinus, q

re white than

blossoms trem

reath that thorou

ach, like Sat

ining chariot

princely eagles

t crystal and en

ods stand gazi

through Samar

dissevered fr

milk-white way a

my lords,

low characters, who are intended to be humorous, drag the plot down instead of buoying it up. Other figures are hardly more than dummies, unable to excite the smallest interest. Mephistophilis deserves our notice, but his is a shadowy outline removed from humanity. One figure alone stands forth to hold and justify our attention; and he proves himself unfit for the task. Those who insist on tracing one guiding principle in all Marlowe's plays have declared that Faustus is the personification of 'thirst for knowledge' or of 'intellectual virtù', just as Tamburlaine personifies, for them, the 'thirst for power' or 'physical virtù'. Surely, if this is so, Marlowe has failed absolutely in his presentment of the character; in which case the play may

ting logic as no end in itself, law as servile, medicine because he has exhausted its possible limits, divinity because it tells him that the reward of sin is death. Upon sin his mind is set all the time, so that the reminder from Jero

can give, we are informed that he has no belief in hell or future pain, that to him men's souls are trifles. Deep down in his conscience he has a fear of 'damnation',

at will give him what he seeks. We can readily discover, from his own lips,

em fly to In

ocean for

corners of the

ruits and prin

read me stran

ecrets of all

sophy stands below wealth and feasting in his wishes. He dismis

enders up to

re him four an

ive in all vo

: he would be 'great emperor of the world', he would 'pass the ocean with a band of men'. But from what

ervest is thin

hell in every place where heaven is not. Faustus, on the other hand, with flippant sup

hell, I'll wil

eating, walkin

this, let m

st maid i

anton and

live with

nd then suicide offers its dreadful means as a silencer of their dis

I should have

leasure conquer

ade blind Ho

's love and

, that built th

sound of his

with my Mep

ie, then, or b

; Faustus sha

asses. He plunges back to the

re on earth le

that delight t

-twenty yea

pleasure and

and rarer delicacies are needed to satisfy his craving. R

servant, let m

onging of my

have unto

Helen which

mbraces may e

that do dissuad

he confesses in bitterness of spirit, 'for the vain pleasure of

or knowledge in the usual meaning of that term, differentiating it from sensual experience. If Faustus is to be labelled according to his dominant trait, then let us describe him as the embodiment of sense-gratification. He is a sensualist from the moment that he takes up the book of magic and ponders over what it may bring him. A degraded form of him has been sketched in the Syriac scholar of a modern work of fiction, who cherished, side by side with a world-wide repu

above his body, looking beyond the victory of to-day to the greater conquests of the future: there is nothing sordid or commonplace about him. Unfortunately, though it is given to few of us to be conquerors, it is possible for all of us to gratify our senses if we wil

ng over the stage b

he face that launch

topless towe

me immortal with a

rth my soul: see

come, give me

ll, for heaven

ross that is

ris, and for

y, shall Witte

ombat with w

colours on my

ound Achilles

urn to Helen

airer than th

eauty of a th

thou than f

eared to ha

han the monar

rethusa's a

thou shalt be

of Mephistophilis. Miserably mean-spirited, he seeks to propitiate the wrath of the fiend by invoking his torments upon an old man whose disinterested appeal momentarily quickened his conscience into revolt. Finally, when we recall the words with which Tamburlaine faced death, what contempt, despite the frightful anguish of the scene, is aroused by Faustus's screams of terror at the approach of Lucifer to claim him as his own! Instinctively we think of Byron's Manfred and his scorn of hell and its furies. It is his cowardice that spoils the effect of the backward glances and twinges of conscience, the intention of which has been rightly praised by so many. Marlowe probably wished to represent the strife of good and evil in a man's soul. Under other circumstances it is fair to suppose that he would have achieved success, and so have anticipated Goethe. But his Faustus moves on t

en the Senecan Chorus has been forced into service to tell us of Faustus's early manhood and of the marvellous journeys taken in the intervals. There are no acts, but that is not a great matter; they were added later in the edition of 1616. What does matter very much is the introduction of stupid scenes of low comedy into which Faustus is dragged to play a common conjuror's part and which almost succeed in shattering the impression of tragic intensity left by the few scenes where poetry t

edy. In discerning the suitability of the Teutonic legend for this purpose Marlowe showed a far truer understanding of what tra

