gentleman of Stamford, no sooner heard of my design, than he obligingly sent me all the copies which he possessed; the Rev. P. Bayles of Colchester (only known to me by this act of kindness) presented me with a small but choice selection; and Mr. Malone, with a liberality which I shall ever remember with gratitude and delight, furnished me, unsolicited, with his invaluable collectiont, among which I found all the first editions: these, with such as I could procure in the course of a few months from the booksellers, in addition to the copies in the Museum, and in the rich collection of his Majesty, which I consulted from time to time, form the basis of the present Work.

With these aids I sat down to the business of collation: it was now that I discovered, with no less surprise than indiguation, those alterations and omis

⚫ I must not omit that Mr. Gilchrist (whose name will occur more than once in the ensuing pages), together with his copies of Massinger, transmitted a number of usetul and judicious observations on the Poet, derived from his exten sive acquaintance with our old historians.

It was,

For this, I owe Mr. Malone my peculiar thanks: bnt the admirers of Massinger must join with me in expressing their gratitude to him for an obligation of a more public kind; for the communication of that beautiful tragment, which now appears in print for the first time, "The Parliament of Love." From "The History of the English Stage," prefixed to Mr. Malone's edition of Shakspeare, I learned that "Four acts of an unpublished drama, by Massinger, were still extant in manusc ipt." As I auxionsly wished to render this edition as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone, with whom I had not the pleasure of being per sonally acquainted, to know where it might be found; in return, he informed me that the manuscript was in his pos Bession: its state, he added, was such, that he doubted whether much advantage could be derived from it, but that I was entirely welcome to make the experiment. Of this permission, which I accepted with singular pleasure, I instantly availed myself, and received the manuscript. indeed, in a forlorn condition: several leaves were torn from the beginning, and the top and bottom of every page wasted by damps, to which it had formerly been exposed. On examination, however, I had the satisfaction to find, that a considerable part of the first act, which was supposed to be lost, yet exi-ted, and that a certain degree of attention, which I was not unwilling to bestow on it, might recover nearly the whole of the remainder. How I succeeded, may be seen in the present volume; where the reader will hud such an accomt, as was consistent with the brevity of my plan, of the singular institution on which the fable is founded. Perhaps the subject merits no further consideration: I would, however, just observe, that, since the article was printed, I have been furnished by my friend, the Rev. R. Nares, with a curious old volume, called "Aresta Amorum, or Ariels d'Amour," written in French by Martial d'Auverene, who died in 1508. It is not possible to imagine any thing more frivolous than the canses, or rather appeals, which are supposed to be heard in this Court of Love. What is, however somewhat extraordinary, is, that these miserable trifles are commented upon by Benoit le Court, a celebrated jurisconsult of these times, with a degree of seriousness which would not disgrace the most important questions. Every Greek and Roman writer, then known, is qnoted with profusion, to prove some trite position dropt at random: occa sion is also taken to descant on many subtle points of law, which might not be altogether, perhaps, without their interest. I have nothing further to say of this elaborate piece of foolery, which I read with equal wearisomeness and disgust, but which serves, perhaps, to show that these Parlia ments of Love, though confessedly aginary, occupied much of the public attention, than that it had probably fallen into Massinger's hands, as the scene between Bellisant and Clarindore (page 156) seems to be founded on the first appeal which is heard in the "Arrets d'Amour."

I have no intention of entering into the dispute respecting the comparative merits of the first and second tolios of Shakspeare. Of assinger, however, I may be allowed to say, that I constantly found the earliest editions the most correct. A palpable error might be, and, indeed, sometimes was removed in the subsequent ones, but the spirit, and what I would call the raciness, of the author only appeared complete in the original copies.

sions of which I have already spoken; and wrieb 1 made it my first care to reform and supply. At the outset, finding it difficult to conceive that the variations in Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason were the effect of ignorance or caprice. I imagined that an authority for them might be somewhere found, and therefore collated not only every edition, but even several copies of the same edition; what began in necessity was continued by choice, and every play has under gone, at least, five close examinations with the ori ginal text. On this strictness of revision rests the great distinction of this edition from the preceding ones, from which it will be found to vary in an infinite number of places: indeed, accuracy, as Mr. M. Mason says, is all the merit to which it pretends; and though I not provoke, yet I see no reason to deprecate the consequences of the severest scrutiny.

