and have been obliged to fall back upon Greek plays about Pelops' line' when he was sad-not finding in Shakspeare enough of pity and of terror-and that Thomas Warton should have thought he showed good taste in doing so, is more than we can understand.

Now, of all his contemporaries, in respect both of matter and of expression, Beaumont and Fletcher approached the nearest to him. They exhibited characteristics more akin to Shakspeare, than can be discovered in any other. The language, doubtless, is far inferior, especially in vigour, precision, and comprehension; so, too, the thought, the feeling, and the imagery: still, there is in all a strong resemblance. We could never, it is true, peruse a whole play, nay, not a whole scene, nor perhaps so much as two consecutive speeches, in the works of Beaumont and Fletcher, without being forcibly reminded, usually by a discord or a faintness of sound, that we are not listening to the enchanting music of the mighty master. But there are to be found, scattered thickly throughout their dramas, short passages, chiefly of external description, or of tender feeling, which strike in us on the same chords of thought and sentiment that are still vibrating under the hand of the greater poet. This similarity of character would be evident at once to any reader, who, being familiar with Shakspeare, should become acquainted with Beaumont and Fletcher for the first time through a selection of their most imaginative, most pathetic, or most sprightly passages. The same experiment performed on any other dramatists of the time, would leave a very different impression.

The secret may be told in one word. Whatever may be their just place as dramatists, Beaumont and Fletcher were better poets than any of their dramatic contemporaries, except Shakspeare himself. They mounted higher on the wings of ideal contemplation. None can be compared to them for exuberance and grace of fancy, none for their delicacy and tenderness of feeling in passages of emotion. Their superiority in the region of pure poetry is shown significantly by the fact, that many of the lyrics introduced into their dramas are of incomparable beauty; unapproached, not only by such indifferent commonplaces as the songs of Massinger's plays, but even by the gems which sparkle in the masques of Ben Jonson. The poetic spirit breathes not less warmly over innumerable passages of the dialogues, lulling us so delightfully in dreams of fantasy, that we forget for the time. their faults. We forget that, as works of art, their dramas are. immeasurably inferior to those of Jonson, the most skilful ar tist of our old dramatic school; that they are far behind him in the admirable structure of his plots, as in his boldly conceived and

vigorously executed portraiture of character. We forget that they want alike the pomp and the thoughtfulness of Massinger; that they strive in vain after the tragic intensity of Webster; that they compensate but ill, by strained and extravagant situations, for the natural delineation of life and manners which was often attained by Heywood. We forget that there is hardly one of their works which must not, if regarded as a whole, be pronounced positively bad. We forget that, though they often thought finely, they were incapable of thinking either comprehensively or profoundly; that, though they felt deeply, their genuine passion was evanescent, and was succeeded by counterfeited hysterics; that, though they imagined poetically and often dramatically, they lacked the power to work out their images into living groups, or into real and consist, ent scenes. All this, and much else, we forget or disregard, because of the fact, that these two fine spirits soared higher than any of the others into the poetical atmosphere of the visionary world; that these two eloquent tongues have told us, beyond what any of the others could have found utterance for, what shapes had visited them in their dreams. All being disregarded, or assumed, which can justly be asserted in depreciation of the dramatic rank of our poets, there remains the undoubted truth, that their works contain many passages poetically superior, with the one great exception, to all that is to be found elsewhere among the treasury of our old English drama; and that we could cull from them, through a long course of extracts, poetry as beautiful and touching as any in our language.

In measuring the height of Beaumont and Fletcher, we cannot take a better scale than to put them alongside Skakspeare, and compare them with him. In this manner, an imaginary supposition may assist us in determining the nature of their excellence, and almost enable us to fix its degree. Suppose there were to be discovered, in the library of the Earl of Ellesmere, or in that of the Duke of Devonshire, two dramas not known before, and of doubtful authorship, the one being Hamlet,' and the other The Winter's Tale.' We should be at no loss, we think, to assign the former to Shakspeare: the judgment would be warranted alike by the consideration of the whole, and by a scrutiny of particular parts. But with regard to the other play, hesitation would not be at all unreasonable. Beaumont aud Fletcher (as an eminent living critic has remarked to us) might be believed to have written all its serious parts, more especially the scenes of the jealousy of Leontes, and those beautiful ones which describe the rustic festival. Strange to say, a case of this kind has actually arisen: And the uncertainty which still hangs over it, agrees entirely with the

hesitation which we have ventured to imagine as arising in the case we have supposed.

In 1634, eighteen years after Beaumont's death, and nine after Fletcher's, there was printed, for the first time, the play called The Two Noble Kinsmen.' The bookseller in his title-page declared it to have been written by the memorable worthies ' of their time, Mr John Fletcher and Mr William Shakspeare, 'gentlemen.' On the faith of this assertion, and on the evidence afforded by the character of the work, it has been assumed universally, that Fletcher had a share in the authorship. Shakspeare's part in it has been denied; though there is, perhaps, a preponderance of authority for the affirmative. Those who maintain the joint authorship, commonly suppose the two poets to have written together: but Mr Dyce questions this, and gives us an ingenious theory of his own, which assumes Fletcher to have taken up and altered the work long after Shakspeare's labour on it had been closed.

