Sher. Oh, oh, defend us ! - Out, alas! Pye. Nay, pray be still; you'll make him more giddy else. He knows nobody yet. Edm. Nay, go, Frailty, run to the sexton; yoù know my mother will be married at Saint Antlings. Hie thee; 'tis past five; bid them open the church door; my sister is almost ready. Frail. What, already, Master Edmond? Corp. Zounds! where am I? covered with snow? and run to the clerk; and then run to Master Pigman, I marvel? the parson; and then run to the milliner; and then Pye. Nay, I knew he would swear the first thing he run home again. did, as soon as he came to life again. Corp. 'Sfoot, hostess -some hot porridge. — Oh! oh! lay on a dozen of fagots in the moon parlor, there. Nich. Bear him in, quotha! pray call out the maids. I shall ne'er have the heart to do't, indeed, la. Frail. Here's run, run, run.-—-—-—---- Edm. But hark, Frailty. Frail. What, more yet? Edm. Have the maids remembered to strew the way to the church. Frail. Foh! an hour ago: I helped 'em myself. [Exit FRAILTY. Edm. I shall have a simple father-in-law, a brave Frail. Nor I neither. I can not abide to handle a captain, able to beat all our street, Captain Idle. Now ghost, of all men. Corp. 'Sblood, let me see, where was I drunk last night? hah Wid. O, shall I bid you once again, take him away? Frail. Why, we're as fearful as you, I warrant you - oh Wid. Away, villains, bid the maids make him a caudle presently to settle his brain-or a posset of sack; quickly, quickly. [Exeunt NICHOLAS and FRAILTY, pushing in the Corporal. Sher. Sir, whatsoe'er you are, I do more than ad mire you. Wid. O, ay, if you knew all, master sheriff, as you shall do, you would say then, that here were two of the rarest men within the walls of Christendom. Sher. Two of 'em? O wonderful! Officers, I discharge you; set him free; all's in tune. Sir God. Ay, and a banquet ready by this time, master sheriff, to which I most cheerfully invite you, and your late prisoner there. See you this goodly chain, sir? Mum! no more words; 'twas lost and is found again. Come, my inestimable bullies, we'll talk of your noble acts in sparkling charnico, and, instead of a jester, we'll have the ghost i'th' white sheet sit at upper end o'th' table. Sher. Excellent! merry man, i'faith. [Exeunt all but FRANCES. my lady mother will be fitted for a delicate name; my lady Idle, my lady Idle! the finest name that can be for a woman; and then the scholar, Master Pyeboard, for my sister Frances, that will be, Mistress Frances Pyeboard; Mistress Frances Pyeboard! They'll keep a good table, I warrant you. Now all the knights' noses are put out of joint; they may go to a bone-setter's now. Enter Captain IDLE, PYEBOARD, and Attendants. Hark, hark! O, who comes here with two torches before them? my sweet captain and my fine scholar? O, how bravely they are shot up in one night! They look like fine Britons now methinks. Here's a gallant change, i'faith. 'Slid, they have hired men, and all, by the clock. Capt. Master Edmond; kind, honest, dainty Master Edmond. Edm. Foh, sweet captain father-in-law ! a rare perfume, i'faith. Pye. What, are the brides stirring? May we steal upon 'em, thinkst thou, Master Edmond? Edm. Foh! they're e'en upon readiness, I can assure you; for they were at their torch e'en now; by the same token I tumbled down the stairs. Pye. Alas, poor Master Edmond. Enter Musicians. Capt. O, the musicians! I pry'thee, Master Edmond, call 'em in, and liquor 'em a little. Edm. That I will, sweet captain father-in-law, and make each of them as drunk as a common fidler. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The same. down; for you knights are very dangerous, if once you get above. Sir John. I'll not stay, i'faith. Mary. I'faith, you shall stay; for, Sir John, you must note the nature of the climates: your northern wench in her own country may well hold out till she be fifteen; but if she touch the south once, and come up to London, here the chimes go presently after twelve. Sir John. O, thou'rt a mad wench, Moll, but I pr'ythee make haste, for the priest is gone before. Mary. Do you follow him; I'll not be long after. [Exeunt. SCENE III.—A Room in Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL'S House. Noble. By your leave, lady! Wid. My lord, your honor is most chastely welcome. Noble. Madam, though I came now from court, I come not to flatter you. Upon whom can I justly cast this blot, but upon your own forehead, that know not ink from milk?