There is yet another distinction. The old copies rarely specify the place of action: such, indeed, was the poverty of the stage, that it admitted of little variety. A plain curtain hung up in a corner, separated distant regions; and if a board were advanced with Milan and Florence written upon it, the delusion was complete. "A table with pen and ink thrust in," signified that the stage was a countinghouse; if these were withdrawn, and two stools put in their places, it was then a tavern. Instances of this may be found in the margin of all our old plays, which seem to be copied from the prompters' books; and Mr. Malone might have produced from his Massinger alone, more than enough to satisfy the vertest sceptic, that the notion of scenery, as we now understand it, was utterly unknown to the stage. Indeed, he had so much the advantage of the argument without these aids, that I have always wondered how Steevens could so long support, and so strenuously contend for, his most hopeless cause. But he was a wit and a scholar; and there is some pride in showing how dexterously a clumsy weapon may be wielded by a practised swordsman. With all this, however, I have ventured on an arrangement of the scenery. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three plays, and their ill success in a matter of no extraordinary difficulty, proves how much they mistook their talents, when they commenced the trade of editorship, with little more than the negative qualities of heedlessness and inexperience.t

• In some of these plays I discovered that an error had been detected after a part of the impression was worked off, and consequently corrected, or what was more frequently the case, exchanged for another.

• Heealessness and inexperience.] Those who recollect the boast of Mr. M. Vason, will be somewhat surprised, perhaps, even after all which they have heard, at learning that, in so simple a matter as marking the exits, this gentleman blunders at every step. If Pope new wore alive, he need nt apply to his black letter plays for such niceties as ezit omnes, enter three black witches solus, &c. Mr. M. Mason's edition, which he "flatters himself will be found more correet than the best of those which have been yet published of any other ancient dramatic writer," would furnish abund. ance of them. His copy of The Fatal Dowry,' now lies before me, and, in the compass of a few pages, I observe, Exit officers with Novall (196), Exit Charalois, Creditors, and fires (200), Exit Romont and Servant (215), Erit Novalt senior and Pontalier (258), &c. All exit, occurs in "The Emperor of the East (311), Exit Gentlemen (224), and Exit Tiberio and Stephano (245), in "The Duke of Milan: these last blunders are voluntary on the part of the editor. Coxeter, whom he usually follows, reads Er. for Exeunt: the filling up, therefore, is solely due to his own ingennity. Similar instances might be produced from every play. I would

See his Preface to Shakspeare.

I come now to the notes. Those who are accustomed to the crowded pages of our modern editors, will probably be somewhat startled at the comparative nakedness If this be an error it is a voluntary one. I never could conceive why the readers of cur old dramatists should be suspected of labouring under greater degree of ignorance than those of any other class of iters; yet, from the trite and iu gr hcant materials amassed for their information, it is evident that a persuasion of this nature is uncommonly prevalent. Customs which are universal, and expressions "familiar as household words" in every mouth, are illustrated, that is to say, overlaid, by an immensity of parallel passages, with just as much wisdom and reach of thought as would be evinced by him who, to explain any simple word in this line, should empty upon the reader all the examples to be found under it in Johnson's Dictionary!

This cheap and miserable display of minute erudition grew up, in great measure, with Warton: -peace to his manes! the cause of sound literature has been fearfully avenged upon his head: and, the knight-errant who, with his attendant Bowles, the dullest of all mortal squires, sallied forth in quest of the original proprietor of every common word in Milton, has had his copulatives and disjunctives, his buts and his ands, sedulously ferretted out from all the school-books in the kingdom. As a prose writer, he will long continue to instruct and delight ; but as a poet he is buried-lost. He is not of the Titans, nor does he possess sufficient vigour to shake off the weight of incumbent mountains.

