Two periods of the English Theatre: the first the most important--The
first conformation of the Stage, and its advantages--State of the
Histrionic Art in Shakspeare's time--Antiquities of Dramatic Literature--
Lilly, Marlow, Heywood--Ben Jonson--Criticism of his Works--Masques--
Beaumont and Fletcher--General characterization of these Poets, and
remarks on some of their Pieces--Massinger and other contemporaries of
Charles the First.
The great master of whom we have spoken in the preceding Lecture, forms so
singular an exception to the whole history of art, that we are compelled
to assign a particular place to him. He owed hardly anything to his
predecessors, and he has had the greatest influence on his successors: but
no man has yet learned from him his secret. For two whole centuries,
during which his countrymen have diligently employed themselves in the
cultivation of every branch of science and art, according to their own
confession, he has not only never yet been surpassed, but has left every
dramatic poet at a great distance behind him.
In the sketch of a history of the English theatre which I am now to give,
I shall be frequently obliged to return to Shakspeare. The dramatic
literature of the English is very rich; they can boast of a large number
of dramatic poets, who possessed in an eminent degree the talent of
original characterization, and the knowledge of theatrical effect. Their
hands were not shackled by prejudices, by arbitrary rules, and by the
anxious observance of so-called proprieties. There has never been in
England an academical court of taste; in art, as in life, every man there
gives his voice for what best pleases him, or what is most suitable to his
nature. Notwithstanding this liberty, their writers have not, however,
been able to escape the influence either of varying modes, or of the
spirit of different ages.
We shall here remain true to our principle of merely dwelling at length on
what we consider as the highest efforts of poetry, and of taking brief
views of all that occupies but the second or third place.
The antiquities of the English theatre have been sufficiently illustrated
by the English writers, and especially by Malone. The earliest dramatic
attempts were here as well as elsewhere Mysteries and Moralities. However
it would seem that in these productions the English distinguished
themselves at an earlier period than other nations. In the History of the
Council of Constance it is recorded that the English prelates, in one of
the intervals between the sittings, entertained their brethren with a
spiritual play in Latin, such as the latter were either entirely
unacquainted with, or at least in such perfection, (as perfection was
understood by the simple ideas of art of those times). The beginning of a
theatre, properly so called, cannot, however, be placed farther back than
the reign of Elizabeth. John Heywood, the buffoon of Henry VIII. is
considered as the oldest comic writer: the single _Interlude_ under
his name, published in Dodsley's collection, is in fact merely a dialogue,
and not a drama. But _Gammer Gurton's Needle_, which was first acted
about the year 1560, certainly deserves the name of a comedy. However
antiquated in language and versification, it possesses unequivocal merit
in the low comic. The whole plot turns on a lost needle, the search for
which is pursued with the utmost assiduity: the poverty of the persons of
the drama, which this supposes, and the whole of their domestic condition,
is very amusingly portrayed, and the part of a cunning beggar especially
is drawn with much humour. The coarse comic of this piece bears a
resemblance to that of the _Avocat Patelin_; yet the English play has
not, like the French, been honoured with a revival on the stage in a new
shape.
The history of the English theatre divides itself naturally into two
periods. The first begins nearly with the accession of Elizabeth, and
extends to about the end of the reign of Charles I., when the Puritans
gained the ascendency, and effected the prohibition of all plays
whatsoever. The closing of the theatres lasted thirteen years; and they
were not again opened till the restoration of Charles II. This
interruption, the change which had taken place in the mean time on the
general way of thinking and in manners, and lastly, the influence of the
French literature which was then flourishing, gave quite a different
character to the plays subsequently written. The works of the older school
were indeed in part sought out, but the school itself was extinct. I apply
the term of a "school" to the dramatical poets of the first aera, in the
same sense as it is taken in art, for with all their personal differences
we may still perceive on the whole a common character in their
productions. Independently of the language or contemporary allusions, we
should never be disposed to take a play of that school, though ignorant of
its author, and the date of its production, for a work of the more modern
period. The latter period admits of many subdivisions, but with these,
however, we may dispense. The talents of the authors, and the taste of the
public, have fluctuated in every possible way; foreign influence has
gained more and more the ascendency, and (to express myself without
circumlocution,) the English theatre has in its progress become more and
more destitute of character and independence. For a critic, who everywhere
seeks originality, troubling himself little about what has arisen from the
following or the avoiding of imitation, the dramatic poets of the first
period are by far the most important, although, with the exception of
Shakspeare, they may be reproached with great defects and extravagances,
and although many of the moderns are distinguished for a more careful
polish.
There are times when the human mind all at once makes gigantic strides in
an art previously almost unknown, as if during its long sleep it had been
collecting strength for the effort. The age of Elizabeth was in England
such an epoch for dramatic poetry. This queen, during her long reign,
witnessed the first infantine attempts of the English theatre, and its
most masterly productions. Shakspeare had a lively feeling of this general
and rapid development of qualities not before called into exercise; in one
of his sonnets he calls his age, _these time-lettering days_. The
predilection for the theatre was so great, that in a period of sixty
years, under this and the following reign, seventeen play-houses were
built or fitted up in London, whereas the capital of the present day, with
twice the population, [Footnote: The author might almost have said six
times.--TRANS.] is satisfied with two. No doubt they did not act every
day, and several of these theatres were very small, and probably not much
better fitted up than Marionette booths. However, they served to call
forth the fertility of those writers who possessed, or supposed that they
possessed, dramatic talents; for every theatre must have had its peculiar
repertory, as the pieces were either not printed at all, or at least not
till long after their composition, and as a single theatrical company was
in the exclusive possession of the manuscripts. However many of feeble and
lame productions might have been called forth, still it was impossible
that such an extensive competition should not have been advantageous. Of
all the different species of poetry the dramatic is the only one in which
experience is necessary: and the failure of others is, for the man of
talents, an experiment at their expense. Moreover, the exercise of this
art requires vigorous determination, to which the great artist is often
the least inclined, as in the execution he finds the greatest difficulty
in satisfying himself; while, on the other hand, his greatest enjoyment
consists in embodying in his own mind the beloved creation of his
imagination. It is therefore fortunate for him when the bolder forwardness
of those who, with trifling means, venture on this difficult career
stimulates him to put fresh hand to the work. Further, it is of importance
to the dramatic poet to be connected immediately with the stage, that he
may either himself guide it, or learn to accommodate himself to its wants;
and the dramatic poets of that day were, for the most part, also players.
