Project Gutenberg's The Plays of Philip Massinger, by Philip Massinger This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: The Plays of Philip Massinger Vol. I Author: Philip Massinger Release Date: March 8, 2015 [EBook #48440] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER *** Produced by Judith Wirawan, Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Philip Massinger London, Published by John Murray. 1830. THE P L A Y S OF PHILIP MASSINGER. ADAPTED FOR FAMILY READING, AND THE USE OF YOUNG PERSONS, BY THE OMISSION OF OBJECTIONABLE PASSAGES. VOL. I. LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. MDCCCXXX. LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. ADVERTISEMENT. The Old English Dramatists, the friends and co-temporaries of Shakspeare, have contributed one of the most valuable portions to the poetic literature of our country. But—abounding as they do in wit and fancy, in force and copiousness of expression, in truth and variety of character, in rapid change of incidents, in striking and interesting situations, and, above all, in justice and elevation of sentiment—their works are totally unknown to the generality of readers, and are only found in the hands of an adventurous few, who have deviated from the beaten paths of study to explore for themselves less familiar and exhausted tracts of literary amusement. The neglect of these authors, in an age so favourable to works of imagination as the present, can only be ascribed to that occasional coarseness of language which intermixes with and pollutes the beauty of their most exquisite scenes. For what may be termed the licentiousness of the stage, for immorality of principle, for that offence which was transplanted from France to England with the court of Charles the Second, our old dramatists do not require the aid of any apologist. They are innocent of attempting to confound the notions of right and wrong, or of seeking to influence the bad passions of our nature against the first great principles of morals. These were the corruptions of a later and more vicious age. With the earlier play-writers, the bent of the story and the interest of the spectator are always directed to the side of virtue; but the objection against them is, that though they armed themselves in her cause, they were too little scrupulous what kind of weapon they employed. The worst things are always called by the worst names. Nothing is sacrificed to delicacy. The grossest subjects are treated, whenever they happen to occur—and no care is taken to avoid them—in the grossest terms. Vice loses none of her enormity by any diminution of her coarseness. If the wicked are introduced, they are painted with a perfect truth of nature; they are represented as loathsome in language as they are detestable in conduct; and are rendered as offensive to the reader of cultivated taste and virtuous habits as they would be in the actual intercourse of life. However well it may have suited the less polished age of Elizabeth and James thus to inculcate purity by exhibiting all the corruptions of the depraved, and to fortify the moral principle by portraying wickedness, with all its hateful accompaniments, as an object of disgust as well as abhorrence and contempt, such strong pictures are no longer tolerable at the present day, and the recurrence of them militates against that general circulation and approval which is otherwise due to the great merit of the works in which they occur. Under these circumstances, the Editors of the Family Library have determined on publishing a selection from the plays of Massinger, Beaumont, Fletcher, Ford, Shirley, Webster, Middleton, and others, omitting all such scenes and passages as are inconsistent with the delicacy and refinement of modern taste and manners. Whenever it is possible, the play will be printed entire. If there be a double plot, the one, as in the case of the Virgin-Martyr, eminently beautiful, and the other as eminently offensive, the living beauty will be separated from the dead weight of corruption to which it is unnaturally joined, and be presented to the reader in a form which may afford an unmixed and flowing enjoyment to his imagination. When there is a radical evil in the groundwork of the play, only a single act or a few scenes may be given; but, in such cases, care will always be taken to preserve the interest of an entire and connected story. The work will be accompanied with short explanatory notes, and occasional critical remarks. CONTENTS. Page Life of Massinger 1 The Virgin-Martyr 23 The Great Duke of Florence 107 The Bondman 205 The Maid of Honour 299 DIRECTION TO THE BINDER. Portrait of Massinger to face the Title-page. LIFE OF MASSINGER. Very few materials exist for a life of Massinger beyond the entries of the Parish Register or the College Books, and a few slender intimations scattered here and there in the dedications to his plays. From these scanty sources the following brief memoir is derived. Our author was born at Salisbury[1] in the year 1584: he was the son of Arthur Massinger, a gentleman in the service of Henry, the second Earl of Pembroke[2]. We must not suppose, from his being thus attached to the family of a nobleman, that the father of our poet was a person of inferior birth and station. In those days the word servant carried with it no sense of degradation. The great lords and officers of the court numbered inferior nobles among their followers. We read, in Cavendish's Life of Wolsey, that "my Lord Percy, the son and heir of the Earl of Northumberland, attended upon and was servitor to the lord-cardinal[3]:" and from the situation which Arthur Massinger held in the household of so high and influential a person as the Earl of Pembroke, we might be justly led to argue rather favourably than unfavourably of his family and his connexions. "There were," says Mr. Gifford, "many considerations which united to render this state