However this may be, I have proceeded on a dif ferent plan. Passages that only exercise the memory, by suggesting similar thoughts and expressions in other writers, are, if somewhat obvious, generally left to the reader's own discovery. Uncommon and obsolete words are briefly explained,

not infer from this, that Mr. M. Mason is unacquainted with the meaning of so common a word; but if we relieve him from the chrge of ignorance, what becomes of his accuracy? Indeed, it is difficult to say on what precise exertion of this faculty his claims to favour were founded. Sometimes characters come in that never go out, and go ont that never come in; at other times they speak before they enter, or after they have left the stage, nay, "to make it the more gracions," after they are asleep or dead! Here one mode of spelling is adopted, there another; here Coxeter is servilely followed, there capriciously deserted; here the scenes are numbered, there continned without distinction; here arides are multiplied without necessity, there suppressed with manifest injury to the sense: while the page is every where encumbered with marginal directions, which being intended solely for the property-man, who, as has been already mentioned, hid but few properties at his disposal, can now only be regarded as designed to excite a smile at the expense of the author. Nor is this all: the absurd scenery introduced by Coxeter is continued. in despight of common Bense: the lists of dramatis personæ are imperfectly given In every instance; and even that of "The Fatal Dowry," which has no description of the characters, is left by Mr. M. Mason as he found it, though nothing can be more destruc tive of that uniformity which the reader is led to expect from the bold pretensions of his preface. I hope it is needless to add, that these irregularities will not be found in the present volume.

and, where the phraseology was doubtful or obscure, it is illustrated and confirmed by quotations from contemporary authors. In this part of the work no abuse has been attempted of the reader's patience the most positive that could be found, are given, and a scrupulous attention is every where paid to brevity; as it has been always my rs' asion,

"That where one's proofs are aptly chosen, Four are as valid as four dozen."

I do not know whether it may be proper to add here, that the treedoms of the author (of which, as none can be more sensible than myself, so none can more lament taem) have obtained lite o my solicitude: those, therefore, who examine the notes with a prurient eye, will find no gratification in :beir licentiousness. I have called in no Amner to drivel out gratuitous obscenities in uncouth language; no Collins (whose name should be devoted to lasting infamy) to ransack the annals of a brothel for secret "better hidt;" where I wished not to detain the reader, I have been silent, and instead of aspiring to the fame of a licentious commentator, sought only for the quiet approbation with which the father or the busband may reward the faithful editor.

But whatever may be thought of my own notes, the critical observations that follow each play, and, above all, the eloquent and masterly delineation of Massinger's character, subjoined to "The Old Law," by the companion of my youth, the friend of my matur r years, the inseparable and affectionate associate of my pleasures and my pains, my graver and my lighter studies, the Rev. Dr. Ireland, will, I am persuaded, be received with peculiar pleasure, if precision, vigour, discrimination, and originality, preserve their usual claims to

• In uncouth language] It is singular that Mr. Steevens, who was so well acquainted with the words of our ancient writers, should be so ignorant of their style. The language which he has put into the month of Aniner is a barbarons jumble of different ages, that never had, and never could have, a prototype.

One book which (not being, perhaps, among the arc ives so carefully explord for the benefit of the youthful reader of Shakspeare) seems to have escaped the notice of Mr. Collins, may yet be safely commended to his future researches, as not unlikely to reward his pains. He will find in it, among many other thing, equally valuable, that "The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom, neither at any time the counsel of sinners prudence." --Eccles xix. 22.

Prebendary of Westminster, and Vicar of Croydon a Surrey.

It might be urged, as a proof of our possessing a uperfluity of good plays in our language, that one of cur best dramatic writers is very generally disregarded. But whatever conclusion may be drawn from this fact, it will not be easy to free the public from the suspicion of caprice, while it continues to idolize Shakspeare, and to neglect an author not often much inferior, and sometimes nearly equal, to that wonderful poet. Massinger's fate has, indeed, been hard, far beyond the common topics of the infelicity of genius. He was not merely denied the fortune for which he laboured, and the fame which he merited; a still more cruel circumstance has attended his productions: literary pilferers have built their reputation on his obscurity, and the popularity of their stolen beauties has diverted the public attention from the excellent original.