The theatre still made small claims to literature, and it thus escaped the
pedantry of scholastic learning. There were as yet no periodical writings
which, as the instrument of cabal, could mislead opinion. Of jealousies,
indeed, and bickerings among the authors there was no want: this, however,
was more a source of amusement than of displeasure to the public, who
decided without prejudice or partiality according to the amount of
entertainment. The poets and players, as well as the spectators, possessed
in general the most essential requisite of success: a true love for the
business. This was the more unquestionable, as the theatrical art was not
then surrounded with all those foreign ornaments and inventions of luxury
which serve to distract the attention and corrupt the sense, but made its
appearance in the most modest, and we may well say in the most humble
shape. For the admirers of Shakspeare it must be an object of curiosity to
know what was the appearance of the theatre in which his works were first
performed. We have an engraving of the play-house of which he was manager,
and which, from the symbol of a Hercules supplying the place of Atlas, was
called the Globe: it is a massive structure destitute of architectural
ornaments, and almost without windows in the outward walls. The pit was
open to the sky, and the acting was by day-light; the scene had no other
decoration than wrought tapestry, which hung at some distance from the
walls, and left space for several entrances. In the back-ground of the
stage there was a second stage raised above it, a sort of balcony, which
served for various purposes, and according to circumstances signified all
manner of things. The players appeared, excepting on a few rare occasions,
in the dress of their time, or at most distinguished by higher feathers on
their hats and roses on their shoes. The chief means of disguise were
false hair and beards, and occasionally also masks. The female parts were
played by boys so long as their voice allowed it. Two companies of actors
in London consisted entirely of boys, namely, the choir of the Queen's
Chapel and that of St. Paul's. Betwixt the acts it was not customary to
have music, but in the pieces themselves marches, dances, solo songs, and
the like, were introduced on fitting occasions, and trumpet flourishes at
the entrance of great personages. In the more early time it was usual to
represent the action before it was spoken, in silent pantomime (_dumb
show_) between each act, allegorically or even without any disguise, to
give a definite direction to the expectation. Shakspeare has observed this
practice in the play in _Hamlet_.
By the present lavish appliance of every theatrical accessory;--of
architecture, lighting, music, the illusion of decorations changing in a
moment as if by enchantment, machinery and costume;--by all this, we are
now so completely spoiled, that this earlier meagreness of stage
decoration will in no wise satisfy us. Much, however, might be urged in
favour of such a constitution of the theatre. Where the spectators are not
allured by any splendid accessories, they will be the more difficult to
please in the main thing, namely, the excellence of the dramatic
composition, and its embodying by delivery and action. When perfection is
not attainable in external decoration, the critic will rather altogether
overlook it than be disturbed by its deficiencies and tastelessness. And
how seldom has perfection been here attained! It is about a century and a
half since attention began to be paid to the observance of costume on the
European stage; what with this view has been accomplished has always
appeared excellent to the multitude, and yet, to judge from the engravings
which sometimes accompany the printed plays, and from every other
evidence, it is plain that it was always characterized by puerility and
mannerism, and that in none the endeavours to assume a foreign or antique
appearance, could shake themselves free of the fashions of the time. A
sort of hoop was long considered as an indispensable appendage of a hero;
the long peruques and _fontanges_, or topknots, kept their ground in
heroical tragedy as long as in real life; afterwards it would have been
considered as barbarous to appear without powdered and frizzled hair; on
this was placed a helmet with variegated feathers; a taffeta scarf
fluttered over the gilt paper coat of mail; and the Achilles or Alexander
was then completely mounted. We have now at last returned to a purer
taste, and in some great theatres the costume is actually observed in a
learned and severe style. We owe this principally to the antiquarian
reform in the arts of design, and the approximation of the female dress to
the Grecian; for the actresses were always the most inveterate in
retaining on the stage those fashions by which they turned their charms to
account in society. However, even yet there are very few players who know
how to wear a Grecian purple mantle, or a toga, in a natural and becoming
manner; and who, in moments of passion, do not seem to be unduly occupied
with holding and tossing about their drapery.
Our system of decoration was properly invented for the opera, to which it
is also in reality best adapted. It has several unavoidable defects;
others which certainly may be, but seldom are avoided. Among the
inevitable defects I reckon the breaking of the lines in the side scenes
from every point of view except one; the disproportion between the size of
the player when he appears in the background, and the objects as
diminished in the perspective; the unfavourable lighting from below and
behind; the contrast between the painted and the actual lights and shades;
the impossibility of narrowing the stage at pleasure, so that the inside
of a palace and a hut have the same length and breadth, &c. The errors
which may be avoided are, want of simplicity and of great and reposing
masses; overloading the scenery with superfluous and distracting objects,
either from the painter being desirous of showing his strength in
perspective, or not knowing how otherwise to fill up the space; an
architecture full of mannerism, often altogether unconnected, nay, even at
variance with possibility, coloured in a motley manner which resembles no
species of stone in the world. Most scene-painters owe their success
entirely to the spectator's ignorance of the arts of design; I have often
seen a whole pit enchanted with a decoration from which the eye of skill
must have turned away with disgust, and in whose place a plain green wall
would have been infinitely better. A vitiated taste for splendour of
decoration and magnificence of dress, has rendered the arrangement of the
theatre a complicated and expensive business, whence it frequently happens
that the main requisites, good pieces and good players, are considered as
secondary matters; but this is an inconvenience which it is here
unnecessary to mention.
Although the earlier English stage had properly no decorations, we must
allow, however, that it was not altogether destitute of machinery: without
it, it is almost impossible to conceive how several pieces, for instance,
_Macbeth_, _The Tempest_, and others, could ever be represented. The
celebrated architect, Inigo Jones, who lived in the reign of James the
First, put in motion very complicated and artificial machines for the
decoration of the Masques of Ben Jonson which were acted at court.
With the Spanish theatre at the time of its formation, it was the same as
with the English, and when the stage had remained a moment empty, and
other persons came in by another entrance, a change of scene was to be
supposed though none was visible; and this circumstance had the most
favourable influence on the form of the dramas. The poet was not obliged
to consult the scene-painter to know what could or what could not be
represented; nor to calculate whether the store of decorations on hand
were sufficient, or new ones would be requisite: he was not driven to
impose restraint on the action as to change of times and places, but
represented it entirely as it would naturally have taken place: [Footnote:
Capell, an intelligent commentator on Shakspeare, unjustly underrated by
the others, has placed the advantages in this respect in the clearest
light, in an observation on _Antony and Cleopatra_. It emboldened the
poet, when the truth of the action required it, to plan scenes which the
most skilful mechanist and scene-painter could scarcely exhibit to the
eye; as for instance, in a Spanish play where sea-fights occur.] he left
to the imagination to fill up the intervals agreeably to the speeches, and
to conceive all the surrounding circumstances. This call on the fancy to
supply the deficiencies supposes, indeed, not merely benevolent, but also
intelligent spectators of a poetical tone of mind. That is the true
illusion, when the spectators are so completely carried away by the
impressions of the poetry and the acting, that they overlook the secondary
matters, and forget the whole of the remaining objects around them. To lie
morosely on the watch to detect every circumstance that may violate an
apparent reality which, strictly speaking, can never be attained, is in
fact a proof of inertness of imagination and an incapacity for mental
illusion. This prosaical incredulity may be carried so far as to render it
utterly impossible for the theatrical artists, who in every constitution
of the theatre require many indulgences, to amuse the spectators by their
productions; and thus they are, in the end, the enemies of their own
enjoyment.
