Concerning the order of Lyly's plays there is, as we have seen, some
difference of opinion. The discussion between Mr Bond and Mr Baker in
reality turns upon the interpretation of the allegory of _Endymion_, and
it is therefore one of those questions of literary probability which can
never hope to receive a satisfactory answer. Both critics, however, are
in agreement as to the proper method of classification. They divide the
dramas into four categories: historical, of which _Campaspe_ is the sole
example; allegorical, which includes _Sapho and Phao_, _Endymion_, and
_Midas_; pastoral, which includes _Gallathea_, _The Woman in the Moon_,
and _Love's Metamorphosis_; and lastly realistic, of which again there
is only one example, _Mother Bombie_. The fault which may be found with
this classification is that the so-called pastoral plays have much of
the allegorical about them, and it is perhaps better, therefore, to
consider them rather as a subdivision of class two than as a distinct
species.
For the moment putting on one side all questions of the allegory of
_Endymion_, there are two reasons which seem to go a long way towards
justifying Mr Bond for placing _Campaspe_ as the earliest of Lyly's
plays. In the first place the atmosphere of _Euphues_, which becomes
weaker in the other plays, is so unmistakeable in this historical drama
as to force the conclusion upon us that they belong to the same period.
The painter Apelles, whose name seemed almost to obsess Lyly in his
novel, is one of the chief characters of _Campaspe_, and the dialogue is
more decidedly euphuistic than any other play. The second point we may
notice is one which can leave very little doubt as to the correctness of
Mr Bond's chronology. _Campaspe_ and _Sapho_ were published before 1585,
that is, before Lyly accepted the mastership at the St Paul's choir
school, whereas none of his other plays came into the printer's hands
until after the inhibition of the boys' acting rights in 1591; the
obvious inference being that Lyly printed his plays only when he had no
interest in preserving the acting rights.
But whatever date we assign to _Campaspe_, there can be little doubt
that it was one of the first dramas in our language with an historical
background. Indeed, _Kynge Johan_ is the only play before 1580 which can
claim to rival it in this respect. But _Kynge Johan_ was written solely
for the purpose of religious satire, being an attack upon the priesthood
and Church abuses. It must, therefore, be classed among those political
_moralities_, of which so many examples appeared during the early part
of the 16th century. _Campaspe_, on the other hand, is entirely devoid
of any ethical or satirical motive. Allegory, which Lyly was able to
put to his own peculiar uses, is here quite absent. The sole aim of its
author was to provide amusement, and in this respect it must have been
entirely successful. The play is interesting, and at times amusing, even
to a modern reader; but to those who witnessed its performance at
Blackfriars, and, two years later, at the Court, it would appear as a
marvel of wit and dramatic power after the crude material which had
hitherto been offered to them. In the choice of his subject Lyly shows
at once that he is an artist with a feeling for beauty, even if he
seldom rises to its sublimities. The story of the play, taken from
Pliny, is that of Alexander's love for his Theban captive Campaspe, and
of his subsequent self-sacrifice in giving her up to her lover Apelles.
The social change, which I have sought to indicate in the preceding
pages, is at once evident in this play. "We calling Alexander from his
grave," says its Prologue[114], "seeke only who was his love"; and the
remark is a sweep of the hat to the ladies of the Court, whose
importance, as an integral part of the audience, is now for the first
time openly acknowledged. "Alexander, the great conqueror of the world,"
says Lyly with his hand upon his heart, "only interests me as a lover."
The whole motive of the play, which would have been meaningless to a
mediaeval audience, is a compliment to the ladies. It is as if our
author nets Mars with Venus, and presents the shamefaced god as an
offering of flattery to the Queen and her Court. _Campaspe_ is, in fact,
the first romantic drama, not only the forerunner of Shakespeare, but a
remote ancestor of _Hernani_ and the 19th century French theatre. "The
play's defect," says Mr Bond, "is one of passion"--a criticism which is
applicable to all Lyly's dramas; and yet we must not forget that Lyly
was the earliest to deal with passion dramatically. The love of
Alexander is certainly unemotional, not to say callous; but possibly the
great monarch's equanimity was a veiled tribute to the supposed
indifference of the virgin Queen to all matters of Cupid's trade.