An attempt was made in favour of this injured poet, in 1761, by a new edition of his works, attended with a critical dissertation on the old English dramatists, in which, though composed with spirit and elegance, there is little to be found respecting Massinger. Another edition appeared in 1773, but the poet remained unexamined. Perhaps Massinger is still unfortunate in his vindicator.

The same irregularity of plot, and disregard of rules, appear in Massinger's productions as in those of his contemporaries. On this subject Shakspeare has been so well defended that it is unnecessary to add any arguments in vindication of our poet. There is every reason to suppose that Massinger did not neglect the ancient rules from ignorance, for he appears to be one of our most learned writers, (notwithstanding the insipid sneer of Antony Wood) and Cartwright, who was confessedly a

:

• Athena Oxon. Vol. I.

man of great erudition, is not more attentive to the unities than any other poet of that age. But our author, like Shakspeare, wrote for bread: it appears from different parts of his works*, that much of his life had passed in slavish dependence, and penury is not apt to encourage a desire of fame.

One observation, however, may be risked, on our irregular and regular plays; that the former are more pleasing to the taste, and the latter to the understanding; readers must determine, then, whether it is better to feel or to approve. Massinger's dramatic art is too great to allow a faint sense of propriety to dwell on the mind, in perusing his pieces; he inflames or soothes, excites the strongest terror, or the softest pity, with ali the energy and power of a true poet.

But if we must admit that an irregular plot subjects a writer to peculiar disadvantages, the force of Massinger's genius will appear more evidently from this very concession. The interest of his pieces is, for the most part, strong and well defined; the story, though worked up to a studied intricacy, is, in general, resolved with as much ease and probability as its nature will permit; attention is never disgusted by anticipation, nor tortured with unnecessary delay. These characters are applicable to most of Massinger's own productions; but in those which he wrote jointly with other dramatists, the interest is often weakened, by incidents which that age permitted, but which the present would not endure. Thus, in "The Rene gadot," the honor of Paulina is preserved from the brutality of her Turkish master, by the influence of a

* See particularly the dedication of "The Maid of iloneur,' and "The Great Duke of Florence."

This play was written by Massinger alone.

relic, which she wears on her breast: in "The Virgin Martyr," the heroine is attended, through all her sufferings, by an angel disguised as her page; her persecutor is urged on to destroy her by an attendant fiend, also in disguise. Here our anxiety for the distressed, and our hatred of the wicked, are completely stifled, and we are more easily affected by some burlesque passages which follow in the same legendary strain. In the last quoted play, the attendant angel picks the pockets of two debauchees, and Theophilus overcomes the devil by means of a cross composed of flowers, which Dorothea had sent him from Paradise.

The story of "The Bondman" is more intricate than that of" The Duke of Milan," yet the former is a more interesting play; for in the latter, the motives of Francisco's conduct, which occasions the distress of the piece, are only disclosed in narration, at the beginning of the fifth act: we therefore consider him, till that moment, as a man absurdly and unnaturally vicious: but in "The Bondman," we have frequent glimpses of a concealed splendour in the character of Pisander, which keep our attention fixed, and exalt our expectation of the catastrophe. A more striking comparison might be instituted between "The Fatal Dowry" of our author, and Rowe's copy of it in his "Fair Penitent;" but this is very fully and judiciously done, by the author of "The Observer," who has proved sufficiently, that the interest of "The Fair Penitent" is much weakened, by throwing into narration what Massinger had forcibly represented on the stage. Yet Rowe's play is rendered much more regular by the alteration. Farquhar's "Inconstant," which is taken from our author's “Guardian," and Fletcher's "Wild-goose Chace, is considerably less elegant and less interesting; by the plagiarist's indiscretion, the lively, facetious Durazzo of Massinger is transformed into a nauseous buffoon, in the character of old Mirabel.