We now complain, and with justice, that in the acting of Shakspeare's
pieces the too frequent change of scenes occasions an interruption. But
the poet is here perfectly blameless. It ought to be known that the
English plays of that time, as well as the Spanish, were printed without
any mention of the scene and its changes. In Shakspeare the modern editors
have inserted the scenical directions; and in doing so, they have
proceeded with the most pedantic accuracy. Whoever has the management of
the representation of a piece of Shakspeare's may, without any hesitation,
strike out at once all such changes of scene as the following:-"Another
room in the palace, another street, another part of the field of battle,"
&c. By these means alone, in most cases, the change of decorations will be
reduced to a very moderate number.
Of the actor's art on a theatre which possessed so little external
splendour as the old English, those who are in the habit of judging of the
man from his dress will not be inclined to entertain a very favourable
idea. I am induced, however, from this very circumstance, to draw quite a
contrary conclusion: the want of attractions of an accessory nature
renders it the more necessary to be careful in essentials. Several
Englishmen [Footnote: See a Dialogue prefixed to the 11th volume of
Dodsley's _Old Plays_.] have given it as their opinion, that the
players of the first epoch were in all likelihood greatly superior to
those of the second, at least with the exception of Garrick; and if we had
no other proof, the quality of Shakspeare's pieces renders this extremely
probable. That most of his principal characters require a great player is
self-evident; the elevated and compressed style of his poetry cannot be
understood without the most energetic and flexible delivery; besides, he
often supposes between the speeches a mute action of great difficulty, for
which he gives no directions. A poet who labours only and immediately for
the stage will not rely for his main effect on traits which he must
beforehand know will be lost in the representation from the unskilfulness
of his interpreters. Shakspeare consequently would have been driven to
lower the tone of his dramatic art, if he had not possessed excellent
theatrical coadjutors. Of these, some have descended by name and fame even
to our times. As for Shakspeare himself, since we are not fond of allowing
any one man to possess two great talents in an equal degree, it has been
assumed on very questionable grounds, that he was but an indifferent
actor. [Footnote: No certain account has yet been obtained of any
principal part played by Shakspeare in his own pieces. In _Hamlet_ he
played the Ghost; certainly a very important part, if we consider that
from the failure in it, the whole piece runs a risk of appearing
ridiculous. A writer of his time says in a satirical pamphlet, that the
Ghost whined in a pitiful manner; and it has been concluded from this that
Shakspeare was a bad player. What logic! On the restoration of the theatre
under Charles II., a desire was felt of collecting traditions and
information respecting the former period. Lowin, the original Hamlet,
instructed Betterton as to the proper conception of the character. There
was still alive a brother of Shakspeare, a decrepid old man, who had never
had any literary cultivation, and whose memory was impaired by age. From
him they could extract nothing, but that he had sometimes visited his
brother in town, and once saw him play an old man with grey hair and
beard. From the above description it was concluded that this must have
been the faithful servant Adam in _As You Like It_, also a second-
rate part. In most of Shakspeare's pieces we have not the slightest
knowledge of the manner in which the parts were distributed. In two of Ben
Jonson's pieces we see Shakspeare's name among the principal actors.]
Hamlet's instructions, however, to the players prove at least that he was
an excellent judge of acting. We know that correctness of conception and
judgment are not always coupled with the power of execution; Shakspeare,
however, possessed a very important and too frequently neglected requisite
for serious acting, a beautiful and noble countenance. Neither is it
probable that he could have been the manager of the most respectable
theatre, had he not himself possessed the talent both of acting and
guiding the histrionic talents of others. Ben Jonson, though a meritorious
poet, could not even obtain the situation of a player, as he did not
possess the requisite qualifications. From the passage cited from
_Hamlet_, from the burlesque tragedy of the mechanics in the _Midsummer
Night's Dream_, and many other passages, it is evident that there was then
an inundation of bad players, who fell into all the aberrations from
propriety which offend at the present day, but the public, it would
appear, knew well how to distinguish good and bad acting, and would not be
easily satisfied. [Footnote: In this respect, the following simile in
_Richard the Second_ is deserving of attention:--
As in a theatre the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious, &c.]
A thorough critical knowledge of the antiquities of the English theatre
can only he obtained in England; the old editions of the pieces which
belong to the earlier period are even there extremely rare, and in foreign
libraries they are never to be met with; the modern collectors have merely
been able to give a few specimens, and not the whole store. It would be
highly important to see together all the plays which were undoubtedly in
existence before Shakspeare entered on his career, that we might be able
to decide with certainty how much of the dramatic art it was possible for
him to learn from others. The year of the appearance of a piece on the
stage is generally, however, difficult to ascertain, as it was often not
printed till long afterwards. If in the labours of Shakspeare's
contemporaries, even the older who continued to write at the same time
with himself, we can discover resemblances to his style and traces of his
art, still it will always remain doubtful whether we are to consider these
as the feeble model, or the imperfect imitation. Shakspeare appears to
have had all the flexibility of mind, and all the modesty of Raphael, who,
also, without ever being an imitator and becoming unfaithful to his
sublime and tranquil genius, applied to his own advantage all the
improvements of his competitors.
A few feeble attempts to introduce the form of the antique tragedy with
choruses, &c., were at an early period made, and praised, without
producing any effect. They, like most of the attempts of the moderns in
this way, serve to prove how strange were the spectacles through which the
old poets were viewed; for it is hardly to be conceived how unlike they
are to the Greek tragedies, not merely in merit (for that we may easily
suppose), but even in those external circumstances which may be the most
easily seized and imitated. _Ferrex and Porrex, or the Tragedy of
Gorboduc_, is most frequently cited, which was the production of a
nobleman [Footnote: Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, conjointly with
Norton.--F.D.], in the first part of the reign of Elizabeth. Pope bestows
high praise on this piece, on account of its regularity, and laments that
the contemporary poets did not follow in the same track; for thus he
thought a classical theatre might have been formed in England. This
opinion only proves that Pope (who, however, passes for a perfect judge of
poetry,) had not even an idea of the first elements of Dramatic Art.
Nothing can be more spiritless and inanimate, nor more drawling and
monotonous in the language and the versification, than this _Ferrex and
Porrex_; and although the Unities of Place and Time are in no way
observed, and a number of events are crowded into it, yet the scene is
wholly destitute of movement: all that happens is previously announced by
endless consultations, and afterwards stated in equally endless
narratives. _Mustapha_, another unsuccessful work of a kindred
description, and also by a great lord, [Footnote: Grevile, Lord Broke.] is
a tedious web of all sorts of political subtleties; the choruses in
particular are true treatises. However, of the innumerable maxims in
rhyme, there are many which might well have a place in the later pieces of
Corneille. Kyd, one of the predecessors of Ben Jonson, and mentioned by
him in terms of praise, handled the _Cornelia_ of Garnier. This may
be called receiving an imitation of the ancients from the third or fourth
hand.