-such is the blind besotting in the state of an unheaded woman that's a widow. For it is the property of all you that are widows (a handful excepted) to hate those that honestly and carefully love you, to the maintenance of credit, state, and posterity; and strongly to dote on those that only love you to undo you. [They who] regard you least, are best regarded; who hate you most, are best beloved. And if there be but one man amongst ten thousand millions of men that is accursed, disastrous, and evilly-planeted—whom fortune beats most, whom Enter Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF, God hates most, and all societies esteem least that and SKIRMISH. Sir Oli. O, monstrous, unheard-of forgery! Sir And. Knight, I never heard of such villany, in our own country, in my life. Sir Oli. Why, 'tis impossible. Dare you maintain your words? Skir. Dare we? Even to their weazen-pipes. We know all their plots; they can not squander with us; they have knavishly abused us; made only properties of us to advance themselves upon our shoulders: but they shall rue their abuses. This morning they are | to be married. Sir Oli. 'Tis too true. Yet if the widow be not too much besotted on sleights and forgeries, the revelation of their villanies will make 'em loathsome. And, to that end—be it in private to you- I sent late last night to an honorable personage, to whom I am much indebted in kindness, as he is to me, and therefore presume upon the payment of his tongue, and that he will lay out good words for me; and, to speak truth, for such needful occasions only, I preserve him in bond; and sometimes he may do me more good here in the city, by a free word of his mouth, than if he had paid one half in hand, and took doomsday for t'other. Sir And. In troth, sir, without soothing be it spoken, [words. You have published much judgment in these few Sir Oli. For you know, what such a man utters will be thought effectual, and to weighty purpose; and therefore into his mouth we'll put the approved theme of their forgeries. Skir. And I'll maintain it, knight, if she'll be true. Enter a Servant. Sir Oli. How now, fellow? Serv. May it please you, sir, my lord is newly lighted from his coach. Sir Oli. Is my lord come already? His honor's You see he loves me well. Up before seven? [early. Trust me, I have found him night-capped at eleven: There's good hope yet; come, I'll relate all to him. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-A Street; Church in the Distance. Enter Captain IDLE, PYEBOARD, Sir GODFREY, and EDMOND; the Widow in bridal Dress; Sir JOHN PENNYDUR, MARY and FRANCES, NICHOLAS, FRAILTY, and other Attendants. To them a Nobleman, Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, and Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF. man is sure to be a husband. Such is the peevish moon that rules your bloods. An impudent fellow best woos you, a flattering lip best wins you; or, in mirth, who talks roughliest, is most sweetest. Nor can you distinguish truth from forgeries, mists from simplicity: witness these two deceitful monsters, that you have entertained for bridegrooms! Wid. Deceitful Pye. All will out. Capt. 'Sfoot! who has blabbed, George? that foolish Nicholas ! Noble. For, what they have besotted your easy blood withal, were nought but forgeries: the fortunetelling for husbands, and the conjuring for the chain; Sir Godfrey, hear the falsehood of all: nothing but mere knavery, deceit, and cozenage. Wid. O, wonderful! Indeed, I wondered that my husband, with all his craft, could not keep himself out of purgatory. Sir God. And I more wondered that my chain should be gone, and my tailor had none of it. Mary. And I wondered most of all that I should be tied from marriage, having such a mind to't. Come, Sir John Pennydub, fair weather on our side the moon has changed since yesternight. : Pye. The sting of every evil is within me ! Noble. And that you may perceive I feign not with you, behold their fellow-actor in these forgeries, who, full of spleen and envy at their so sudden advancements, revealed all their plot in anger. [SKIRMISH comes forward. Pye. Base soldier, to reveal us! Wid. Is't possible we should be blinded so, and our eyes open? Noble. Widow, will you now believe that false, which too soon you believed true? Wid. Oh, to my shame, I do. Sir God. But, under favor, my lord, my chain was truly lost, and strangely found again. Noble. Resolve him of that, soldier. Skir. In few words, knight, then, thou wert the arch-gull of all. Sir God. How, sir? Skir. Nay, I'll prove it: for the chain was but hid in the rosemary-bank all this while, and thou got'st him out of prison to conjure for it, who did it admirably, fustianly: for indeed what needed any other, when he knew where it was? Sir God. O, villany of villains! but how came my chain there? Skir. Where's Truly la, indeed la1-he that will not swear, but lie-he that will not steal, but robpure Nicholas Saint Antlings? Sir God. O, villain! one of our society- A puritan a thief! when