's passion and despair. The first has already been quoted at length. The second is the even more famous soliloquy, the terror-stricken outcry rather, of Faustus in his last hour of life. With fr

has been spoken of as one of his contributions to the art

t has just

us; do you deliver

t, and the devil gi

Faustus, ask me

will question wit

is the place th

der the

re all things els

he bowels of t

ortured and re

limits, nor i

ace; but where

l is, there m

t, when all the

eature shall

l be hell that

think hel

still, till experie

thou think that Fau

cessity, for he

ast given thy s

nd body too; a

at Faustus is so

his life, the

ifles and mere o

n instance to pr

e I am damned

his be hell, I'll

Seignior's son, and a Vice-Admiral of Spain raises the level of wickedness to something like dignified rank. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the play is fundamentally unsound. True tragedy should present more than a great change between the first and last scenes; the change should be lamentable. We should feel that a much better ending might, and would, have come but for the circumstance that forms the crisis, or for other circumstances at the beginning of the play. If we consider such tragic careers as those of Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello we recognize that each might have come to a different conclusion if it had not been for the blight of a father's death or a single act of folly, of ambition or jea

se swine-eating

e as wealt

daughter would

ome, and I hav

fair as is th

d treachery is based on sound policy.-We may observe, in passing, that the self-righteous governor takes no steps to prevent, by a timely warning, the massacre of the enemy's soldiers, availing himself of the atrocity, instead, to secure a victory for his side.-Consequently, when the final doom does fall upon Barabas, we have begun to be vaguely doubtful whether it is altogether deserved. Yet we feel that it is impossible to let him live. Thus the conclusion, however horrible spectacularly, neither excites pity for the Jew nor entirely satis

isolation. For the brief scene in which the Jew, haunting the vicinity of the nunnery like 'ghosts that glide by night about the place where treasure hath been hid', regains his bags of gold and precious jewels, no praise can be too high. After that, however, the ennobling mantle of human sorrow and pain falls away; the crimes that follow are hideous in their nakedness-murders or massacres, nothing more. Not the least attempt is made to enlist our sympathy for any one

esemblance between him and Shylock may be searched out by any curious student: the reality of the likeness, scoffed at by a few whose admiration for Shakespeare is inclined to prejudice their judgment, has been effectively demonstrated by Professor Ward.[67] It would be an interesting exercise to pursue Professor Ward's hint at the insincerity of the Jew's recital to Ithamore of his early crimes. We might work back to an initial conception of Barabas as an upright merchant, and so discover a real tragedy in the moral downfall wh

ore generous since the days of Doctor Faustus, the poet scatters gems with lavish hand throughout the play. Rhymes begin to appear, as though he scorned to seem dependent upon blank verse alone. Extensive as is the choice, it is impossible, in fairness to those readers who have not

1

ets about his old home where

e the sad-presagin

passport in h

hadow of the

tagion from he

rmented runs

ses towards th

pleasures of s

flight, and lef

rmer riches

brance; like a

rther comfort

r those old w

h would tell me

its and ghosts th

where treasure

nks that I am

e, here lives my

e, here shall

2

Ithamore, a cut-throat slav

tle Ithamore,

ids? provide a

chant, bid him

e, my love, g

id the jeweller

husband; sweet,

but we will leave

nce to Greece, t

son, thou my g

rpets o'er the m

ineyards overs

d forests go i

, thou shalt b

rchards, and the

ge and reed, b

se groves,

with me and

ll I not go with

t be expected to figure largely as the upholder of Protestantism in opposition to Guise; instead he is relegated to quite a subordinate part. Anjou, again, the later opponent of Guise, makes a very belated bid for our favour after displaying a brutality equal to his rival's in the massacre. The author is careful to paint Catherine in truly inky blackness. But the only character which we are likely to remember is the Duke of Guise. Yet his portrait is of inferior workmanship. The murders by which he tries to reach the throne are too treacherous to be ranked in the grander scale of crime. Even the vastness of his organized massacre is belittled for us by the stage prese

