would be, if the question were to depend entirely upon the arbitrary requisition of the commentators, that Shakspeare's writings must be all of them of a uniform excellence, determined by standards drawn from our sense of his highest excellences. This, however, is not permitted us. But this point we have considered in another place. It has been suggested, that "W. S." might be the initials of Wentworth Smith, another dramatic writer, of whom little is known, but for whom this play has never been claimed. of considerable merits, which escape our search. | not have been written by Shakspeare." Certainly it Schlegel, speaking of this play, of "the Yorkshire Tragedy," and of "Sir John Oldcastle," says: "They are not only unquestionably Shakspeare's, but, in my opinion, they deserve to be classed among his best and maturest works." After this judgment, we may well hesitate to speak our own. Schlegel proceeds to describe them as แ biographical dramas, and models in this species." Biographical they are, certainly singularly so, indeed-since, in this play of Sir Thomas, we have almost all the events of his life, from his earliest manhood to his death, crowded into the scene with a rapidity of action which defies all reason and probability, and largely overleaps the usual privileges of the dramatic historian. But to call this play, or either of the others mentioned, a model of its kind, betrays a large liberality in the critic which we can not conscientiously emulate Mr. Knight, at the close of his analysis of this play, remarks, that "it would be a waste of time to attempt to show that Thomas Lord Cromwell could It remains to add, that the subject of Sir Thomas Cromwell is derived from Fuller, Stow, Speed, Holingshead, and other English chroniclers. The events are narrated at large, in Fox's Book of Martyrs. The particulars relating to Frescobald, the benevolent Italian, were first published by Bandello, the novelist, in 1554: "Francesco Frescobaldi, fa cortessa ad un straniero, e nè ben remeritato, essendo colui diuenuto contestabile d'Inghilterra." His story is translated by Fox. THE HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. BAGOT, a money-broker. FRESCOBALD, a Florentine merchant. The Governor of the English factory at Antwerp. Master of an hotel in Bolognia. SEELY, a publican of Hounslow. Young CROMWELL, the son of Thomas. HODGE, WILL, and Tom, old Cromwell's servants. Mrs. BANISTER. JOAN, wife to Seely. Two Witnesses; a Sergeant-at-arms; a Herald; a and Attendants. SCENE,-Partly in LONDON, and the adjoining Dis. tricts; partly in ANTWERP and BOLOGNIA. ACT I. afternoon's nap, for my young Master Thomas. He keeps such a coil in his study, with the sun, and the moon, and the seven stars, that I do verily think he'll read out his wits. Hodge. He skill of the stars! There's Goodman Car of Fulham (he that carried us to the strong ale, where Goody Trundel had her maid got with child) : O, he knows the stars; he'll tickle you Charles's Wain in nine degrees. That same man will tell Goody Trundel when her ale shall miscarry, only by the Crom. Good morrow, morn; I do salute thy bright. The night seems tedious to my troubled soul, And now Aurora, with a lively dye, Makes my heart proud, wherein my hope's enrolled; [Smiths within hammer. Peace with your hammers, leave your knocking there! You do disturb my study and my rest: SCENE I.-Putney. The entrance of a Smith's shop. Leave off, I say:—you mad me with your noise. Enter HODGE, WILL, and Toм. Hodge. Come, masters, I think it be past five o'clock. Is it not time we were at work? My old master, he'll be stirring anon. Will. I can not tell whether my old master will be stirring or no; but I am sure I can hardly take my Enter HODGE, WILL, and Toм, from within. Hodge. Why, how now, Master Thomas, how now, Will you not let us work for you? Crom. You fret my heart, with making of this noise. 1 Old copy, "binds." 2 Former copies read, " on high." Hodge. How! fret your heart? Ay. Thomas, but | Is seen as often as it whirls about. you'll fret Your father's purse if you let us from working. Tom. Ay, this 'tis for to make him a gentleman : Shall we leave work for your musing? That's well, i'faith ; But here comes my old master, now Enter old CROMWELL. Old Crom. You idle knaves, why are you loit'ring No hammers walking,' and my work to do? Hodge. Marry, sir, your son Thomas will not let us work at all. The river Thames, that by our door doth pass, Enter old CROMWELL. Old Crom. Tom Cromwell; what, Tom, I say! Old Crom. Here is Master Bowser come to know if you have despatched his petition for the lords of the cry you mercy; are your ears so fine? I tell thee, knave, these get when I do sleep; I will not have my anvil stand for thee. men. Crom. There's money, father; I will pay your In hope that one day thou'dst relieve my age, Crom. Father, be patient, and content yourself: As fine as is King Henry's house at Sheen. Crom. Father, I have; please you to call him in. Old Crom. That's well said, Tom; a good lad, Tom. Enter Master BowSER. Bow. Now, Master Cromwell, have you despatched this petition? Crom. I have, sir; here it is; please you, peruse it. water. And, Master Cromwell, I have made a motion In love and duty for your kindness shown. Old Crom. Body o'me, Tom, make haste, lest somebody get between thee and honor, Tom.3 I thank Old Crom. You build a house! You knave, you'll you, good Master Bowser, I thank you for my boy; be a beggar! Now, afore God, all is but cast away, That is bestowed upon this thriftless lad! A good boy, Tom; I con thee; - thank thee, Tom, Are not all creatures subject unto time; Enter FRESCOBALD. Good morrow to kind Master Frescobald. And what's the news, you are so early stirring? Bag. 