ces of this may be found in the margin of all our old plays, which seem to be copied from the prompter's books.' Introd. p. 76. We imagine, for our part, that the Virgin Martyr was probably indebted for much of its popularity to the very absurdities and ribaldry from which a modern audience would have most revolted; and in some degree, to the fine passages which are intermixed with such horrors and obscenity, and must have had a powerful effect on the hearers.

It is not our intention to enter minutely into the merits of Massinger's writings: they are valuable enough to have deserved an accurate edition, but we have neither leisure nor inclination to discuss them in detail. Mr Gifford will perhaps be offended at the little ceremony with which we treat his favourite dramatist. It is natural for men to imbibe a strong partiality for whatever has particularly occupied their attention. In painting, in music, in almost every artificial amusement, a certain degree of habit and skill is necessary for the discernment of real beauties; and it cannot be surprising, that the constant exercise of that factitious skill, applied to an individual object, should lead to a false perception of imaginary beauties. Hence it perpetually happens, that, after the assiduous contemplation of any object, the mind attaches itself to what it has minutely investigated, and gradually leans to sympathize with that from which it would have at first revolted. Had we, instead of reviewing Mr Gifford's production, toiled, like him, through a laborious collation of the text of the several editions, we should doubtless be more tender of Massinger's dramatical reputation. But although we are inclined, from these considerations, to attribute the excessive praise which Mr Gifford has lavished on Massinger, not so much to a faulty taste, as to an overweening fondness for the companion of his studious hours, we cannot but express our astonishment at some instances in his work of what we deem most unmerited approbation. In a note on the Renegado, Mr Gifford says,

• There is a paffage in Tomkis's Albamazar, which would be admired even in the nobleft fcenes of Shakespeare.

How flow the day flides on! when we defire

Time 's bafte, he feems to lofe a match with lobsters;
And when we wish him ftay, he imps his wings
With feathers plumed with thought.' II. p. 227.

beauty in

We are not less at a loss to discover that preeminent
the following passage, which should have called for such unqua
lified commendation as Mr Gifford bestows upon it.

• But wherefore came you in divided troops,
As if the miftreffes would not accept

Their fervants' guardship, or the fervants flighted
Refuse to offer it? You all wear fad looks a

On Perigol appears not that blunt mirth
Which his face ufed to promife; on Montrose
There hangs a heavy dulnefs; Cleremond
Droops e'en to death, and Clarindore hath loft
Much of his fharpnefs; nay, these ladies too,
Whose sparkling eyes did ufe to fire the court
With various inventions of delight,

Part with their fplendour. What's the caufe? from whence
Proceeds this alteration?'

Let me call the reader's attention to the exquifite melody of this Ipeech: nothing is forced, nothing is inverted. Plainnefs and fimplicity are all the aids of which the poet has availed himself; yet a more perfect fpecimen of flowing, elegant, and rythmical modulation is not to be found in the English language. ' II. p. 244.

Massinger, in our unprejudiced (though perhaps mistaken) opinion, is an eloquent writer; but an indifferent dramatist. His comedies have no wit; his tragedies no propriety. In his Bondman (one of the best) Pisander the Theban disguises himself as a slave, and contrives to be sold to the father of Cleora of Syracuse, whom he loves in secret. When Timoleon has drawn forth all the force of Syracuse against an invading enemy, Pisander, for the sake of showing his own continence to his beloved Cleora, excites the slaves who remained in Syracuse to revolt, and in pure good humour to ravish all the wives and daughters, and scourge all the fops, who were left behind in the city. At the end of the play, when Timoleon returns with the army, Pisander, who is known to have been the mover of the rebellion, having discovered his name and quality, receives Cleora for his bride with the good-will of all the Syracusans; and the facetious ravishing of their wives and daughters is passed over lightly, as having been a wholesome lesson to the proud dames of Sicily.

There is not, according to the best of our recollection, a single pathetic scene in all the writings of Massinger; there is not a passage, amidst all the butchery which he displays, that can draw a tear of sympathy from the audience; and he appears to have been conscious of his inability to represent a tender emotion, which he has scarcely ever attempted. In the Unnatural Combat, a tragedy in which every horror that the mind can imagine has been accumulated, and which is by no means destitute of terrific beauties, two opportunities offered themselves for the representation of the deepest emotion and distress, and both are completely neglected. The one, where Theocrine hears that her father has killed her brother in single combat; the other, where Belgarde finds his beloved Theocrine (who had been ravished by a ruffian, and turned out half naked in a tempestuous night) ly ing dead beside her father. A more dreadful scene cannot be VOL. XII. No. 23. conceived

H

conceived; but the only observations of Belgarde on the occasion are as follows:

All that have eyes to weep

Spare one tear with me.

And afterwards,

Theocrine's dead.'

Here's one retains

Her native innocence, that never yet

Call'd down Heaven's vengeance.

With those few words from Belgarde, and a dry moral from his father, the play concludes. An author, who could dismiss such circumstances of distress, without aiming at a single expression of emotion, must have felt himself incompetent to ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears,' and have shrunk from the attempt. The gates of horror' he has set wide open.