egins those deep-e

ad, those nev

e extinguished

lled, and at la

the chiefest w

on honour's

s there in a

r every peasa

t, that flies b

cale the hi

set the diad

nd it with my

top with my a

wnfall be the

, that, when I

walk in furro

h a grasp may g

ar what my d

, a sceptre,

ch do behold t

and and gaze a

upon the figure of the king and its skilful omission of details not dramatically helpful. If there were any balance of advantage in the choice of subject one must feel that it did not lie with the earlier writer, who was undertaking the extremely difficult task of presenting an inglorious monarch sympathetically without allowing him to appear contemptible. We can imagine how magnificently he could have set forth the masterful career of Edward I

the fierce men whose grandfathers and fathers in turn fought against their sovereigns and whose descendants fell in the fratricidal Wars of the Roses. Moreover the chronicle of the reign is followed with reasonable accuracy, if we make due allowance for dramatic requirements. It can hardly be said that the author's rep

l stature and noble harmony of a tragedy, not on the highest level, it is true, but dignified and moving. The catastrophe is physical, not moral, and thus the play lacks the awful horror half-rev

him return to 'share the kingdom' with his friend. From that point the first portion of the play easily unfolds: it deals with the strife, the brief triumphs and the bitter defeats which fill the eventful period of this ill-starred friendship

rth, the common

all the movin

and, and by my

onours 'longi

ads and lives

rs, castles, t

temporary victory, followed up by revengeful executions, is succ

sibility of exacting obedience from those about him. In Act I, Scene 4, it is Mortimer's order for the seizure of Gaveston that is obeyed, not the king's command for Mortimer's arrest. When the warrant for his minion's exile is submitted to him, the king refuses point blank, in the face of threatening insistence. 'I will not yield', he cries; 'curse me, depose me, do the worst you

I'll make thee

ee to contrad

thereat, aspir

plane the furro

ees that now are

aveston; and

is to stand ag

barons have withdr

ok these hau

and must be

lay my ensign

th the barons

ie or live w

e of a single friend in a world of cold-blooded critics or harsh counsellors. The not unattractive character of Gaveston, too, affectionate, gay, proud, quick-tempered, brave-with faults also, of deceit, vanity and vindictiveness-preserves the royal friendship from the sink of blind dotage upon an unworthy creature. The tragedy follows, then, from the king's preferment of private above public good, or, we may say, from the conflict between the king's wishes as a man and his duty as a monarch. It is to Marlowe's perception of this vital struggle underlying the hostility between King Edward and his nobles that the play owes its greatness. We pity the king, we can hate those who beat him down to the mire, because his fault appeals t

ly she really loves the king until his continued coldness chills her feelings and drives them to seek return in the more responsive heart of Mortimer. After that she even sinks so low as to wish the king d

confides to his uncle that it is Gaveston's and the king's mocking jests at the plainness of his train and attire which make him impatient. But the unwisdom of the king serves him for a stalking-horse while secretly he pursues the goal of his private ambition. In

now I see th

nt, to which w

long down: that

was no place to

rieve at my de

queen: weep n

e world, and,

ver countries

him, with its consequent effect on the dialogue, and by abrupt changes in the political situation. Two great scenes, King Edward's abdication and his death, remain as memories with us long after we have laid the book down; but while we are reading it there are many others that touch the chor

m the famous abdication

m again, my lord, a

the prince shal

u them back; I have

rd, the king is

ter. If he be not

I might! but heave

rable. Here, re

, these innoce

guilty of so

that most de

lled the murde

are you moved

or unrelent

se eyes, being

arkle fire tha

rather than I'l

the crown.]-Now,

ise this tra

aye enthroni

with thy finger

e, let me fo

ly that he wrote the last part. It may have been that Marlowe originally conceived of a three act play-like The Massacre at Paris-and that Nash filled it out to five acts by the addition of scenes here and there. The unusual shortnes