Between Campaspe and Apelles, however, we have scenes which are imbued,
if not vitalized, by passion. Lyly was a beginner, and his fault lay in
attempting too much. Caring more for brilliancy of dialogue than for
anything else, he was no more likely to be successful here, in
portraying passion through conversation weighted by euphuism, than he
had been in his novel. Yet his endeavour to depict the conflict of
masculine passion with feminine wit, impatient sallies neatly parried,
deliberate lunges quietly turned aside, was in every way praiseworthy.
"A witte apt to conceive and quickest to answer" is attributed by
Alexander to Campaspe, and, though she exhibits few signs of it, yet in
his very idea of endowing women with wit Lyly leads us on to the
high-road of comedy leading to Congreve.
[114] From _Prologue_ at the Court.
In addition to the romantic elements above described, we have here also
that page-prattle which is so characteristic of all Lyly's plays. These
urchins, full of mischief and delighting in quips, were probably
borrowed from Edwardes, but Lyly made them all his own; and one can
understand how naturally their parts would be played by his boy-actors.
Their repartee, when it is not pulling to pieces some Latin quotation
familiar to them at school, or ridiculing a point of logic, is often
really witty. One of them, overhearing the hungry Manes at strife with
Diogenes over the matter of an overdue dinner, exclaims to his friend,
"This is their use, nowe do they dine one upon another." Diogenes again,
in whom we may see the prototype of Shakespeare's Timon, is amusing
enough at times with his "dogged" snarlings and sallies which
frequently however miss their mark. He and the pages form an underplot
of farce, upon which Lyly improved in his later plays, bringing it also
more into connexion with the main plot. In passing, we may notice that
few of Shakespeare's plays are without this farcical substratum.
Leaving the question of dramatic construction and characterization for a
more general treatment later, we now pass on to the consideration of
Lyly's allegorical plays. The absence of all allegory from _Campaspe_
shows that Lyly had broken with the _morality_: and we seem therefore to
be going back, when two years later we have an allegorical play from his
pen. But in reality there is no retrogression; for with Lyly allegory is
not an ethical instrument. I have mentioned examples of plays before his
day which employed the machinery of the _morality_, for the purposes of
political and religious satire. The old form of drama seems to have
developed a keen sensibility to _double entendre_ among theatre-goers.
Nothing indeed is so remarkable about the Elizabethan stage as the
secret understanding which almost invariably existed between the
dramatist and his audience. We have already had occasion to notice it in
connexion with Field's parody of Kyd. The spectators were always on the
alert to detect some veiled reference to prominent political figures or
to current affairs. Often in fact, as was natural, they would discover
hints where nothing was implied; and for one Mrs Gallup in modern
America there must have been a dozen in every auditorium of Elizabethan
England. Such over-clever busybodies would readily twist an innocent
remark into treason or sacrilege, and therefore, long before Lyly's
time, it was customary for a playwright to defend himself in the
prologue against such treatment, by denying any ambiguity in his
dialogue. In an audience thus susceptible to innuendo Lyly saw his
opportunity. He was a courtier writing for the Court, he was also, let
us add, anxious to obtain a certain coveted post at the Revels' Office.
He was an artist not entirely without ideals, yet ever ready to curry
favour and to aim at material advantages by his literary facility. The
idea therefore of writing dramas which should be, from beginning to end,
nothing but an ingenious compliment to his royal mistress would not be
in the least distasteful to him. But we must not attribute too much to
motives of personal ambition. Spenser's _Faery Queen_ was not published
until 1590; but Lyly had known Spenser before the latter's departure for
Ireland, and, even if the scheme of that poet's masterpiece had not been
confided to him, the ideas which it contained were in the air. The cult
of Elizabeth, which was far from being a piece of insincere adulation,
had for some time past been growing into a kind of literary religion.