The question of Shakspeare's share in this play is really insoluble. On the one hand, there are reasons making it very difficult to believe that he can have had any concern in it; particularly the heavy and undramatic construction of the piece, and the want of individuality in the characters. Besides, we encounter in it direct and palpable imitations of Shakspeare himself; among which the most prominent is the wretchedly drawn character of the jailor's daughter. On the other hand, there are, in many passages, resemblances of expression (in the very particulars in which our two poets are most unlike Shakspeare) so close, that we must either admit Shakspeare's authorship of these parts, or suppose Fletcher or some one else to have imitated him designedly, and with very marvellous success. Among these passages, too, there are not a few which display a brilliancy of imagination, and a grasp of thought, much beyond Fletcher's ordinary pitch. Readers who lean to Mr Dyce's theory, will desire to learn his grounds for believing that Fletcher's labour on the play was performed in the latter part of his life. It appears to us that the piece bears a close likeness to those more elevated works which are known to have been among the earliest of our series: and, if it were not an unbrotherly act to throw a new bone of contention among the critics, we would hint that there is no evidence entitling us peremptorily to assert that Fletcher was concerned in the work to the exclusion of Beaumont.

Be the authorship whose it may, The Two Noble Kinsmen' is undoubtedly one of the finest dramas in the volumes before us. It contains passages which, in dramatic vigour and passion, yield hardly to any thing-perhaps to nothing-in the whole collection; while

for gorgeousness of imagery, for delicacy of poetic feeling, and for grace, animation, and strength of language, we doubt whether there exists, under the names of our authors, any drama that comes near to it. Never has any theme enjoyed the honours which have befallen the semi-classical legend of Palamon and Arcite. Chosen as the foundation of chivalrous narrative by Boccaccio, Chaucer, and Dryden, it has furnished one of the fairest of the flowers that compose the dramatic crown of Fletcher, while from that flower, perhaps, leaves might be plucked to decorate another brow which needs them not.

If the admirers of Fletcher could vindicate for him the fifth act of this play, they would entitle him to a still higher claim upon our gratitude, as the author of a series of scenes, as picturesquely conceived, and as poetically set forth, as any that our literature can boast. Dramatically considered, these scenes are very faulty: perhaps there are but two of them that have high dramatic merits-the interrupted execution of Palamon, and the preceding scene in which Emilia, left in the forest, hears the tumult of the battle, and receives successive reports of its changes and issue. But as a gallery of poetical pictures, as a cluster of images suggestive alike to the imagination and the feelings, as a cabinet of jewels whose lustre dazzles the eye and blinds it to the unskilful setting,-in this light there are few pieces comparable to the magnificent scene before the temples, where the lady and her lovers pray to the gods: and the pathetically solemn close of the drama, admirable in itself, loses only when we compare it with the death of Arcite in Chaucer's masterpiece, the Iliad of the middle ages.'

In proceeding to trace the further history of our poets, we are naturally led to touch upon another question which has puzzled all their editors and critics. What was the share of each of the two, either in the construction of the works generally, or in the composition of particular plays? The field of enquiry is considerably narrowed by our knowledge of some dates; and also, in one or two instances, by other trustworthy evidence. According to a careful estimate, there are, of the fifty-three plays now included in the collection, no fewer than seventeen which were not represented, and almost certainly cannot have been written, till after Beaumont's death; while it is known that he had no part in the composition of The Faithful Shepherdess.' Eighteen plays being thus excluded from Beaumont's share, there remain thirty-five as to no one of which can it be alleged with positive certainty, that it was written by the one, by the other, or by both. The assertions made in the prologues, epilogues, and commendatory verses, are unauthoritative, and in many cases

contradict each other. The internal evidence, again, is by no means sufficient for a determination of the question. We must discard at once, as unproved and highly improbable, an opinion of some of the older writers, which they presented in two forms: some of them saying generally, that Fletcher was the inventor, and Beaumont the critic and corrector; and others holding Beaumont to have planned the joint works, while Fletcher executed the designs thus furnished. We might describe as more plausible, but can scarcely regard as probable, and certainly not as proved, another theory, which is supported by old authority, and has been favourably received in our own day. According to this hypothesis, Beaumont's genius was the more serious and elevated of the two; and it is to him that the prevalence of the tragic or higher poetic element is owing. Thus Mr Darley speaks of Beau'mont's deeper, graver enthusiasm,' and detects a Beaumontesque air' in certain of the plays. This notion, it is to be feared, rests on as slippery ground as the others. It is, doubtless, a fact not to be forgotten, that the tone of the dramas does in certain respects sink, as we trace them in their historical order. They sink, both morally and as works of art. They lose not a little of their descriptive and lyrical luxuriance, though they acquire greater pointedness of stage effect: they recede from lofty and heroic themes to scenes of actual life, or, at the highest, to romantic and novel-like adventures. But circumstances existed fully adequate to account for this gradual change, independently of all assumptions of differences in the genius or disposition of the two writers. Some such circumstances will suggest themselves incidentally, as we rapidly follow the poets through the remainder of their literary progress.

The works, as they lie before us, present a strange and mortifying inequality. Our poets did not always choose their themes wisely: sometimes they treated very indifferently themes which they had chosen well. Some of their works, such as Cupid's Revenge,' are bad for the former reason: others, like The Coxcomb,' exhibit both faults together. The immortality which, beyond all controversy, Beaumont and Fletcher have achieved, belongs to the creators of Euphrasia, Aspatia, and Arbaces. Without these, they would have lived only in beautiful fragments, and as the playwrights of successful acting plays.

Yet there are several admirable pieces among the other works composed while the alliance endured.

First probably in order, and far highest in value, stands Fletcher's celebrated pastoral, The Faithful Shepherdess.' Yet this piece failed signally on the stage, and could not under any circumstances have succeeded. It is to be judged and felt in the closet