was't ever heard? Nich. Dear master! oh! Noble. Nay, knight, dwell in patience. And now, widow, being so near the church, 'twere great pity, nay, uncharity, to send you home again without a husband: Draw near, you of true worship, state, and credit, That should not stand so far off from a widow, And suffer forgéd shapes to come between you: Not that in these I blemish the true title Of a captain, or blot the fair margent of a scholar; For I honor worthy and deserving parts in the one, And cherish fruitful virtues in the other. Come, lady, and you, virgin, bestow your eyes and your purest affections upon men of estimation, both in court and city, that have long wooed you, and both with their hearts and wealth sincerely love you. Sir God. Good sister, do; sweet little Franke, these 1 The exclamations of Nicholas. With all my soul. Frances. And I, with all my heart. Mary. And I, Sir John, with soul, heart, lights, and all. Sir John. They are all mine, Moll. Noble. Now, lady, What honest spirit but will applaud your choice, 2 Some of the copies read, "give ye," but the original reading, which is here followed, seems more proper, and accords with the wants of the rhyme. The last section of the sentence is meant to suggest the applauses of the audience. It is their "hands enough" which the speaker anticipates. THE END OF THE PURITAN; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. S INTRODUCTION THE YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY. young children, stabbed his wife into the body, with full purpose to have murdered her, and instantly went from his house to have slain his youngest child, at nurse, but was prevented: for which fact, at his trial in York, he stood mute, and was judged to be pressed to death; according to which judgment he was executed, at the castle of York, the 5th of August.” “ A Yorkshire Tragedy-not so new, as lamenta. | Calverly, Yorkshire, esquire, murdered two of his ble and true: written by W. Shakspeare." This was the title of the original edition of the play which fol. | lows, printed in 1608. Upon a subsequent titlepage, we have "All's One, or, One of the four Plaies in one, called a Yorkshire Tragedy." We may receive "All's One" as the general title of four short plays, represented in the same day, and standing in the place of a regular tragedy or comedy. Of the four "Concerning this play," says Mr. Malone, "I have plays thus presented, it is to be remarked, that "The not been able to form any decided opinion. The arYorkshire Tragedy" is the only one which appears guments produced by Mr. Steevens, in support of its to have been published. This was entered, on the 2d authenticity, appear to me to have considerable of May, 1608, on the stationers' registers, as "A weight. If its date were not so precisely ascertained, booke The Yorkshire Tragedy, written by Wylliam | little doubt would remain, in my mind at least, upon Shakespere." The publisher of the play, Thomas the subject. I find it, however, difficult to believe Pavyer, in 1605, entered "A Ballad of lamentable that Shakspeare could have written Macbeth, King Murther done in Yorkshire, by a Gent. upon two of | Lear, and the Yorkshire Tragedy, at nearly the same his owne Children, sore wounding his Wyfe and Nurse," The fact upon which the ballad and the tragedy are founded, is thus related in Stow's Chron. icle, under the year 1604: "Walter Calverly, of | period." There would be more force in this objec. tion, could we be sure when these several plays of Shakspeare were written; but most of the attempts to ascertain the dates of their original production The Retrospective Review further says: "If he have only tended to make the facts more doubtful. Besides, even were they productions of the same pe- | [Shakspeare] had written it, on the principle of mereriod, there would be nothing in the inequality of the ly dramatizing the known fact, he would not have pieces to urge against the argument, when we make done it much better than it is here done; and there the usual allowances for the inferiority of subject, and were many of his contemporaries who could have done the differing mental moods, or different bodily condi- it quite as well." "We agree," says Mr. Knight, tion of the writer. This short play was evidently" with this assertion. If the Yorkshire Tragedy had written for an emergency—to grasp a popular occasion, and make use of an event fresh in the public mind, by which it had been greatly possessed and excited. Very unlike Shakspeare, in every essential particular, it is yet possible that he wrote it, in nightgown and slippers, scene by scene, to meet the wants of the actors. The demands of a theatre, the hurried competition of rival houses, might readily prompt him to