Even to us, there is something magical about the great Queen, and we can
hardly be surprised that the pagans of those days hailed her as half
divine. When Lyly commenced his career, she had been on the throne for
twenty years, in itself a wonderful fact to those who could remember the
gloom which had surrounded her accession. Through a period of infinite
danger both at home and abroad she had guided England with intrepidity
and success; and furthermore she had done all this single-handed,
refusing to share her throne with a partner even for the sake of
protection, and yet improving upon the Habsburg policy[115] by making
coquetry the pivot of her diplomacy. It was no wonder therefore that,
"As the imperial votaress passed on
In maiden meditation fancy free,"
the courtiers she fondled, and the artists she patronized, should half
in fancy, half in earnest, think of her as something more than human,
and search the fables of their newly discovered classics for examples of
enthroned chastity and unconquerable virgin queens.
[115] "Alii bella gerunt, tu felix Austria nube."
All Lyly's plays except _Campaspe_ and _Mother Bombie_ are written in
this vein; each, as Symonds beautifully puts it, is "a censer of
exquisitely chased silver, full of incense to be tossed before Elizabeth
upon her throne." In the three plays _Sapho and Phao_, _Endymion_, and
_Midas_ this element of flattery is more prominent than in the others,
inasmuch as they are not only full of compliments unmistakeably directed
towards the Queen, but they actually seek to depict incidents from her
reign under the guise of classical mythology. It is for this reason that
they have been classified under the label of allegory. It is quite
possible, however, to read and enjoy these plays without a suspicion of
any inner meaning; nor does the absence of such suspicion render the
action of the play in any way unintelligible, so skilfully does Lyly
manipulate his story. With a view, therefore, to his position in the
history of Elizabethan drama, and to the lessons which he taught those
who came after him, the superficial interpretation of each play is all
that need engage our attention, and we shall content ourselves with
briefly indicating the actual incident which it symbolizes.
The story of _Sapho and Phao_ is, very shortly, as follows. Phao, a poor
ferryman, is endowed by Venus with the gift of beauty. Sapho, who in
Lyly's hands is stripped of all poetical attributes and becomes simply a
great Queen of Sicily, sees him and instantly falls in love with him.
To conceal her passion, she pretends to her ladies that she has a fever,
at the same time sending for Phao, who is rumoured to have herbs for
such complaints. Meanwhile Venus herself falls a victim to the charms
she has bestowed upon the ferryman. Cupid is therefore called in to
remedy matters on her behalf. The boy, who plays a part which no one can
fail to compare with that of Puck in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_,
succeeds in curing Sapho's passion, but, much to his mother's disgust,
won over by the Queen's attractions, refuses to go further, and even
inspires Phao with a loathing for the goddess. The play ends with Phao's
departure from Sicily in despair, and Cupid's definite rebellion from
the rule of Venus, resulting in his remaining with Sapho. In this story,
which is practically a creation of Lyly's brain, though of course it is
founded upon the classical tale of Sapho's love for Phao, our playwright
presents under the form of allegory the history of Alencon's courtship
of Elizabeth. Sapho, Queen of Sicily, is of course Elizabeth, Queen of
England. The difficulty of Alencon's (that is Phao's) ugliness is
overcome by the device of making it love's task to confer beauty upon
him. Phao like Alencon quits the island and its Queen in despair; while
the play is rounded off by the pretty compliment of representing love as
a willing captive in Elizabeth's Court.
As a play _Sapho and Phao_ shows a distinct advance upon _Campaspe_. The
dialogue is less euphuistic, and therefore much more effective. The
conversation between Sapho and Phao, in the scene where the latter comes
with his herbs to cure the Queen, is very charming, and well expresses
the passion which the one is too humble and the other too proud to
show.
PHAO. I know no hearb to make lovers sleepe but Heartesease, which
because it groweth so high, I cannot reach: for--
SAPHO. For whom?
PHAO. For such as love.