'Tis for the love, sir, that I bear to you. Fres. I promise you, I have not seen the man Bag. Why then assure yourself to see him straight, And sell; in part to pay the debt we owe you. Fres. Go to; I see thou art an envious man.- [Exit Officers. You know you owe to me a thousand pound; [TO BANISTER. Fres. Arrest him at my suit? You were to blame, For God doth know what to myself may fall. I know the man's misfortunes to be such, As he's not able for to pay the debt; And were it known to some, he were undone. Bag. This is your pitiful heart to think it so ; I speak the truth of him, for nothing else, Fres. If it be so, he hath deceived me much, Enter BANISTER, his Wife, and two Officers. Ban. O, Master Frescobald, you have undone me: Ban. This unexpected favor, undeserved, Doth make my heart bleed inwardly with joy: Ne'er may aught prosper with me as3 my own, If I forget this kindness you have shown. Mrs. Ban. My children, in their prayers, both night and day, For your good fortune and success shall pray. I will to Florence, to my native home. Is this the thanks I have for all my pains? Where he had wont to give a score of crowns,4 Mrs. Ban. O, Master Frescobald, pity my hus- Doth he now foist me with a portague? band's case; He is a man hath lived as well as any, Till envious fortune and the ravenous sea Fres. Mistress Banister, I envy not your husband, Ban. This is that damned broker, that same Bagot, Bag. What I have said to him is naught but truth. O! cannibal,2 that doth eat men alive! 1 Former editions read, "be known thereof" Well, I will be revenged upon this Banister. By heaven and earth, I'll make his plague the greater. And thither sends his bills of debt before, To be revenged on wretched Banister. What doth fall out, with patience sit and see, A just requital of false treachery. SCENE 1.-Antwerp. CROMWELL in his study, dis Meantime, to comfort you, in your distress, Receive these angels to relieve your need, To do you good, no way will I neglect. Mrs. Ban. That mighty God that knows each mortal's heart, covered at a table, with bags of money before him, and Keep you from trouble, sorrow, grief, and smart. books of account. Crom. Thus far my reckoning doth go straight and even. But, Cromwell, this same plodding fits not thee; Thy mind is altogether set on travel, And not to live thus cloistered, like a nun. It is not this same trash, that I regard; Enter a Post (courier). Post. I pray, sir, are you ready to despatch me? Crom. Yes; here's those sums of money you must carry. You go as far as Frankfort, do you not? Post. I do, sir. [Exit Mistress BANISTER. Crom. Thanks, courteous woman, for thy hearty prayer! Bag. So, all goes well; it is as I would have it! Banister, he is with the governor, And shortly shall have gyves upon his heels. Crom. Well, pr'ythee, then, make all the haste I hope to have his body rot in prison, thou canst, For there be certain English gentlemen Are bound for Venice, and may haply want, Enter Mistress BANISTER. And after hear his wife to hang herself, I care not much which way they came by them, What gentlewoman is this, that grieves so much? Cromwell? The which I sent before to Master Cromwell, Crom. My name is Thomas Cromwell, gentlewo- That, if the wind should keep me on the sea, man. Mrs. Ban. Know you one Bagot, sir, that's come And, in good time, see where he is: to Antwerp? Crom. No, trust me, I ne'er saw the man ; but here Are bills of deb I have received against One Banister a merchant fallen into decay. Mrs. Ban. Into decay, indeed, 'long of that wretch! I am the wife to woful Banister, And, by that bloody villain am pursued, And God, no doubt, will trebly bless your gain. Mrs. Ban. O, speak to Bagot, that same wicked wretch; An angel's voice may move a damnéd devil. 1 Wands—switches. God save you, sir. Enter CROMWELL. Crom. And you. -Pray, pardon me, I know you not. Bag. It may be so, sir; but my name is Bagot; The man that sent to you the bills of debt. Crom. Oh, you're the man that pursues Banister? Here are the bills of debt you sent to me; As for the man, you best know where he is. It is reported you've a flinty heart, A mind that will not stoop to any pity; An eye that knows not how to shed a tear, A hand that's always open for reward. But, Master Bagot, would you be ruled by me, You should turn all these to the contrary; Your heart should still have feeling of remorse, Your mind, according to your state, be liberal To those that stand in need and in distress; Your hand to help them that do sink in want, Rather than with your poise to hold them down ; For every ill turn, show yourself more kind:Thus should I; pardon me, I speak my mind. Bag. Ay, sir, you speak to hear what I would say; |