this drudgery, as an aside from his usual labors, at the very moment that he was most busy, on his most glorious achievement. I attach but little importance to the scruple of Mr. Malone. Dr. Farmer has something after the same fashion. "The Yorkshire Tragedy," saith he, "hath been frequently called Shakspeare's earliest attempt in the drama; but, most certainly, it was not written by our poet at all. The fact on which it is built, was perpetrated no sooner than 1605— much too late for so mean a performance from the hand of Shakspeare." "I confess," says Mr. Steevens, in a very elaborate note, "I have always regarded this little drama as a genuine but a hasty production of our author." This opinion he sustains by a series of generalities, which most readers can readily conceive for themselves. been done better than it is—that is, if the power of the poet had more prevailed in it—it would not have answered the purpose for which it was intended; it would, in truth, have been a mistake in art. Shakspeare would not have committed this mistake. But then, we doubt whether he would have consented at all to have had a circle drawn around him by the antipoetical, within which his mastery over the spirits of the earth and of the air was unavailing." All this seems to us a mere waste of speculation. To say what Shakspeare would have done, as a poet, is one thing; but Mr. Knight can hardly venture to say that, as a manager, largely interested in the success of his theatre, Shakspeare would have been so tenacious of his particular tastes as to have rejected a popular topic, solely because of its poverty and rudeness. This is surely exceedingly gratuitous. If Shakspeare wrote the piece at all, upon which I do not propose to decide, this alone would have been the motive. It certainly would not have been a favorite study of the artist. One fact is indisputable, however: the play was entered in the stationers' books, and published by the press, with the name of William Shakspeare, at full length, in 1608; not only while Shakspeare was living, but while he was connected with the London theatres with the London theatres and the publication remained, and still remains, without alteration or contradiction. This is one of those facts which, it appears to me, no editor can possibly reject or set aside, by a reference to the mere general inferiority of this piece to the other productions of the supposed author. The truth is, the nature of the subject rendered it unsusceptible of any high poetical embellishments, if only because it was one which did not, and could not, commend itself to the tastes and affections of the poet. As a A writer in the Retrospective Review, analyzing the Yorkshire Tragedy, says: "There is no reason "There is no reason why Shakspeare should not have written it, any more than why he should." To this Mr. Knight answers: "The reason why Shakspeare should not have written it is, we think, to be deduced from the circumstance that he, who had never even written a comedy in which the scene is placed in his own country in his own times, would very unwillingly have gone out of his way to dramatize a real incident of horror, occurring in Yorkshire in 1604, which of necessity could only have been presented to the senses of an audience, as a fact admitting of very little elevation by a poet-domestic sketch, though one mainly of horror, it has ical treatment, which might seize upon their imaginations." We really see very little in this argument, which depends wholly on an assumption. Certainly, there is nothing in it to oppose to the suggestion of that policy, on the part of a manager, which would be apt to consult the tastes of his audience, rather than his own, and which, whatever might be his po-cretion. Mr. Knight is of opinion that it belongs to etical nature, would scarcely suffer this to interfere with his interests. Besides, Mr. Knight has not taken all the facts into this connexion. Though the event took place in 1604, its freshness had been pre-likely to have been Heywood's. Indeed, regarding served by ballads. These were popular, and the play the intrinsic evidence only, we should at once prefer is probably neither more nor less than the amplifica- the claims of Heywood to those of any of his contion of a ballad. temporaries. yet considerable merit. The patience and gentleness of the wife are well contrasted with the insane bru tality, and the passionate selfishness, of the husband; and, in the selection and distribution of his material the choice of the subject itself being kept from sight-the author shows equal good taste and dis the numerous performances of Thomas Heywood, whom Charles Lamb has called "a sort of prose Shakspeare ;" and, if not Shakspeare's, it is most |