SAPHO. It groweth very low, and I can never stoop to it, that--
PHAO. That what?
SAPHO. That I may gather it: but why doe you sigh so, Phao?
PHAO. It is mine use Madame.
SAPHO. It will doe you harme and mee too: for I never heare one
sighe, but I must sigh't also.
PHAO. It were best then that your Ladyship give me leave to be gone:
for I can but sigh.
SAPHO. Nay stay: for now I beginne to sighe, I shall not leave
though you be gone. But what do you thinke best for your
sighing to take it away?
PHAO. Yew, Madame.
SAPHO. Mee?
PHAO. No, Madame, yewe of the tree.
SAPHO. Then will I love yewe the better, and indeed I think it
should make me sleepe too, therefore all other simples set
aside, I will simply use onely yewe.
PHAO. Doe Madame: for I think nothing in the world so good as
yewe[116].
[116] _Sapho and Phao_, Act III. Sc. IV. 60-85.
Altogether there is a great increase in general vitality in this play.
Lyly draws nearer to the conception of ideal comedy. "Our interest," he
tells us in his Prologue, "was at this time to move inward delight not
outward lightnesse, and to breede (if it might be) soft smiling, not
loud laughing"; and to this end he tends to minimize the purely farcical
element. The pages are still present, but they are balanced by a group
of Sapho's maids-in-waiting who discuss the subject of love upon the
stage with great frankness and charm. Mileta, the leader of this chorus,
is, we may suspect, a portrait drawn from life; she is certainly much
more convincing than the somewhat shadowy Campaspe. The figures in
Lyly's studio are limited in number--Camilla, Lucilla, Campaspe, Mileta,
all come from the same mould: in Pandion we may discover Euphues under a
new name, and the surly Vulcan is only another edition of the "crabbed
Diogenes." And yet each of these types becomes more life-like as he
proceeds, and if the puppets that he left to his successors were not yet
human, they had learnt to walk the stage without that angularity of
movement and jerkiness of speech which betray the machine.
Departing for a moment from the strictly chronological order, and
leaving _Gallathea_ for later treatment, we pass on to _Endymion_, the
second of the allegorical dramas, and, without doubt, the boldest in
conception and the most beautiful in execution of all Lyly's plays. The
story is founded upon the classical fable of Diana's kiss to the
sleeping boy, but its arrangement and development are for the most part
of Lyly's invention: indeed, he was obliged to frame it in accordance
with the facts which he sought to allegorize. All critics are agreed in
identifying Cynthia with Elizabeth and Endymion with Leicester, but they
part company upon the interpretation of the play as a whole. The story
is briefly as follows. Endymion, forsaking his former love Tellus,
contracts an ardent passion for Cynthia, who, in accordance with her
character as moon-goddess, meets his advances with coolness. Tellus
determines to be revenged, and, by the aid of a sorceress Dipsas, sends
the youth into a deep sleep from which no one can awaken him. Cynthia
learns what has befallen, and although she does not suspect Tellus, she
orders the latter to be shut up in a castle for speaking maliciously of
Endymion. She then sends Eumenides, the young man's great friend, to
seek out a remedy. This man is deeply in love with Semele, who scorns
his passion, and therefore, when he reaches a magic fountain which will
answer any question put to it, he is so absorbed with his own troubles
as almost to forget those of his friend. A carefully thought-out piece
of writing follows, for he debates with himself whether to use his one
question for an enquiry about his love or his sleeping friend.