eference to the gods is necessary to set Aeneas's action in the right light. The writer is inclined, however, to turn the occasion into an opportunity for fine picture painting when he should be pressing forward to the essential theme. The long story of the destruction of Troy, also, has no proper place in this drama, inasmuch as Aeneas's piety and prowess at that time are not even converted to use as an incentive to Dido's love. Nevertheless it must be admitted that some of the most charming passages are to be found in these first two acts. The commencement of the third act at once sets the real business of the tragedy in motion: by a delicate piece of deception Queen Dido is persuaded to clasp young Cupid, instead of little Ascanius, to her bosom-with fatal results. Befor

n when he decided to give the first place in a tragedy to a woman. Hitherto his women have not impressed us: Abigail is probably the best of a shadowy group. Suddenly, in the Queen of Carthage, womankind towers up in majesty, to hold our attention fixed in wonder and pity as she walks with strong, unsuspecting tread the steep descent to death. She is sister to Shakespeare's Cleopatra, yet with marked individual differences. Her feelings startle us with their fierce heat and swift transitions. The fire of love flames up abruptly, driving her speech immediately into wild contradictions. She herself is amazed at the change within her. Burning to tell Aeneas her secret, yet withheld by womanly modesty, she endeavours to betray it indirectly by heaping extravagant gifts upon him. She counts over the list of her former suitors

, patroness of

hee, death be

eas! frown, way

eaten, ye rocks

harbour that

t tempests ca

world can take t

not melt his resolution the resentment of thwarted love breaks out in passionate reproach. This again

ot wicked, siste

him with a mer

gently, Anna

his-he stay a

earn to bear

t thus sudd

un; stay not

crystallize into the last fatal resolve. The pile is made ready. Her attendants are a

word that in t

swore by, to

irst; thy crime i

arment which I

ame on shore: p

lines, and perj

inders in this

sumed she leaps into t

hter portraits of Abigail and Queen Isabella which reveal flashes of true insight into the tender emotions of a woman's heart. Had Marlowe died before writing Edward the Second we should have said that he was incapable of portraying any type of man but the abnorma

found in certain portions of Aeneas's long speech in the second act, of which it is probably not unjust to surmise that Nash was the author. There are in Dido's own speeches elements of wild extravagance, but they are natural to the intensity o

farewell scene betw

eneas will not

commanded by

s town and p

fore must

s proceed not fr

m my heart, for

not stay. Di

s this the 'mends

e to quit the

ay Dido, so

y Aeneas sa

t me go, and ne

rewell: I mus

s are poison to

e my Aeneas,

toward the sea? t

uty chained thi

than when thou

as, 'tis for

tay in Carthage

eauty will r

ow canst thou

Dido? O, thy

ido! Canst tho

ne have plighte

kind Aeneas,

go, and never

of Carthage, wer

ot choose but

ot gainsay th

at gods be those t

ve I offen

take Aeneas f

ds weigh not

as calls A

duced into the mind. The plot has undergone a similar intensification. With resistless evolution it bears the chief characters along to the fatal hour of decision or action, then drags them down the descent which the wrong choice or the unwise deed suddenly places at their feet. Our sympathies are drawn out, we take sides in the cause, and demand that at least justice shall prevail at the end. There is an art, too, in this evolution, a close interweaving of events, a chain of cause and effect; a certain harmony and balance are maintained, so that our feelings are neither jerked to extr

ider fame than some better plays. Into the question of its authorship, however, we need not enter. Of itself it has qualities that c

eadful revelation concerning a brutal crime which had horrified England forty years before; and while the red and reeking abomination was still hot in his mind, sat down to the awful task of re-enacting it. The victim was summoned from his grave, the murderers from the gallows, the woman from the charred stake at Canterbury, to