Massinger's talents appear to have been better fitted by nature for heroic than dramatic writing: he excels in dignified scenes; he describes both character and passion with skill; but is unable to give them appropriate language and expression: he is eloquent, indeed, in every species of description; but his flowing, stately periods, are perhaps too lofty for the stage, and contribute to render his plays heavy and wearisome to the reader; while those of Beaumont and Fletcher, with equal faults, are far more diverting. We shall quote a few passages as specimens of Massinger's eloquent language.

They have drawn together

Two royal armies, full of fiery youth;
Of equal spirit to dare, and power to do:
So near entrench'd, that 'tis beyond all hope
Of human counsel they can e'er be fever'd,
Until it be determined by the fword

Which hath the better caufe: for the fuccefs
Concludes the victor innocent, and the vanquish'd
Moft miferably guilty. How uncertain
The fortune of the war is, children know;
And, it being in fufpenfe, on whofe fair tent
Wing'd Victory will make her glorious ftand,
You cannot blame the Duke, though he appear
Perplex'd and troubled. ' I. p. 240.
Duke of Milan.
This beauty, in the bloffom of my youth,
When my first fire knew no adulterate incenfe,
Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness;
In all the bravery my friends could fhow me,
In all the faith my innocence could give me,

In the beft language my true tongue could tell me,
And all the broken fighs my fick heart lent me,
I fued and ferv'd: long did I love this lady,

Long

Long was my travail, long my trade to win her:
With all the duty of my foul I ferv'd her.'

IV. p. 315. A Very Woman.

The Virgin Martyr, which was the joint production of Decker and Massinger, and contains more horrors, more absurdities and obscurity, than most of these dramas, affords perhaps as many fine passages as any other; and the difference between the style of Decker and Massinger, is in many parts very distinguishable. Decker is less fluent and stately, hath more of conceit, and admits occasional rhymes. The following scene, between Dorothea and the attendant angel, is evidently from the pen of Decker, and written in his best manner.

• Dor. My book and taper.

'Angelo. Here, moft holy mistress.
• Dor. Thy voice fends forth fuch mufic, that I

Was ravifh'd with a more celeftial found.
Were every fervant in the world like thee
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name thou art: get thee to reft,
Thy youth with too much watching is oppreft.

Ang. No, my good lady, I could weary stars,
And force the watchful moon to lofe her eyes
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm finging with fome quire in heaven,
So bleft I hold me in your company.
Therefore, my moft lov'd mistress, do not bid
Your boy, fo ferviceable, to get hence,
For then you break his heart.

Dor. Be nigh me ftill, then;

In golden letters down I'll fet that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet fuch worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little pretty body: when I coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar boy,
My fweet-faced godly beggar boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand!
And when I took thee home, my moft chafte bofom
Methought was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting fince higher
On wings of cherubims, than it did before.

Ang. Proud am I, that my lady's modeft eye
So likes fo poor a fervant.

Dor. I have offer'd

Handfuls of gold but to behold thy father;
I would leave kingdoms, were I Queen of fome,

H 2

never

Το

To dwell with thy good father; for the fon
Bewitching me fo deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do't ten times more.
I pray thee, my fweet boy, show me thy parents;
Be not afhamed.

Ang. I am not; I did never

Know who my mother was; but by yon palace,
Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare affure you,
And pawn thefe eyes upon it, and this hand,

My father is in heaven,' &c. I. p. 32.

After the death of Dorothea, who is tortured and beheaded on the stage, Theophilus, the brutal instrument of Dioclesian's persecutions, is converted to Christianity by the sound of celestial music, and the reappearance of the attendant angel. The words of Angelo to Theophilus are very impressive.

Angelo. Fix thy foot there,

Nor be thou fhaken with a Cæfar's voice,
Though thousand deaths were in it. '

The scene that follows between Dioclesian and Theophilus, is undoubtedly Massinger's; and we cannot quote a better specimen of his eloquence.

Diocl. Why, they (i. e. the Roman dames) did die, Theophilus, and boldly;

This did no more. (i. e. Dorothea.)

Theoph. They out of defperation,

Or for vainglory of an after-name,

Parted with life: this had not mutinous fons,
As the rash Gracchi were; nor was this faint
A doating mother, as Cornelia was :

This loft no husband, in whose overthrow
Her wealth and honour funk; no fear of want
Did make her being tedious; but aiming
At an immortal crown, and in His caufe
Who only can bestow it, who fent down
Legions of miniftering angels to bear up
Her fpotlefs foul to heaven; who entertain❜d it
With choice celeftial mufic, equal to

The motion of the spheres; fhe, uncompell'd,
Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius,
You were prefent at her death; did you e'er hear
Such ravishing founds?

Sapr. Yet you faid then, 'twas witchcraft

And devilish illufions.

• Theoph. I then heard it

With finful ears, and belch'd out blafphemous words
Againft his Deity, which then I knew not,

Nor did believe in him.

• Diocl.