subject, and the sphere of life in which its scene is laid, is not unworthy of its place in the history of the English drama. However, in language, delineation of character, and invention, it falls far short of the other two. Particularly famous in their day were the two pieces of Richard Edwards, the Queen's music-master, which he composed and published a year before his death, (which took place in 1566), under the titles of " Damon and Pythias," and of "Palamon and Arcites." The former is given in Dodsley's Collection, and the latter has been made use of by Fletcher in his "Two Noble Kinsmen." A contemporary, Thomas Twine, calls Edwards

"the flower of our realm,

And Phoenix of our age."

In truth, his "Damon and Pythias," spite of its many absurdities, is distinguished from all its predecessors by great poetical merits, beauty of language, and the easy flow of its rhyming verses; although in respect to dramatic form, development of plot, and invention, the improvement, if any, is very slight.

Whetstone's "Promos and Cassandra," (1578) which in all likelihood furnished Shakspeare with materials for his "Measure for Measure," forms, as Tieck correctly observes, the transition from the learned imitations of the ancients to the proper national drama, notwithstanding that the latter is ridiculed and censured in Whetstone's dedication, for its neglect of Aristotle's rules. However, the learned style never ceased entirely. Even in 1587, the students of Gray's Inn acted before the Queen a tragedy of Thomas Hughes, "The Misfortunes of Arthur," which was written altogether after the ancient models, and was furnished, in compliance with the prevailing taste, with Dumb-shows, in the management of which the famous Sir Francis, afterwards Lord, Bacon took part. The rules of Aristotle are here, indeed, more strictly observed than in the older pieces of a like nature. The whole consists accordingly of long speeches, with nothing like a proper action, though in other respects it is not without merit.

It would be as unjust as it would be contrary to fact, to allow no place in the history of art to these early attempts to shape the modern drama after the ancient models, or to seek to gainsay the degree in which they contributed to its development. The in

fluence which they undoubtedly exercised was partly negative, in so far as they tended to keep the artistic matter clear from excrescences and deformities of every kind, and as they contributed to the purification of the dramatic atmosphere from the miasmas of the ecclesiastical and political history of the day, and thereby assisted art in its struggles for independence; and partly also of a general nature, in that they awakened and promoted a sense of artistic form and construction, and of true dramatic development. On the other hand, it was fortunate that the effect of these essays was not greater and more extensive; that they appeared too early, and were too poor and meagre for the popular taste to rest satisfied with them. For it cannot be doubted for a moment that an indiscriminate and slavish imitation of the classical models has proved the ruin of the French, and greatly injured the Italian Theatre. The English poets troubled themselves little or nothing about the rules of Aristotle. Freshly and freely they followed their own path, whilst, consciously or unconsciously, they steadily adopted, refined, and elaborated those elements of art which they found living in the national mind itself, and at the same time, also, that sense of form which the study of the ancients had served to awaken. Their principal object was to excite and to rivet the popular mind; for this purpose it was necessary for them to sympathise closely with, but at the same time to rise somewhat above it, and above all to apply themselves to subjects at once interesting and intelligible to the people: to employ these elements with the greatest possible effect, and at the same time to satisfy more and more all the requisitions of art, was their unceasing endeavour. Such, in short, is the end of every development of art, and in the undisturbed pursuit of this object it invariably attains to its highest perfection. It was only in the course of such a natural progress that a Shakspeare could have arisen.

Unfortunately we have to regret the entire loss of the fifty-two dramas, of various kinds, (eighteen histories, twenty-one pieces from modern story and novels, seven comedies, and six morals,) which, in twelve years from 1568-80, were brought out by the several companies of players in the service of the Queen or wealthy nobles for the entertainment of Elizabeth. In order, therefore, in some

measure to indicate the character of the period before Shakspeare's arrival in London, (1586,) and particularly the form and substance of the national drama at that date, I shall select two pieces which, it is true, were in all likelihood written many years later, but which (as appears to me no less likely) were composed altogether in the spirit and taste of a period in which the steps of art were too feeble and tottering to advance with the mighty strides which the talents of a Greene, a Marlow, and a Shakspeare subsequently enabled it to take. I allude to the "Jeronimo," with its second part, "The Spanish Tragedy," and to "Grimm, the Collier of Croydon." The former, which dates about 1588, may be regarded as the model after which, before the appearance of Shakspeare and his older and more celebrated contemporaries, tragedy was usually composed to meet the popular taste; while in "Grimm, the Collier of Croydon," we have, on the other hand, the model of comedy for the corresponding period. Although the author of the latter piece is unknown, and its date quite uncertain, yet to judge from external evidence (Collier, iii. 26) it cannot have been much later than the "Jeronimo," and is perfectly available for my purpose.