s goods at the quay, the boatman urges his ferry to and fro, the apprentice takes down his shutters, the groom makes love to the serving-maid, travellers meeting on the road halt for a chat and part with no more serious word spoken than a hearty invitation to dine; on all sides life is seen flowing in the ordinary current, with nothing worse than a piece of malicious tittle-tattle to disturb the calmness of the surface. Into this setting the author places as monstrous a group of villains as ever walked the earth. Black Will and Shakbag belong to the darkest cesspool of London iniquity. Clarke the Painter has no individuality beyond a readiness to poison all and sundry for a reward. Michael would be a murderer were he not a coward. Greene is a revengeful sleuth-hound, tracking his victim down relentlessly from place to place. Arden is a miser in business, and a weak, gullible fool at home, alternately raging with jealous suspicion, and fawning with fatuous trustfulness upon the man who is wronging him. Mosbie is a cold-blooded, underhand villain whose pious resolutions and protestations of love could only deceive those blinded by fate, and whose preference for crooked, left-handed methods is in tune with his vile intention of murdering the woman who loves him. Alice, the representative of womankind among these beast-men, the wife, the passionately loving mistress, is an arch-deceiver, an absolutely brazen liar and murderess, unblushing and tireless in soliciting the affection of a man who hardly cares for her, desperately enamoured. Alone in the group Franklin is endowed with the ordinary human revulsion from folly and wickedness, but his character is sketched too lightly to relieve the darkness. Such creatures

equently pointed out, one of the most delicate passages in the play is spoken by the detestable ruffian, Shakbag, while Mosbie and even Michael soliloquize in language of poetic imagery. In his handling of blank verse he has not travelled beyond the limits of end-stopt lines, and t

1

compares his past

ughts drives

arrow with the

rouble of m

body by exc

s the bitter

tender blossoms

man, howe'er hi

not with fou

nes amongst h

mind is stuffed

me was when

wanted, yet

l begat me n

ose made dayli

mbed the top bo

uild my nest am

arry gale doth

read my downfa

oth contempla

to find, where

ind me that I

on, although to

perish thou b

2

e been made for the murder

key: which is th

d I stay and sti

now how reso

are too faint-hea

e will be there,

nted courage

first that shall

ou gone; 'tis we

opens next, loo

Will and

he now were here

e be closed in

snakes of bl

heir embracings

me; and, were

one other sphe

ectar but in

na kissed him,

sick, and from

ndymion and

t me that sla

o lovely a

nters M

ss, my master i

ho comes

Nobody bu

ll, Michael. Fet

done, stand before

o

el. W

l is locked with

t? shall he

Ay, M

shall not S

she'll be as sec

brave. I'll go f

hael, hark to m

is come in, lock

dered or[68] th

n the little known world of kings' courts or the still less familiar regions of immeasurable wealth and power. This other writer found what he wanted in his neighbour's house. His most direct disciples are the authors (uncertain) of A Yorkshire Tragedy and A Warning for Fair Women, but his influence may be traced in

PE

ZABETHA

lling player. Many small companies-four or five men and perhaps a couple of boys-came into existence, wandering over England to win the pence and applause guaranteed by the immense popularity of their entertainments. But the official eye learnt to look upon them with suspicion, and it was not long before they fell under condemnation as vagrants. In 1572 all but licensed companies were brought within the scope of the vagrancy laws. Those exempt were the few fortunate ones who had secured the patronage of a nobleman, and, greedy of monopoly, had pressed, successfully, for this prohibitory de

ter the Restoration. Although some plays included a large number of characters, the author was generally careful so to arrange their exits and entrances that not more than four or five were required on the stage at one time. Thus, in the list of drama

the right of acting. Thus the practice of public control over the Guild 'Miracles' was extended to these independent performances in the form of a mayoral censorship. This control, in L

s of the royal chapel took rank as expert performers. It was doubtless for Eton, Westminster, Merchant Taylors' and other schools that such plays as The Disobedient Child and The Marriage of Wit and Science were written. It was, we may remember, the head-master of Eton who wrote Ralph Roister Doister. Lyly's plays,