The art and judgment with which our poet conducts his incidents are every where admirable. In "The Duke of Milan," our pity for Marcelia would inspire a detestation of all the other characters, if she did not facilitate her ruin by the indulgence of an excessive pride. In the Bondman," Cleora would be despicable when she changes her lover, if Leosthenes had not rendered himself unworthy of her, by a mean jealousy. The violence of Almira's passion in the "Very Woman," prepares us for its decay. Many detached scenes in these pieces posBess uncommon beauties of incident and situation. Of this kind are, the interview between Charles V. and Sforzat, which, though notoriously contrary to true history, and very deficient in the representation of the emperor, arrests our attention, and awakens our feelings in the strongest manner; the conference of Matthias and Baptista, when Sophia's virtue becomes suspected; the pleadings in The Fatal Dowry," respecting the funeral rites of Charalois ; the interview between Don John, disguised as a slave. and his mistress, to whom he relates his story; but, above all, the meeting of Pisander and Cleoral, after he has excited the revolt of the slaves, in order to get her within his power. These scenes are eminently distinguished by their novelty, cor.

"Bondman."

rectness, and interest; the most minute critic will find little wanting, and the lover of truth and nature can suffer nothing to be taken away.

It is no reproach of our author, that the foundation of several, perhaps all, of his plots may be traced in different historians, or novelists; for in supplying bimself from these sources, he followed the practice of the age. Shakspeare, Jonson, and the rest, are not more original, in this respect, than our Poet; if Cartwright may be exempted, he is the only exception to this remark. As the minds of an audience, unacquainted with the models of antiquity, could only be affected by immediate application to their passions, our old writers crowded as many incidents, and of as perplexing a nature as possible, into their works, to support anxiety and expectation to their utmost height. In our reformed tragic school, our pleasure arises from the contemplation of the writer's art; and instead of eagerly watching for the unfolding of the plot (the imagination being left at liberty by the simplicity of the action), we consider whether it be properly conducted. Another reason, however, may be assigned for the intricacy of those plots, namely, the prevailing taste for the manners and writings of italy. During the whole of the sixteenth and part of the seventeenth centuries, Italy was the seat of elegance and arts, which the other European nations had begun to admire, but not to imitate. From causes which it would be foreign to the present purpose to enumerate, the Italian writers abounded in complicated and interesting stories, which were eagerly seized by a people not well qualified for invention; but the richness, variety, and distinctness. of character which our writers added to those tales, conferred beauties on them which charm us at this bour, however disguised by the alteration of manners and language.

Exact discrimination and consistency of character appear in all Massinger's productions; sometimes, indeed, the interest of the play suffers by his scrupulous attention to them. Thus, in The Fatal Dowry," Charalois's fortitude and determined sense of honour are carried to a most unfeeling and barbarous degree; and Francisco's villainy, in "The Duke of Milan," is cold and considerate beyond nature. But here we must again plead the sad necessity under which our poet laboured, of pleasing bis audience at any rate. It was the prevailing opinion, that the characters ought to approach towards each ether as little as possible. This was termed art, and in consequence of this, as Dr. Hurd sayst, some writers of that time have founded their characters on abstract ideas, instead of copying from real life. Those delicate and beautiful shades of manners, which we admire in Shakspeare, were reckoned inaccuracies by his contemporaries. Thus Cartwright says, in his verses to Fletcher, speaking of Shakspeare, whom he undervalues, "nature was all his

art."

General manners must always influence the stage; unhappily, the manners of Massinger's age were pedantic. Yet it must be allowed that our Author's characters are less abstract than those of Jonson or Cartwright, and that, with more dignity, they are

* Cartwright and Congreve, who resemble each other strongly in some remarkable circumstances, are almost oar only dramatists who have any claim to originality in their plots.

"Essay on the Provinces of the Drama."