The first serious piece calculated for popular effect is _The Spanish
Tragedy_ [by Thomas Kyd], so called from the scene of the story, and
not from its being borrowed from a Spanish writer. It kept possession of
the stage for a tolerable length of time, though it was often the subject
of the ridicule and the parodies of succeeding poets. It usually happens
that the public do not easily give up a predilection formed in their first
warm susceptibility for the impressions of an art yet unknown to them,
even after they have long been acquainted with better, nay, with excellent
works. This piece is certainly full of puerilities; the author has
ventured on the picture of violent situations and passions without
suspecting his own want of power; the catastrophe, more especially, which
in horror is intended to outstrip everything conceivable, is very sillily
introduced, and produces merely a ludicrous effect. The whole is like the
drawings of children, without the observance of proportion, and without
steadiness of hand. With a great deal of bombast, the tone of the
dialogue, however, has something natural, nay, even familiar, and in the
change of scenes we perceive a light movement, which in some degree will
account for the general applause received by this immature production.
Lilly and Marlow deserve to be noticed among the predecessors of
Shakspeare. Lilly was a scholar, and laboured to introduce a stilted
elegance into English prose, and in the tone of dialogue, with such
success, that for a period he was the fashionable writer, and the court
ladies even formed their conversation after the model of his
_Euphues_. His comedy in prose, _Campaspe_, is a warning example of the
impossibility of ever constructing, out of mere anecdotes and epigrammatic
sallies, anything like a dramatic whole. The author was a learned witling,
but in no respect a poet.
Marlow possessed more real talent, and was in a better way. He has handled
the history of Edward the Second with very little of art, it is true, but
with a certain truth and simplicity, so that in many scenes he does not
fail to produce a pathetic effect. His verses are flowing, but without
energy: how Ben Jonson could come to use the expression "_Marlow's
mighty line_," is more than I can conceive. Shakspeare could neither
learn nor derive anything from the luscious manner of Lilly: but in
Marlow's _Edward the Second_ I certainly imagine that I can discover
the feebler model of the earliest historical pieces of Shakspeare.
Of the old comedies in Dodsley's collection, _The Pinner of Wakefielde_,
and _Grim, the Collier of Croydon_, seem alone to belong to a period
before Shakspeare. Both are not without merit, in the manner of Marionette
pieces; in the first, a popular tradition, and in the second, a merry
legend, is handled with hearty joviality.
I have dwelt longer on the beginnings of the English theatre, than from
their internal worth they deserve, because it has been affirmed recently
in England that Shakspeare shows more affinity to the works of his
contemporaries now sunk in oblivion than people have hitherto been usually
disposed to believe. We are as little to wonder at certain outward
resemblances, as at the similarity of the dresses in portraits of the same
period. In a more limited sense, however, we apply the word resemblance
exclusively to the relation of those features which express the spirit and
the mind. Moreover, such plays alone can be admitted to be a satisfactory
proof of an assertion of this kind as are ascertained to have been written
before the commencement of Shakspeare's career; for in the works of his
younger contemporaries, a Decker, Marston, Webster, and others, something
of a resemblance may be very naturally accounted for: distinct traces of
imitation of Shakspeare are sufficiently abundant. Their imitation was,
however, merely confined to external appearance and separate
peculiarities; these writers, without the virtues of their model, possess
in reality all the faults which senseless critics have falsely censured in
Shakspeare.
A sentence somewhat more favourable is merited by Chapman, the translator
of Homer, and Thomas Heywood, if we may judge of them from the single
specimens of their works in Dodsley's collection. Chapman has handled the
well-known story of the Ephesian matron, under the title of _The Widow's
Tears_, not without comic talent. Heywood's _Woman Killed with Kindness_
is a familiar tragedy: so early may we find examples of this species,
which has been given out for new. It is the story of a wife tenderly
beloved by her husband, and seduced by a man whom he had loaded with
benefits; her sin is discovered, and the severest resolution which
her husband can bring himself to form is to remove her from him, without
proclaiming her dishonour; she repents, and grieves to death in bitter
repentence. A due gradation is not observed in the seduction, but the last
scenes are truly agitating. A distinct avowal of a moral aim is, perhaps,
essential to the familiar tragedy; or rather, by means of such an aim, a
picture of human destinies, whether afflicting kings or private families,
is drawn from the ideal sphere into the prosaic world. But when once we
admit the title of this subordinate species, we shall find that the
demands of morality and the dramatic art coincide, and that the utmost
severity of moral principles leads again to poetical elevation. The aspect
of that false repentance which merely seeks exemption from punishment, is
painful; repentance, as the pain arising from the irreparable forfeiture
of innocence, is susceptible of a truly tragic portraiture. Let only the
play in question receive a happy conclusion, such as in a well-known piece
[Footnote: The author alludes to Kotzebue's play of _Menschenhass und
Reue--(The Stranger)_.--TRANS.] has, notwithstanding this painful
feeling, been so generally applauded in the present day--viz., the
reconciliation of the husband and wife, not on the death-bed of the
repentant sinner, but in sound mind and body, and the renewal of the
marriage; and it will then be found that it has not merely lost its moral,
but also its poetical impression.
In other respects, this piece of Heywood is very inartistic, and
carelessly finished: instead of duly developing the main action, the
author distracts our attention by a second intrigue, which can hardly be
said to have the slightest connection with the other. At this we need
hardly be astonished, for Heywood was both a player and an excessively
prolific author. Two hundred and twenty pieces were, he says, written
entirely, or for the greatest part, by himself; and he was so careless
respecting these productions, which were probably thrown off without any
great labour, that he had lost the manuscript of the most of them, and
only twenty-five remained for publication through the press.
All the above authors, and many others beside, whatever applause they
obtained in their life-time, have been unsuccessful in transmitting a
living memorial of their works to posterity. Of Shakspeare's younger
contemporaries and competitors, few have attained this distinction; and of
these Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, are the chief.
Ben Jonson found in Shakspeare a ready encourager of his talents. His
first piece, imperfect in many respects, _Every Man in his Humour_,
was by Shakspeare's intervention brought out on the stage; _Sejanus_
was even retouched by him, and in both he undertook a principal character.
This hospitable reception on the part of that great man, who was far above
every thing like jealousy and petty rivalry, met with a very ungrateful
return. Jonson assumed a superiority over Shakspeare on account of his
school learning, the only point in which he really had an advantage; he
introduced all sorts of biting allusions into his pieces and prologues,
and reprobated more especially those magical flights of fancy, the
peculiar heritage of Shakspeare, as contrary to genuine taste. In his
excuse we must plead, that he was not born under a happy star: his pieces
were either altogether unsuccessful, or, compared with the astonishing
popularity of Shakspeare's, they obtained but a small share of applause;
moreover, he was incessantly attacked, both on the stage and elsewhere, by
his rivals, as a disgraceful pedant, who pretended to know every thing
better than themselves, and with all manner of satires: all this rendered
him extremely irritable and uneven of temper. He possessed in reality a
very solid understanding; he was conscious that in the exercise of his art
he displayed zeal and earnestness: that Nature had denied him grace, a
quality which no labour can acquire, he could not indeed suspect. He
thought every man may boast of his assiduity, as Lessing says on a similar
occasion. After several failures on the stage, he formed the resolution to
declare of his pieces in the outset that they were good, and that if they
should not please, this could only proceed from the stupidity of the
multitude. The epigraph on one of his unsuccessful pieces with which he
committed it to the press, is highly amusing: "As it was never acted, but
most negligently played by some, the King's servants, and more squeamishly
beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects."