rmed The Misfortunes of Arthur at the Court at Greenwich; Francis Bacon was one of the actors. In the latter part of the reign the queen's own 'company' consisted of the best London professional actors, and these were s

ging of a play. Possibly painted scenery and even the luxury of a completely curtained-off stage were provided. Every advantageous adjunct to the dramatist's art k

gs specially designed for their purpose. Very probably the old 'pageants' (or 'pagonds') were refurbished and brought to light when the need arose; and in this case the actors would have the spectators in a circle around them. Inn-yards, however-those of that day were constructed with galleries along three sides-proved to be m

es should be entirely suppressed. The yearly outbreaks of the plague, with its weekly death-roll of thirty, forty, fifty, periodically compelled the summer performances to cease, and lent themselves as a powerful argument against packed gatherings of dirty and clean, infected and uninfected, together. At last one of the leading companies, fearing that time would bring victory to the Puritans and to themselves extinction, decided to solve the difficulty by migration beyond the ju

red about its three sides, the poor folk standing in the area and crushing right up to it, the rich folk occupying seats in the galleries that formed the horse-shoe round the area. A roof covered the galleries but not the rest of the building-the first completely roofed theatre was probably not built before 1596. Performances took place between two and five o'clock in the afternoon. The title

raws the curtains' and reveals Remilia struck with lightning. There was no curtain before the front stage. At the rear of the back stage was a fixed structure like the outside of a house with doors and an upper balcony. The doors led into the dressing rooms, and through them, as through the curtain if the front stage only were in use, the exits and entrances were made. The balcony was used in many ways familiar to us in Shakespeare's works; when, in the Second Part of Tamburlaine, the Governor of Babylon enters 'upon the walls' we recognize that he is on the

f Arragon 'Calchas rises up in a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre', and in Edward the First Longshanks figures 'in Friar's weeds'. The list could be continued. It is practically certain that there was no painted scenery, the absence of which would greatly facilitate the expeditious passage from scene to scene. Stage properties, however, were probably a valuable part of the theatrical belongings. If we glance over the stage-directions in the

staging differed from our modern methods were in favour of greater realism. Daylight is more truthful than foot-lights are; and if there was any poverty in the setting, so much the more