Friendship and duty conquer at length, and, looking into the well, he
discovers that the remedy for Endymion's sickness is a kiss from
Cynthia's lips. He returns with his message, the kiss is given,
Endymion, grown old after 40 years' sleep, is restored to youth, the
treachery of Tellus is discovered and eventually forgiven, and the play
ends amid a peal of marriage bells. Endymion, however, is left
unmarried, knowing as he does that lowly and distant worship is all he
can be allowed to offer the virgin goddess. The play, of course, has a
farcical underplot which is only connected very slightly with the main
story by Sir Tophas' ridiculous passion for Dipsas. His love in fact is
presented as a kind of caricature of Endymion's, and he is the
laughing-stock of a number of pages who gambol and play pranks after the
usual manner of Lyly's boys. The solution of the allegory lies mainly in
the interpretation of Tellus' character, and I cannot but agree with Mr
Bond when he decides that Tellus is Mary Queen of Scots. He is perhaps
less convincing where he pairs Endymion with Sidney, and Semele with
Penelope Devereux, the famous _Stella_. Lastly we may notice his
suggestion that Tophas may be Gabriel Harvey, which certainly appears to
be more probable than Halpin's theory that Stephen Gosson is here
meant[117]. But the whole question is one of such obscurity, and of so
little importance from the point of view of my argument, that I shall
not attempt to enter further into it.
[117] Halpin, _Oberon's Vision_, Shakespeare Society, 1843.
In _Endymion_ Lyly shows that his mastership of St Paul's has increased
his knowledge of stage-craft. For example, while _Campaspe_ contains at
least four imaginary transfers in space in the middle of a scene,
_Endymion_ has only one: and it is a transfer which requires a much
smaller stretch of imagination than the constant appearance of Diogenes'
tub upon the stage whenever and wherever comic relief was considered
necessary. There is improvement moreover in characterization. But the
interesting thing about this play is Shakespeare's intimate knowledge of
it, visible chiefly in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_. The well-known
speech of Oberon to Puck, directing him to gather the "little western
flower," is to all intents and purposes a beautiful condensation of
Lyly's allegory. One would like, indeed, to think that there was
something more than fancy in Mr Gollancz's suggestion that Shakespeare
when a boy had seen this play of Lyly's acted at Kenilworth, where
Leicester entertained Elizabeth; little William going thither with his
father from the neighbouring town of Stratford. But however that may be,
_Endymion_ certainly had a peculiar fascination for him; we may even
detect borrowings from the underplot. Tophas' enumeration of the charms
of Dipsas[118] foreshadows Thisbe's speech over the fallen Pyramus[119],
while, did we not know Lyly's play to be the earlier, we might suspect
the page's song near the sleeping knight to be a clumsy caricature of
the graceful songs of the fairies guarding Titania's dreams. Again there
are parallels in Shakespeare's earliest comedy _Love's Labour's Lost_.
Sir Tophas, who is undoubtedly modelled upon Roister Doister, reappears
with his page, as Armado with his attendant Moth. And I have no doubt
that many other resemblances might be discovered by careful
investigation. We cannot wonder that _Endymion_ attracted Shakespeare,
for it is the most "romantic" of all Lyly's plays. Indistinctness of
character seems to be in keeping with an allegory of moonshine; and even
the mechanical action cannot spoil the poetical atmosphere which
pervades the whole. Here if anywhere Lyly reached the poetical plane. He
speaks of "thoughts stitched to the starres," of "time that treadeth all
things down but truth," of the "ivy which, though it climb up by the
elme, can never get hold of the beames of the sunne," and the play is
full of many other quaint poetical conceits.
[118] _Endymion_, Act III. Sc. II. ll. 30-60.
[119] Cp. also Shakespeare, _Sonnet_ CXXX.
From the point of view of drama, however, it cannot be considered equal
to the third of the allegorical plays. As a man of fashion Lyly was
nothing if not up to date. In August 1588 the great Armada had made its
abortive attack upon Cynthia's kingdom, and twelve months were scarcely
gone before the industrious Court dramatist had written and produced on
the stage an allegorical satire upon his Catholic Majesty Philip, King
of Spain. Though it contains compliments to Elizabeth, _Midas_ is more
of a patriotic than a purely Court play. The story, with but a few
necessary alterations, comes from Ovid's _Metamorphoses_[120]. It is the
old tale of the three wishes. Love, power, and wealth are offered, and
Midas chooses the last. But he soon finds that the gift of turning
everything to gold has its drawbacks. Even his beard accidentally
becomes bullion. He eventually gets rid of his obnoxious power by
bathing in a river. The fault of the play is that there are, as it were,
two sections; for now we are introduced to an entirely new situation.