Jonson was a critical poet in the good and the bad sense of the word. He
endeavoured to form an exact estimate of what he had on every occasion to
perform; hence he succeeded best in that species of the drama which makes
the principal demand on the understanding and with little call on the
imagination and feeling,--the comedy of character. He introduced nothing
into his works which critical dissection should not be able to extract
again, as his confidence in it was such, that he conceived it exhausted
every thing which pleases and charms us in poetry. He was not aware that,
in the chemical retort of the critic, what is most valuable, the volatile
living spirit of a poem, evaporates. His pieces are in general deficient
in soul, in that nameless something which never ceases to attract and
enchant us, even because it is indefinable. In the lyrical pieces, his
Masques, we feel the want of a certain mental music of imagery and
intonation, which the most accurate observation of difficult measures
cannot give. He is everywhere deficient in those excellencies which,
unsought, flow from the poet's pen, and which no artist, who purposely
hunts for them, can ever hope to find. We must not quarrel with him,
however, for entertaining a high opinion of his own works; since, whatever
merits they have, he owed like acquired moral properties altogether to
himself. The production of them was attended with labour, and
unfortunately it is also a labour to read them. They resemble solid and
regular, edifices, before which, however, the clumsy scaffolding still
remains, to interrupt and prevent us from viewing the architecture with
ease, and receiving from it a harmonious impression.
We have of Jonson two tragical attempts, and a number of comedies and
masques.
He could have risen to the dignity of the tragic tone, but, for the
pathetic, he had not the smallest turn. As he incessantly preaches up the
imitation of the ancients, (and he had, we cannot deny, a learned
acquaintance with their works,) it is astonishing to observe how much his
two tragedies differ, both in substance and form, from the Greek tragedy.
From this example we see the influence which the prevailing tone of an
age, and the course already pursued in any art, necessarily have upon even
the most independent minds. In the historical extent given by Jonson to
his _Sejanus_ and _Cataline_, unity of time and place were entirely out of
the question; and both pieces are crowded with a multitude of secondary
persons, such as are never to be found in a Greek tragedy. In _Cataline_,
the prologue is spoken by the spirit of Sylla, and it bears a good deal of
resemblance to that of Tantalus, in the _Atreus and Thyestes_ of Seneca;
to the end of each act an instructive moralizing chorus is appended,
without being duly introduced or connected with the whole. This is the
extent of the resemblance to the ancients; in other respects, the form of
Shakspeare's historical dramas is adhered to, but without their romantic
charm. We cannot with certainty say, whether or not Jonson had the Roman
pieces of Shakspeare before him: it is probable that he had in _Cataline_
at least; but, at all events, he has not learned from him the art of being
true to history, and yet satisfying the demands of poetry. In Jonson's
hands, the subject continues history, without becoming poetry; the
political events which he has described have more the appearance of a
business than an action. _Cataline_ and _Sejanus_ are solid dramatic
studies after Sallust and Cicero, after Tacitus, Suetonius, Juvenal, and
others; and that is the best which we can say of them. In _Cataline_,
which upon the whole is preferable to _Sejanus_, he is also to be blamed
for not having blended the dissimilarity of the masses. The first act
possesses most elevation, though it disgusts us from its want of
moderation: we see a secret assembly of conspirators, and nature appears
to answer the furious inspiration of wickedness by dreadful signs. The
second act, which paints the intrigues and loves of depraved women, by
means of which the conspiracy was brought to light, treads closely on
comedy; the last three acts contain a history in dialogue, developed with
much good sense, but little poetical elevation. It is to be lamented that
Jonson gave only his own text of _Sejanus_ without communicating
Shakspeare's alterations. We should have been curious to know the means by
which he might have attempted to give animation to the monotony of the
piece without changing its plan, and how far his genius could adapt itself
to another's conceptions.
After these attempts, Jonson took his leave of the Tragic Muse, and in
reality his talents were far better suited to Comedy, and that too merely
the Comedy of Character. His characterization, however, is more marked
with serious satire than playful ridicule: the later Roman satirists,
rather than the comic authors, were his models. Nature had denied him that
light and easy raillery which plays harmlessly round every thing, and
which seems to be the mere effusion of gaiety, but which is so much the
more philosophic, as it is not the vehicle of any definite doctrine, but
merely the expression of a general irony. There is more of a spirit of
observation than of fancy in the comic inventions of Jonson. From this
cause his pieces are also defective in point of intrigue. He was a strong
advocate for the purity of the species, was unwilling to make use of any
romantic motives, and he never had recourse to a novel for the subject of
his plots. But his contrivances for the entangling and disentangling his
plot are often improbable and forced, without gaining over the imagination
by their attractive boldness. Even where he had contrived a happy plot, he
took so much room for the delineation of the characters, that we often
lose sight of the intrigue altogether, and the action lags with heavy
pace. Occasionally he reminds us of those over-accurate portrait painters,
who, to insure a likeness, think they must copy every mark of the small-
pox, every carbuncle or freckle. Frequently he has been suspected of
having, in the delineation of particular characters, had real persons in
his eye, while, at the same time, he has been reproached with making his
characters mere personifications of general ideas; and, however
inconsistent with each other these reproaches may appear, they are neither
of them, however, without some foundation. He possessed a methodical head;
consequently, where he had once conceived a character in its leading idea,
he followed it out with the utmost rigour; whatever, having no reference
to this leading idea, served merely to give individual animation, appeared
to him in the light of a digression. Hence his names are, for the most
part, expressive even to an unpleasant degree of distinctness: and, to add
to our satiety, he not unfrequently tacks explanatory descriptions to the
dramatis personae. On the other hand, he acted upon the principle, that
the comic writer must exhibit real life, with a minute and petty accuracy.
Generally he succeeded in seizing the manners of his own age and nation:
in itself this was deserving of praise; but even here he confined himself
too much to external peculiarities, to the singularities and affectations
of the modish tone which were then called humours, and which from their
nature are as transient as dresses. Hence a great part of his comic very
soon became obsolete, and as early as the re-opening of the theatre under
Charles II., no actors could be found who were capable of doing justice to
such caricatures. Local colours like these can only be preserved from
fading by the most complete seasoning with wit. This is what Shakspeare
has effected. Compare, for instance, his Osric, in _Hamlet_, with
Fastidius Brisk, in Jonson's _Every Man out of his Humour_: both are
portraitures of the insipid affectation of a courtier of the day; but
Osric, although he speaks his own peculiar language, will remain to the
end of time an exact and intelligible image of foppish folly, whereas
Fastidius is merely a portrait in a dress no longer in fashion, and
nothing more. However, Jonson has not always fallen into this error; his
Captain Bobadil, for example, in _Every Man in his Humour_, a beggarly and
cowardly adventurer, who passes himself off with young and simple people
for a Hector, is, it is true, far from being as amusing and original as
Pistol; but he also, notwithstanding the change of manners, still remains
a model in his way, and he has been imitated by English writers of comedy
in after times.