N

AUT

us, 97,

sto,

., 99

ishop,

, Georg

, Thom

, Micha

rd V

ichard, 11

ne, Geo

ey, Ab

7, 169, 170, 172, 173, 179

Thoma

n, 61, 68, 8

, Thoma

rius

with

mas, 110-15

, 71, 72, 1

3, 194, 197-221, 225

s, 124, 148,

61, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 17

148, 167, 180, 187, 188, 193, 194, 196, 2

John, 2

er, Phi

John,

omas, 12

mas, 103-10

140, 161, 167-88, 20

us, 9

, Thoma

ey,

03-10, 114, 118, 124

96, 101,

121, 157, 173, 181, 193, 213, 222,

Sir Phil

cles,

nson,

ishop, 9

nce,

, Cyril,

cholas, 8

John, 2

ne, Geo

, Robe

PL

16-1

mnon,

rragon, 147, 149-51,

's Reve

inia, 99-101, 1

ersham, 193,

The, 168, 169, 171, 17

Like

cazar, The,

d Abel,

nd Meliba

100, 103, 107, 1

7, 128-32, 1

rance, 51, 53, 54,

acle Play,

s Passi

us,

ia, 19

élie

lay, The, 21, 23,

thias, 112,

iel

ethsabe, 17

an Ass,

of Carthage,

e Traged

of Emmau

Child, The

icle History of, 168, 169, 170, 17

cond, 196, 22

n, 127,

Plays, 14

ues,

n, 51,

s of Henry the

, 117, 209, 215, 223, 22

edy of, 101-10, 111, 115, 1

ements,

Bungay, 147, 148, 155-

127, 138-44

on's Needle

The Pinner of Wak

11, 115, 118, 193,

et,

IV,

, The Famous Vi

rner, 61

7, 149, 159-

7, 199-204,

a, The, 215

han, 84-

some Reign of Kin

Joh

ear, 2

rus,

o Like, 67-

ine,

and England, A, 147, 15

etamorph

h, 245

5, 23,

ge at

t and Science,

aris, The, 22

Babyloni

e Husband, Tyb his Wife, and Sir

Night's Dr

Glorio

the Sacrame

Magistrates

, The, 35, 110-15, 11

ombie, 1

as,

, 74, 79,

Wanto

Tyrannus

e, The, 168, 1

ioso, 147,

chius

d the Friar

, 14, 15

grin

cles

nd Cassa

tae, 1

ets,

tis, 12, 13

s in Praesepe

ster, 89-91, 92,

n, 12, 13,

nd Juli

Kathar

holas, 15

Agonist

d Phao,

Antonio and Mel

s, 14, 1

Clamydes, 140, 168,

rseda, 197, 19

The, 35, 197, 1

f News,

15, 23

Will and Tes

es, Th

iti, I

4, 180, 218, 222, 223-8, 229,

the Shrew,

ismunda, 115,

site

racle Play,

s, 15, 23

Christ, T

Treasure,

ign of King Jo

ight, 70,

acle Play, Th

Fair Wome

g Gifts to the Inf

the Moon,

Civil War,

e Traged

MINENT C

ham,

, 18, 19

ss for London and Eng

57, 258, 259,

der, 1

149, 150,

199-20

els

and Bad, 57

9, 130, 131

, 264, 265,

tess of, 15

0, 111, 11

, 198, 199, 204, 205,

, 222,

n St. Nicho

, 218, 21

ira, 2

199, 205, 206

, Moth

s, 97,

129, 130

2, 13, 30

ion, 61, 6

, 133, 1

43, 144,

Dame, 89,

Cuthbert

16, 117,

186, 18

, 31,

, 183

, 18, 19, 70,

73, 175,

258, 259, 2

28, 129, 13

s, 13

en, 159, 160,

251, 252, 253,

e, 155, 156,

32, 133, 13

tus,

17, 1

5, 56, 58,

idge, 120

09, 222, 2

hip, 58

x, 10

62, 63,

r, 8

a, 141,

Humanum

63, 164,

ester

uc, 10

, 248

mmer, 92,

e, 6

ion, 13

20, 31, 3

7, 208, 210, 211, 212,

, 93, 94,

nd, 57,

160, 161

n, 62, 63,

27, 28,

07, 208, 21

, 246, 2

ate,

99, 200, 20

, Si

, 17

Johan,

has,

, 30,

173,

80, 81, 120

156, 158,

3, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209

, Th

, The Moor, 1

0, 41,

ngfield, 155, 156,

195, 1

0, 31,

agdale

0, 233, 235, 236,

5, 266, 267

111, 112, 1

, 250, 252, 2

64, 265,

Nichol, 70,

s, St.,

h,

Wife,

e, 16

n, 1

o, 153

r, 82,

168, 17

da, 2

nce, 61,

Doctrin

, 141, 1

1, 64,

x, 10

, 116,

oister, 88, 89,

Hick, 6

m,

rds, 4

, Ralp

n, 219

ill, 188,

26, 227, 232, 233,

134, 136, 1

2, 73, 74, 76, 85, 8

us's Wi

, 77

TNO

Chambers's

Chambers's

]

be

dest

plea

mi

po

wrou

] o

rea

more

inj

] h

off

] t

] t

sor

, 'Here enteryth Satan into the place in the most orryble wyse,

] l

obe

cou

] y

cou

cou

eac

cri

overt

overr

] r

] c

] d

] s

C. Robinson, Ph.D. (Bo

ari

wor

com

wea

] k

kno

sol

ste

] l

fri

] g

lehous

n to them at another. Care has been taken to place approximate dates against the plays, and these should be duly regarded. The treatment of so early an Interlude writer as Heywood (his three

] s

boa

] I

cou

nnus (Lewis Campb

and Pythias, s

] r

res

s second speech

mes the

] e

dwe

is ca

bug

Jehov

fet

f English Poet

whips

] r

ramatic Litera

bef