Schlegel's criticism of the "Jeronimo" is as excellent in itself as it is strikingly complete for our purpose.-"This piece is, in truth, replete with bad taste. The writer has ventured on the description of the most forcible situations and passions without any mistrust of his own powers, and the catastrophe especially, which in horror surpasses all conception, is so absurdly brought about as to produce a ridiculous rather than a mournful impression. The whole resembles a child's drawing, scrawled with an unsteady hand, and observing no proportion. With much bombast, however, the dialogue yet possesses a natural, not to say familiar, tone; and in the succession of scenes, a light movement is discernible, which, in some degree, accounts for the general favour with which this unfinished and imperfect work was received." I will only add that, in my judgment, the thoughts, language, and characters, are not without a degree of spirit and force, and are occasionally bold and original. As to "Grimm, the Collier of Croydon," Schlegel does not enter into details. When, however, he joins it with "George a Green, the Pinner of Wakefield," and expresses his opinion that both are not without merit, &c., he appears to me to overrate its

merits. In my opinion it stands in the domain of comedy exactly on the same line that the "Jeronimo" does in tragedy, whereas the "Pinner of Wakefield” holds a far higher place. It is in equally bad taste with "Jeronimo," equally irregular in structure, and abounds in coarseness and vulgarity, which in comedy are the exact counterpart to the bombast of serious dialogue. As, however, according to the statements of English critics, this piece was reprinted as lately as 1600, in an edition now lost, it would seem to have long retained a place in the popular favour.

In fact and herein the best English critics also agree with us -want of proportion and symmetry, and of adequate motives for the incidents and action of the piece, and, consequently, absence of plan, were the chief defects of the early English drama. That which in a maturer age of art, and under the empire of reflection, the poet readily attains to, is his greatest difficulty in its infancy, while fancy and sensibility are predominant. With all the fervour of youth the English poets of this period put forth successively, or crowded together all the riches of fancy, feeling, and affection, often compressing into a single piece several wholly distinct actions, and heaping incident upon incident, and as often, on the other hand, unnaturally and painfully drawing out a bald and simple story with long and tedious speeches. The scenes, often nothing more than detached situations, were arbitrarily arranged; the complication as well as the denouement of the plot was often lugged in by the ears, and as often unnaturally delayed. In short, in the same way that old paintings are frequently happy in individual parts, while the grouping and arrangement of the different figures are, for the most part, arbitrary, stiff, and constrained, so too in the early drama we meet with great want of true artistic composition. That which is generally the most difficult point in every kind of art must especially have perplexed the christian poet and artist. For the spirit of christian art, unconsciously indeed, but nevertheless from an absolute necessity, stood in need of a certain fulness of matter, and a greater multitude of figures, actions, and events, than were required by pagan art. Christianity has no mythology; to the christian view of things the Divine no longer presents itself before man in an objective sensuous shape, and cannot, therefore, exercise an immediate and external influence on his affairs. The

sons of gods and godlike heroes are no more; by the one incarnation of the Deity all have been alike called to union with God. The Holy Spirit operates internally on all, and every one bears the Divinity within himself. The mystic heroes of the ancient drama, those typical representations of the general qualities of human nature, are wanting entirely in the modern dramatists. Consequently, if their poetry is to have universal import, if the general principles of humanity are to be exhibited objectively, not merely in the character of the acting personages, but also in the exhibited action, they must accomplish this object by a factitious and ideal repetition of it in the greatest possible variety of personages, actions, and events. This requisition of the spirit of christian art the poet involuntarily obeyed, wherever it sprung up freely from the christian enlightenment of the nation; and consequently, while the ancient drama, which had its origin in the greater lyrical simplicity, was continually enlarging the number of actors, the range of subject, and the complication of the action, the modern drama followed a directly opposite course. This is at once proved by the vast extent of subject chosen for representation in the old Mysteries, and which, if indeed it was somewhat reduced at first in the Moralities, from certain external considerations, soon swelled again to equal, if not greater bulk. But now artistically to elaborate such masses is more difficult, than (what was the first problem with Eschylus) so to dispose three persons and a chorus as to form a well-rounded and harmonious whole. No wonder, therefore, that the earlier English dramatists did not at once succeed in this difficult task; no wonder that much of the mass of action and events remained without adequate motive, and that consequently the epic element maintained its predominance, in so far as the incidents of the fable, instead of arising by necessity out of the characters of the personages of the poem or from the position of affairs, followed each other in simple and arbitrary succession.

From the same cause the early English dramatists fell into error as to the very idea of Tragedy. In order to ensure to it its general importance and the greatest possible effect, they exaggerated it even to the terrific and horrible, and to accomplish this they had recourse to the most forced situations, to descriptions of the wildest outbreaks of overwrought passions, and to a diction over