In the piece I have just named, the first work of Jonson, the action is
extremely feeble and insignificant. In the following, _Every Man out of
his Humour_, he has gone still farther astray, in seeking the comic
effect merely in caricatured traits, without any interest of situation: it
is a rhapsody of ludicrous scenes without connexion and progress. The
_Bartholomew Fair_, also, is nothing but a coarse _Bambocciate_, in which
no more connexion is to be found than usually exists in the hubbub, the
noise, the quarrelling, and thefts, which attend upon such amusements of
the populace. Vulgar delight is too naturally portrayed; the part of the
Puritan, however, is deserving of distinction: his casuistical
consultation, whether he ought to eat a sucking-pig according to the
custom of the fair, and his lecture afterwards against puppet-shows as a
heathen idolatry, are inimitable, and full of the most biting salt of
comedy. Ben Jonson did not then foresee that, before the lapse of one
generation, the Puritans would be sufficiently powerful to take a very
severe revenge on his art, on account of similar railleries.
In so far as plot is concerned, the greatest praise is merited by
_Volpone, The Alchemist_, and _Epicoene, or the Silent Woman_. In
_Volpone_ Jonson for once has entered into Italian manners, without,
however, taking an ideal view of them. The leading idea is admirable, and
for the most part worked out with masterly skill. Towards the end,
however, the whole turns too much on swindling and villany, which
necessarily call for the interference of criminal justice, and the piece,
from the punishment of the guilty, has everything but a merry conclusion.
In the _Alchemist_, both the deceivers and deceived supply a fund of
entertainment, only the author enters too deeply into the learning of
alchemy. Of an unintelligible jargon very short specimens at most ought to
be given in comedy, and it is best that they should also have a secondary
signification, of which the person who uses the mysterious language should
not himself be aware; when carried to too great a length, the use of them
occasions as much weariness as the writings themselves which served as a
model. In _The Devil's an Ass_ the poet has failed to draw due advantage
from a fanciful invention with which he opens, but which indeed was not
his own; and our expectation, after being once deceived, causes us to
remain dissatisfied with other scenes however excellently comic.
Of all Jonson's pieces there is hardly one which, as it stands, would
please on the stage in the present day, even as most of them failed to
please in his own time; extracts from them, however, could hardly fail to
be successful. In general, much might be borrowed from him, and much might
be learned both from his merits and defects. His characters are, for the
most part, solidly and judiciously drawn; what he most fails in, is the
art of setting them off by the contrast of situations. He has seldom
planned his scenes so successfully in this respect as in _Every Man in
his Humour_, where the jealous merchant is called off to an important
business, when his wife is in expectation of a visit of which he is
suspicious, and when he is anxious to station his servant as a sentinel,
without however confiding his secret to him, because, above all things he
dreads the discovery of his own jealousy. This scene is a master-piece,
and if Jonson had always so composed, we must have been obliged to rank
him among the first of comic writers.
Merely lest we should be charged with an omission do we mention _The
Masques_: allegorical, occasional pieces, chiefly designed for court
festivals, and decorated with machinery, masked dresses, dancing, and
singing. This secondary species died again nearly with Jonson himself; the
only subsequent production in this way of any fame is the _Comus_ of
Milton. When allegory is confined to mere personification, it must
infallibly turn out very frigid in a play; the action itself must be
allegorical, and in this respect there are many ingenious inventions, but
the Spanish poets have almost alone furnished us with successful examples
of it. The peculiarity of Jonson's _Masques_ most deserving of remark
seems to me to be the anti-masque, as they are called, which the poet
himself sometimes attaches to his own invention, and generally allows to
precede the serious act. As the ideal flatteries, for whose sake the gods
have been brought down from Olympus, are but too apt to fall into
mawkishness, this antidote on such occasions is certainly deserving of
commendation.
Ben Jonson, who in all his pieces took a mechanical view of art, bore a
farther resemblance to the master of a handicraft in taking an apprentice.
He had a servant of the name of Broome, who formed himself as a theatrical
writer from the conversation and instructions of his master, and brought
comedies on the stage with applause.
Beaumont and Fletcher are always named together, as if they had been two
inseparable poets, whose works were all planned and executed in common.
This idea, however, is not altogether correct. We know, indeed, but little
of the circumstances of their lives: this much however is known, that
Beaumont died very young; and that Fletcher survived his younger friend
ten years, and was so unremittingly active in his career as a dramatic
poet, that several of his plays were first brought on the stage after his
death, and some which he left unfinished were completed by another hand.
The pieces collected under both names amount to upwards of fifty; and of
this number it is probable that the half must be considered as the work of
Fletcher alone. Beaumont and Fletcher's works did not make their
appearance until a short time after the death of the latter; the
publishers have not given themselves the trouble to distinguish critically
the share which belonged to each, and still less to afford us any
information respecting the diversity of their talents. Some of their
contemporaries have attributed boldness of imagination to Fletcher, and a
mature judgment to his friend: the former, according to their opinion, was
the inventive genius; the latter, the directing and moderating critic. But
this account rests on no foundation. It is now impossible to distinguish
with certainty the hand of each; nor would the knowledge repay the labour.
All the pieces ascribed to them, whether they proceed from one alone or
from both, are composed in the same spirit and in the same manner. Hence
it is probable that it was not so much the need of supplying the
deficiencies of each other, as the great resemblance of their way of
thinking, which induced them to continue so long and so inseparably
united.
Beaumont and Fletcher began their career in the lifetime of Shakspeare:
Beaumont even died before him, and Fletcher only survived him nine years.
From some allusions in the way of parody, we may conclude that they
entertained no very extravagant admiration of their great predecessor;
from whom, nevertheless, they both learned much, and unquestionably
borrowed many of their thoughts. In the whole form of their plays they
followed his example, regardless of the different principles of Ben Jonson
and of the imitation of the ancients. Like him they drew from novels and
romances; they combined pathetic and burlesque scenes in the same play,
and, by the concatenation of the incidents, endeavoured to excite the
impression of the extraordinary and the wonderful. A wish to surpass
Shakspeare in this species is often evident enough; contemporary
eulogists, indeed, have no hesitation in ranking Shakspeare far below
them, and assert that the English stage was first brought to perfection by
Beaumont and Fletcher. And, in reality, Shakspeare's fame was in some
degree eclipsed by them in the generation which immediately succeeded, and
in the time of Charles II. they still enjoyed greater popularity: the
progress of time, however, has restored all three to their due places. As
on the stage the highest excellence will wear out by frequent repetition,
and novelty always possesses a great charm, the dramatic art is,
consequently, much influenced by fashion; it is more than other branches
of literature and the fine arts exposed to the danger of passing rapidly
from a grand and simple style to dazzling and superficial mannerism.