The King chances upon Apollo and Pan engaged in a musical contest, and,
asked to decide between them, gives his verdict for the goat-foot god.
Apollo, in revenge, endows him with a pair of ass's ears. For some time
he manages to conceal them; but "murder will out," for the reeds breathe
the secret to the wind. Midas in the end seeks pardon at Apollo's
shrine, and is relieved of his ears. At the same time he abandons his
project of invading the neighbouring island of Lesbos, to which
continual references are made throughout the play. This island is of
course England; the golden touch refers to the wealth of Spanish
America, while, if Halpin be correct, Pan and Apollo signify the
Catholic and the Protestant faith respectively. We may also notice, in
passing, that the ears obviously gave Shakespeare the idea of Bottom's
"transfiguration."
[120] XI. 85-193.
The weakness of the play, as I have said, lies in its duality of action.
In other respects, however, it is certainly a great advance on its
predecessors, especially in its underplot, which is for the first time
connected satisfactorily with the main argument. Motto, the royal
barber, in the course of his duties, obtains possession of the golden
beard: and the history of this somewhat unusual form of treasure
affords a certain amount of amusing farcical relief. It is stolen by one
of the Court pages, Motto recovers it as a reward for curing the thief's
toothache, but he loses it again because, being overheard hinting at the
ass's ears, he is convicted of treason by the pages, and is blackmailed
in consequence. From this it will be seen that the underplot is more
embroidered with incident and is, in every way, better arranged than in
the earlier plays.
We must now turn to the pastoral plays, _Gallathea_, _The Woman in the
Moon_, and _Love's Metamorphosis_, which we may consider together since
their stories, uninspired by any allegorical purpose beyond general
compliments to the Queen, do not require any detailed consideration. And
yet it should be pointed out that this distinction between Lyly's
allegorical and pastoral plays is more apparent than real. There are
shepherds in _Midas_, the Queen appears under the mythological title of
Ceres in _Love's Metamorphosis_. Such overlapping however is only to be
expected, and the division is at least very convenient for purposes of
classification. Lyly's pastoral plays form, as it were, a link between
the drama and the masque; indeed, when we consider that all the
Elizabethan dramatists were students of Lyly, it is possible that comedy
and masque may have been evolved from the Lylian mythological play by a
process of differentiation. It may be that our author increased the
pastoral element as the arcadian fashion came into vogue, but this
argument does not hold of _Gallathea_, while we are uncertain as to the
date of _Love's Metamorphosis_. None of these plays are worth
considering in detail, but each has its own particular point of
interest. In _Gallathea_ this is the introduction of girls in boys'
clothes. As far as I know, Lyly is the first to use the convenient
dramatic device of disguise. How effective a trick it was, is proved by
the manner in which later dramatists, and in particular Shakespeare,
adopted it. Its full significance cannot be appreciated by us to-day,
for the whole point of it was that the actors, who appeared as girls
dressed up as boys, were, as the audience knew, really boys themselves;
a fact which doubtless increased the funniness of the situation. _The
Woman in the Moon_ gives us a man disguised in his wife's clothes, which
is a variation of the same trick. But the importance of _The Woman_ lies
in its poetical form. Most Elizabethan scholars have decided that this
play was Lyly's first dramatic effort, on the authority of the Prologue,
which bids the audience
"Remember all is but a poet's dream,
The first he had in Phoebus' holy bower,
But not the last, unless the first displease."