In all growing empires,

Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer,
And be set up examples to strike terror
In others, though far off: but, when a state
Is raised to her perfection, and her bases
Too firn to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy,
And do't with safety:

Virgin Martyr, Act. I. sc. i. Sforza is an elevated character, cast in a different mould; brave, frank, and generous, he is hurried, by the unrestrained force of his passions, into fatal excesses in love and friendship. He appears with great dignity before the emperor, on whose mercy he is thrown, by the defeat of his allies, the French, at the battle of Pavia. After recounting his obliga

tions to Francis, he proceeds:

If that, then, to be grateful

For courtesies received, or not to leave
A friend in his necessities, be a crime
Amongst you Spaniards,

Sforza brings his head
To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slaye,
Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed,"
Falling before thy feet, kneeling and bowling,
For a forestall'd remission: that were poor,
And would but shame thy victory; for conquest
Over base foes, is a captivity,

And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die,
More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd
My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes,
This crown upon my head, and to my side
This sword was girt; and witness truth, that, now
'Tis in another's power when I shall part
With them and life together, I'm the same:
My veins then did not swell with pride; nor now
Shrink they for fear.

The Duke of Milan, Act III. sc. ii.

In the scene where Sforza enjoins Francisco to dispatch Marcelia, in case of the emperor's proceeding to extremities against him, the poet has given him a strong expression of horror at his own purpose. After disposing Francisco to obey his commands without reserve, by recapitulating the favours conferred on him, Sforza proceeds to impress him with the blackest view of the intended deed:

For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco!
In which the memory of all good actions
We can pretend to, shall be buried quick :
Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be
To fright posterity by our example,
That have outgone all precedents of villains
That were before us;

The Duke of Milan, Act I. sc. ult.

If we compare this scene, and especially the pas sage quoted, with the celebrated scene between King John and Hubert, we shall perceive this remarkable difference, that Sforza, while he proposes to his brother-in-law and favourite, the eventful murder of his wife, whom he idolizes, is consistent and determined; his mind is filled with the horror of the deed, but borne to the execution of it by the impulse of an extravagant and fantastic delicacy; John, who is actuated solely by the desire of removing his rival in the crown, not only fears to communicate his purpose to Hubert, though he perceives him to be

A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,

Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame;

but after he has sounded him, and found him ready to execute whatever he can propose, he only hints at the deed. Sforza enlarges on the cruelty and atrocity of his design; John is afraid to utter his in the view of the sun: nay, the sanguinary Richard hesitates in proposing the murder of his nephews to Buckingham. In this instance then, as well as that of Charalois, our poet may seem to deviate from nature, for ambition is a stronger passion than love, yet Sforza decides with more promptness and confidence than either of Shakspeare's characters. We must consider, however, that timidity and irresolution are characteristics of John, and that Richard's hesitation appears to be assumed, only in order to transfer the guilt and odium of the action to Buckingham.

It was hinted before, that the character of Pisan der, in "The Bondman," is more interesting than that of Sforza. His virtues, so unsuitable to the character of a slave, the boldness of his designs, and the steadiness of his courage, exci'e attention and anxiety in the most powerful manner. He is perfectly consistent, and, though lightly shaded with chivalry, is not deficient in nature or passion. Leosthenes is also the child of nature, whom perhaps we trace in some later jealous characters. Cleora is finely drawn, but to the present age, perhaps, appears rather too masculine: the exhibition of characters which should wear an unalterable charm, in their finest and almost insensible touches, was peculiar to the prophetic genius of Shakspeare". Massinger has given a strong proof of his genius, by introducing in a different play, a similar character, in a like situation to that of Pisander, yet with sufficient discrimination of manners and incident: I mean don John, in TheVery Woman," who like Pisander, gains bis mistress's beart, under the disguise of a slave, Don John is a model of magnanimity, superior to Cato, because he is free from pedantry and osten.

• If Massinger formed the singular character of Sir Giles Overreach from his own imagination, what should we think of his sagacity, who have seen this poetical phantom realized in our days? Its apparent extravagance required this support.