Beaumont and Fletcher were in fact men of the most distinguished talents;
they scarcely wanted anything more than a profounder seriousness of mind,
and that artistic sagacity which everywhere observes a due measure, to
rank beside the greatest dramatic poets of all nations. They possessed
extraordinary fecundity and flexibility of mind, and a facility which
however too often degenerated into carelessness. The highest perfection
they have hardly ever attained; and I should have little hesitation in
affirming that they had not even an idea of it: however, on several
occasions they have approached quite close to it. And why was it denied
them to take this last step? Because with them poetry was not an inward
devotion of the feeling and imagination, but a means to obtain brilliant
results. Their first object was effect, which the great artist can hardly
fail of attaining if he is determined above all things to satisfy himself.
They were not like the most of their predecessors, players, [Footnote: In
the privilege granted by James I. to the royal players, a _Laurence
Fletcher_ is named along with Shakspeare as manager of the company. The
poet's name was John Fletcher. Perhaps the former might be his brother or
near relation.] but they lived in the neighbourhood of the theatre, were
in constant intercourse with it, and possessed a perfect understanding of
theatrical matters. They were also thoroughly acquainted with their
contemporaries; but they found it more convenient to lower themselves to
the taste of the public than to follow the example of Shakspeare, who
elevated the public to himself. They lived in a vigorous age, which more
willingly pardoned extravagancies of every description than feeblenesss
and frigidity. They therefore never allowed themselves to be restrained by
poetical or moral considerations; and in this confidence they found their
account: they resemble in some measure somnambulists, who with closed eyes
pass safely through the greatest dangers. Even when they undertake what is
most depraved they handle it with a certain felicity. In the commencement
of a degeneracy in the dramatic art, the spectators first lose the
capability of judging of a play as a whole; hence Beaumont and Fletcher
bestow very little attention on harmony of composition and the observance
of due proportion between all the different parts. They not unfrequently
lose sight of a happily framed plot, and appear almost to forget it; they
bring something else forward equally capable of affording pleasure and
entertainment, but without preparation, and in the particular place where
it occurs without propriety. They always excite curiosity, frequently
compassion--they hurry us along with them; they succeed better, however,
in exciting than in gratifying our expectation. So long as we are reading
them we feel ourselves keenly interested; but they leave very few
imperishable impressions behind. They are least successful in their tragic
attempts, because their feeling is not sufficiently drawn from the depths
of human nature, and because they bestowed too little attention on the
general consideration of human destinies: they succeed much better in
Comedy, and in those serious and pathetic pictures which occupy a middle
place betwixt Comedy and Tragedy. Their characters are often arbitrarily
drawn, and, when it suits the momentary wants of the poet, become even
untrue to themselves; in external matters they are tolerably in keeping.
Beaumont and Fletcher employ the whole strength of their talents in
pictures of passion; but they enter little into the secret history of the
heart; they pass over the first emotions and the gradual heightening of a
feeling; they seize it, as it were, in its highest maturity, and then
develope its symptoms with the most overpowering illusion, though with an
exaggerated strength and fulness. But though its expression does not
always possess the strictest truth, nevertheless it still appears natural,
every thing has free motion; nothing is laboriously constrained or far-
fetched, however striking it may sometimes appear. In their dialogue they
have completely succeeded in uniting the familiar tone of real
conversation and the appearance of momentary suggestion with poetical
elevation. They even run into that popular affectation of the natural
which has ensured such great success to some dramatic poets of our own
time; but as the latter sought it in the absence of all elevation of
fancy, they could not help falling into insipidity. Beaumont and Fletcher
generally couple nature with fancy; they succeed in giving an
extraordinary appearance to what is common, and thus preserve a certain
fallacious image of the ideal. The morality of these writers is ambiguous.
Not that they failed in strong colours to contrast greatness of soul and
goodness with baseness and wickedness, or did not usually conclude with
the disgrace and punishment of the latter, but an ostentatious generosity
is often favourably exhibited in lieu of duty and justice. Every thing
good and excellent in their pictures arises more from transient ebullition
than fixed principle; they seem to place the virtues in the blood; and
close beside them impulses of merely a selfish and instinctive nature hold
up their heads, as if they were of nobler origin. There is an incurable
vulgar side of human nature which, when he cannot help but show it, the
poet should never handle without a certain bashfulness; but instead of
this Beaumont and Fletcher throw no veil whatever over nature. They
express every thing bluntly in words; they make the spectator the
unwilling confidant of all that more noble minds endeavour even to hide
from themselves. The indecencies in which these poets indulged themselves
go beyond conception. Licentiousness of language is the least evil; many
scenes, nay, even whole plots, are so contrived that the very idea, not to
mention the beholding of them, is a gross insult to modesty. Aristophanes
is a bold mouth-piece of sensuality; but like the Grecian statuaries in
the figures of satyrs, &c., he banishes them into the animal kingdom to
which they wholly belong; and judging him by the morality of his times, he
is much less offensive. But Beaumont and Fletcher hold up to view the
impure and nauseous colours of vice in quite a different sphere; their
compositions resemble the sheet, in the vision of the Apostle, full of
pure and impure animals. This was the universal tendency of the dramatic
poets under James and Charles I. They seem as if they purposely wished to
justify the assertion of the Puritans, that theatres were so many schools
of seduction and chapels of the Devil.
To those who merely read for amusement and general cultivation, we can
only recommend the works of Beaumont and Fletcher with some limitation
[Footnote: Hence I cannot approve of the undertaking, which has been
recently commenced, of translating them into German. They are not at all
adapted for our great public, and whoever makes a particular study of
dramatic poetry will have little difficulty in finding his way to the
originals.]. For the practical artist, however, and the critical judge of
dramatic poetry, an infinite deal may be learned from them; as well from
their merits as their extravagancies. A minute dissection of one of their
works, for which we have not here the necessary space, would serve to
place this in the clearest light. With regard to representation, these
pieces had, in their day, this advantage, that they did not require such
great actors to fill the principal characters as Shakspeare's plays did.
In order to bring them on the stage in our days, it would be necessary to
re-cast most of them; which might be done with some of them by omitting,
moderating, and purging various passages [Footnote: So far as I know only
one play has yet been brought on the German theatre, namely, _Rule a Wife
and have a Wife_, re-written by Schröder under the title of _Stille Wasser
sind tief_ (Still Waters run deep) which, when well acted, has always been
uncommonly well received.].
_The Two Noble Kinsmen_ is deserving of more particular mention, as
it is the joint production of Shakspeare and Fletcher. I see no ground for
calling this in question; the piece, it is true, did not make its
appearance till after the death of both; but what could be the motive with
the editor or printer for any deception, as Fletcher's name was at the
time in as great, at least, if not greater celebrity than Shakspeare's?