But the maturity and strength of the drama argue a fairly considerable
experience in its author, and we shall therefore be probably more
correct if we place it last instead of first of Lyly's plays,
interpreting the words of the Prologue as simply implying that it was
Lyly's first experiment in blank verse, inspired possibly by the example
of Marlowe in _Tamburlaine_ and of Shakespeare in _Love's Labour's
Lost_[121]. But, whatever its date, _The Woman in the Moon_ must rank
among the earliest examples of blank verse in our language, and, as
such, its importance is very great. In _Love's Metamorphosis_ there is
nothing of interest equal to those points we have noticed in the other
two plays of the same class. The only remarkable thing, indeed, about it
is the absence of that farcical under-current which appears in all his
other plays. Mr Bond suggests, with great plausibility, that such an
element had originally appeared, but that, because it dealt with
dangerous questions of the time, perhaps with the _Marprelate_
controversy, it was expunged.
[121] Bond, III. p. 234.
It now remains to say a few words upon _Mother Bombie_, which forms the
fourth division of Lyly's dramatic writings. Though it presents many
points of similarity in detail to his other plays, its general
atmosphere is so different (displaying, indeed, at times distinct errors
of taste) that I should be inclined to assign it to a friend or pupil of
Lyly, were it not bound up with Blount's _Sixe Court Comedies_[122], and
therein said to be written by "the onely Rare Poet of that time, the
wittie, comical, facetiously quicke, and unparalleled John Lilly master
of arts." It is clever in construction, but undeniably tedious. It shows
that Lyly had learnt much from Udall, Stevenson, and Gascoigne, and
perhaps its chief point of interest is that it links these writers to
the later realists, Ben Jonson, and that student of London life, who is
surely one of the most charming of all the Elizabethan dramatists,
whimsical and delightful Thomas Dekker. _Mother Bombie_ was an
experiment in the drama of realism, the realism that Nash was employing
so successfully in his novels. It has been labelled as our earliest pure
farce of well-constructed plot and literary form, but, though it is
certainly on a much higher plane than _Roister Doister_, it would only
create confusion if we denied that title to Udall's play. Yet, despite
its comparative unimportance, and although it is evident that Lyly is
here out of his natural element, _Mother Bombie_ is interesting as
showing the (to our ideas) extraordinary confusion of artistic ideals
which, as I have already noticed, is the remarkable thing about the
Renaissance in England. Here we have a courtier, a writer of allegories,
of dream-plays, the first of our mighty line of romanticists, producing
a somewhat vulgar realistic play of rustic life. There is nothing
anomalous in this. "Violence and variation," which someone has described
as the two essentials of the ideal life, were certainly the
distinguishing marks of the New Birth; and the men of that age demanded
it in their literature. The drama of horror, the drama of insanity, the
drama of blood, all were found on the Elizabethan stage, and all
attracted large audiences. People delighted to read accounts of
contemporary crime; often these choice morsels were dished up for them
by some famous writer, as Kyd did in _The Murder of John Brewer_. The
taste for realism is by no means a purely 19th century product.
Moreover, the Elizabethans soon wearied of sameness; only a writer of
the greatest versatility, such as Shakespeare, could hope for success,
or at least financial success; and it was, perhaps, in order to revive
his waning popularity that Lyly took to realism. But the child of
fashion is always the earliest to become out of date, and we cannot
think that _Mother Bombie_ did much towards improving our author's
reputation.
[122] For title-page, Bond, III. p. 1, date 1632.
At this point of our enquiry it will be as well to say a few words upon
the lyrics which Lyly sprinkled broadcast over his plays. From an
aesthetic point of view these are superior to anything else he wrote.
"Foreshortened in the tract of time," his novel, his plays, have become
forgotten, and it is as the author of _Cupid and my Campaspe played_
that he is alone known to the lover of literature. There is no need to
enter into an investigation of the numerous anonymous poems which Mr
Bond has claimed for him[123]; even if we knew for certain that he was
their author, they are so mediocre in themselves as to be unworthy of
notice, scarcely I think of recovery. But let us turn to the songs of
his dramas, of which there are 32 in all. These are, of course, unequal
in merit, but the best are worthy to be ranked with Shakespeare's
lyrics, and our greatest dramatist was only following Lyly's example
when he introduced lyrics into his plays. I have already pointed out
that music was an important element in our early comedy. Udall had
introduced songs into his _Roister Doister_, and we have them also in
_Gammer Gurton_ and _Damon and Pithias_, but never, before Lyly's day,
had they taken so prominent a part in drama, for no previous dramatist
had possessed a tithe of Lyly's lyrical genius. Every condition favoured
our author in this introduction of songs into his plays. He had
tradition at his back; he was intensely interested in music, and
probably composed the airs himself; and lastly he was master of a choir
school, and would therefore use every opportunity for displaying his
pupils' voices on the stage. Too much stress, however, must not be laid
upon this last condition, because Lyly had already written three songs
for _Campaspe_ and four for _Sapho and Phao_ before he became connected
with St Paul's, a fact which points again to de Vere, himself a lyrist
of considerable powers, as Lyly's adviser and master. Doubts, indeed,
have been cast upon Lyly's authorship of these lyrics on the ground that
they are omitted from the first edition of the plays. But we need, I
think, have no hesitation in accepting Lyly as their creator, since the
omission in question is fully accounted for by the fact that they were
probably written separately from the plays, and handed round amongst the
boys together with the musical score[124]. These songs are of various
kinds and of widely different value. We have, for example, the purely
comic poem, probably accompanied by gesture and pantomime, such as the
song of Petulus from _Midas_, beginning, "O my Teeth! deare Barber ease
me," with interruptions and refrains supplied by his companion and the
scornful Motto. Many of these songs, indeed, are cast into dialogue
form, sometimes each page singing a verse by himself, as in "O for a
Bowle of fatt canary." This last is the earliest of Lyly's wine-songs,
which for swing and vigour are among some of the best in our language,
reminding us irresistibly of those pagan chants of the mediaeval
wandering scholar which the late Mr Symonds has collected for us in his
_Wine, Women, and Song_. The drinking song, "Io Bacchus," which occurs
in _Mother Bombie_, is undoubtedly, I think, modelled on one of these
earlier student compositions; the reference to the practice of throwing
hats into the fire is alone sufficient to suggest it. But it is as a
writer of the lyric proper that Lyly is best known. No one but Herrick,
perhaps, has given us more graceful love trifles woven about some
classical conceit. Mr Palgrave has familiarized us with the best, _Cupid
and my Campaspe played_, but there are others only less charming than
this. The same theme is employed in the following:
"O Cupid! Monarch over Kings!
Wherefore hast thou feet and wings?
Is it to show how swift thou art,
When thou would'st wound a tender heart?
Thy wings being clipped, and feet held still,
Thy bow so many would not kill.
It is all one in Venus' wanton school
Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool!
Fools in love's college
Have far more knowledge
To read a woman over,
Than a neat prating lover.
Nay, 'tis confessed
That fools please women best[125]!"
[123] Bond, III. p. 433.
[124] Bond, I. p. 36, II. p. 265.
[125] _Mother Bombie_, Act III. Sc. III. 1-14.
Another quotation must be permitted. This time it is no embroidered
conceit, but one of those lyrics of pure nature music, of which the
Renaissance poets were so lavish, touched with the fire of Spring, with
the light of hope, bird-notes untroubled by doubt, unconscious of
pessimism, which are therefore all the more charming for us who dwell
amid sunsets of intense colouring, who can see nothing but the hectic
splendours of autumn. For the melancholy nightingale the poet has
surprise and admiration, no sympathy:
"What Bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravished Nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu, she cries,
And still her woes at Midnight rise.
Brave prick song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The Morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor Robin-red-breast tunes his note.
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
'Cuckoo' to welcome in the spring,
'Cuckoo' to welcome in the spring[126]."
[126] _Campaspe_, Act V. Sc. I. 32-44. I have modernised the spelling.
This delightful song comes from the first of Lyly's dramas, and few even
of Shakespeare's lyrics can equal it. Indeed, coming as it does at the
dawn of the Elizabethan era, it seems like the cuckoo herself "to
welcome in the spring."