Were it the sole production of Fletcher, it would, undoubtedly, have to be
ranked as the best of his serious and heroic pieces. However, it would be
unfair to a writer of talent to take from him a work simply because it
seems too good for him. Might not Fletcher, who in his thoughts and images
not unfrequently shows an affinity to Shakspeare, have for once had the
good fortune to approach closer to him than usual? It would still be more
dangerous to rest on the similarity of separate passages to others in
Shakspeare. This might rather arise from imitation. I rely therefore
entirely on the historical statement, which, probably, originated in a
tradition of the players. There are connoisseurs, who, in the pictures of
Raphael, (which, as is well know, were not always wholly executed by
himself,) take upon them to determine what parts were painted by Francesco
Penni, or Giulio Romano, or some other scholar. I wish them success with
the nicety of their discrimination; they are at least secure from
contradiction, as we have no certain information on the subject. I would
only remind these connoisseurs, that Giulio Romano was himself deceived by
a copy from Raphael of Andrea del Sarto's, and that, too, with regard to a
figure which he had himself assisted in painting. The case in point is,
however, a much more complicated problem in criticism. The design of
Raphael's figures was at least his own, and the execution only was
distributed in part among his scholars. But to find out how much of _The
Two Noble Kinsmen_ may belong to Shakspeare, we must not only be able
to tell the difference of hands in the execution, but also to determine
the influence of Shakspeare on the plan of the whole. When, however, he
once joined another poet in the production of a work, he must also have
accommodated himself, in a certain degree, to his views, and renounced the
prerogative of unfolding his inmost peculiarity. Amidst so many grounds
for doubting, if I might be allowed to hazard an opinion, I should say,
that I think I can perceive the mind of Shakspeare in a certain ideal
purity, which distinguishes this piece from all others of Fletcher's, and
in the conscientious fidelity with which the story adheres to that of
Chaucer's _Palamon and Arcite_. In the style Shakspeare's hand is at
first discoverable in a brevity and fulness of thought bordering on
obscurity; in the colour of the expression, almost all the poets of that
time bear a strong resemblance to each other. The first acts are most
carefully laboured; afterwards the piece is drawn out to too great a
length and in an epic manner; the dramatic law of quickening the action
towards the conclusion, is not sufficiently observed. The part of the
jailor's daughter, whose insanity is artlessly conducted in pure
monologues, is certainly not Shakspeare's; for, in that case, we must
suppose him to have had an intention of arrogantly imitating his own
Ophelia.
Moreover, it was then a very general custom for two or even three poets to
join together in the production of one play. Besides the constant example
of Beaumont and Fletcher, we have many others. The consultations,
respecting the plan, were generally held at merry meetings in taverns.
Upon one of these occasions it happened that one in a poetical
intoxication calling out, "I will undertake to kill the king!" was
immediately taken into custody as a traitor, till the misunderstanding was
cleared up. This mode of composing may answer very well in the lighter
species of the drama, which require to be animated by social wit. With
regard to theatrical effect, four eyes may, in general, see better than
two, and mutual objections may be of use in finding out the most suitable
means. But the highest poetical inspiration is much more eremitical than
communicative; for it always seeks to express something which sets
language at defiance, which, therefore, can only be weakened and
dissipated by detached words, and can only be attained by the common
impression of the complete work, whose idea is hovering before it.
_The Knight of the Burning Pestle_, of Beaumont and Fletcher, is an
incomparable work and singular in its kind. It is a parody of the chivalry
romances; the thought is borrowed from _Don Quixote_, but the imitation is
handled with freedom, and so particularly applied to Spenser's _Fairy
Queen_, that it may pass for a second invention. But the peculiarly
ingenious novelty of the piece consists in the combination of the irony of
a chimerical abuse of poetry with another irony exactly the contrary, of
the incapacity to comprehend any fable, and the dramatic form more
particularly. A grocer and his wife come as spectators to the theatre:
they are discontented with the piece which has just been announced; they
demand a play in honour of the corporation, and Ralph, their apprentice,
is to act a principal part in it. Their humour is complied with; but still
they are not satisfied, make their remarks on every thing, and incessantly
address themselves to the players. Ben Jonson had already exhibited
imaginary spectators, but they were either benevolent expounders or
awkward censurers of the poet's views: consequently, they always conducted
his, the poet's, own cause. But the grocer and his wife represent a whole
genus, namely, those unpoetical spectators, who are destitute of a feeling
for art. The illusion with them becomes a passive error; the subject
represented has on them all the effect of reality, they accordingly resign
themselves to the impression of each moment, and take part for or against
the persons of the drama. On the other hand, they show themselves
insensible to all genuine illusion, that is, of entering vividly into the
spirit of the fable: for them Ralph, however heroically and chivalrously
he may conduct himself, is always Ralph their apprentice; and in the whim
of the moment they take upon them to demand scenes which are quite
inconsistent with the plan of the piece that has been commenced. In short,
the views and demands with which poets are often oppressed by a prosaical
public are very cleverly and amusingly personified in these caricatures of
spectators.
_The Faithful Shepherdess_, a pastoral, is highly extolled by some
English critics, as it is without doubt finished with great care, in
rhymed, and partly, in lyrical verses. Fletcher wished also to be
classical for once, and did violence to his natural talent. Perhaps he had
the intention of surpassing Shakspeare's _Midsummer Night's Dream_;
but the composition which he has ushered into the world is as heavy as
that of the other was easy and aërial. The piece is overcharged with
mythology and rural painting, is untheatrical, and so far from pourtraying
the genuine ideality of a pastoral world, it even contains the greatest
vulgarities. We might rather call it an immodest eulogy of chastity. I am
willing to hope that Fletcher was unacquainted with the _Pastor Fido_
of Guarini, for otherwise his failure would admit of less justification.
We are in want of space to speak in detail of the remaining works of
Beaumont and Fletcher, although they might be made the subject of many
instructive observations. On the whole, we may say of these writers that
they have built a splendid palace, but merely in the suburbs of poetry,
while Shakspeare has his royal residence in the very centre point of the
capital.
The fame of Massinger has been lately revived by an edition of his works.
Some literary men wish to rank him above Beaumont and Fletcher, as if he
had approached more closely to the excellence of Shakspeare. I cannot see
it. He appears to me to bear the greatest resemblance to Beaumont and
Fletcher in the plan of the pieces, in the tone of manners, and even in
the language and negligences of versification. I would not undertake to
decide, from internal symptoms, whether a play belonged to Massinger, or
Beaumont and Fletcher. This applies also to the other contemporaries; for
instance, to Shirley, of whose pieces two are stated to have crept into
the works ascribed to the two last-named poets. There was (as already
said) at this time in England a school of dramatic art, a school of which
Shakspeare was the invisible and too often unacknowledged head; for Ben
Jonson remained almost without successors. It is a characteristic of what
is called manner in art to efface the features of personal originality,
and to make the productions of various artists bear a resemblance to each
other; and from manner no dramatic poet of this age, who succeeded
Shakspeare, can be pronounced altogether free. When, however, we compare
their works with those of the succeeding age, we perceive between them
something about the same relation as between the paintings of the school
of Michel Angelo and those of the last half of the seventeenth and the
first half of the eighteenth century. Both are tainted with manner; but
the manner of the former bears the trace of a sublime origin in the first
ages; in the latter, all is little, affected, empty, and superficial. I
repeat it: in a general history of the dramatic art, the first period of
the English theatre is the only one of importance. The plays of the least
known writers of that time, (I venture to affirm this, though I am far
from being acquainted with all of them) are more instructive for theory,
and more remarkable, than the most celebrated of all the succeeding times.