of dependance respectable and even honourable. The secretaries, clerks, and assistants, of various departments, were not then, as now, nominated by the government, but left to the choice of the person who held the employment; and as no particular dwelling was officially set apart for their residence, they were entertained in the house of their principal. That communication, too, between noblemen of power and trust, both of a public and private nature, which is now committed to the post, was in those days managed by confidential servants, who were despatched from one to the other, and even to the sovereign[4];" and, indeed, the father of our poet himself was, we know, in one instance thus employed as the bearer of communications from his patron to Elizabeth. We read in The Sidney Letters[5], "Mr. Massinger is newly come up from the Earl of Pembroke with letters to the queen for his lordship's leave to be away this St. George's Day." This was an errand which would not have been intrusted to the execution of any inconsiderable person: unimportant as the occasion may appear to us, it would not have been regarded in that light by Elizabeth; for no monarch ever exacted from the nobility, and particularly from her officers of state, a more rigid and scrupulous compliance with stated order than this princess. With regard to the early youth of Massinger, we possess no information whatever. Mr. Gifford supposes that it might have been passed at Wilton, a seat belonging to the Earl of Pembroke, in the neighbourhood of Salisbury; but this mode of disposing of his early years rests on a very improbable conjecture. It may occasionally have happened that the child of a favourite dependant was admitted as the companion of the younger branches of the patron's family, and allowed to receive his education among them; but this was certainly not an ordinary case; and, like Cavendish, a large majority of the great man's servants and dependants "left wife and children, home and family, rest and quietness, only to serve him[6]."—Massinger was most likely educated at the grammar-school of Salisbury, where many distinguished characters have received the rudiments of their education, among whom the elegant and accomplished Addison is to be numbered. But wherever the first years of our poet's life may have been spent, and whatever may have been the nature of his education, we know that at the age of eighteen (May 14, 1602) he was entered at the university of Oxford, and became a commoner of St. Alban's Hall[7]. Massinger resided at Oxford about four years, and then abruptly left it, without taking any degree. The cause of this sudden departure is ascribed by Mr. Gifford to the death of his father, from whom his supplies were derived: but Davies relates a very different story, and asserts that the Earl of Pembroke, who had sent him to the university and maintained him there, withdrew the necessary allowance in consequence of his having misapplied the time demanded for severer studies, in the pursuit of a more attractive but less profitable description of literature. Each opinion is equally ungrounded on the basis of any substantial evidence, and rests almost entirely on the imagination of the biographer: what slight [Pg 1] [Pg 2] [Pg 3] [Pg 4] authority there is favours the latter supposition, which, perhaps, on the whole, is most consistent with the known circumstances of the case. Anthony Wood, who was born, lived, and died at Oxford; who spent his time in collecting and recording the gossip which circulated in the university respecting the characters and conduct of its more distinguished sons; and whose evidence, however indifferent it may be, is the best that can be obtained upon the subject, confirms the representation of Davies:—"Massinger," says Wood, "gave his mind more to poetry and romance, for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he ought to have done, as he was patronised to that end." This passage corroborates the account of Davies so far as to intimate that patronage was afforded to our author, and that cause of dissatisfaction was given to the patron; but it goes no farther: it does not even state to whom the poet was indebted for assistance, nor that the misapplication of his academic hours was at all resented by the friend from whom the assistance was received: but still Wood is very probably correct in his information that other than his paternal funds were depended upon for maintaining Massinger at the university; and if such was the case, there can be no question from whose hands they must have proceeded; while the simple fact of his having been totally neglected, from the time of his father's death, by the whole of the Pembroke family, till after the demise of the earl, carries with it a strong suspicion that some offence was committed on the side of the poet, and tenaciously remembered on the side of the peer. Henry, the second Earl of Pembroke, died (1601) the year before Massinger was admitted at Oxford; and William, the third earl, to whom the father of Massinger continued attached during life, is universally and justly considered one of the brightest ornaments of the courts of Elizabeth and James. He was a man of generous and liberal disposition; the distinguished patron of arts and learning; and a lover of poetry, which he himself cultivated with some degree of success. It is not probable—it is impossible—that such a man should have allowed the highly talented son of an old and faithful servant of his family to be checked in his course of study, and abandoned to maintain, through the early years of life, a single-handed contest with adversity, for the want of that pecuniary aid which he could have yielded and never missed, unless some strong and decided cause of displeasure had existed. Had Massinger been merely forced to leave the university, as Mr. Gifford supposes, because the funds necessary to maintain him there had failed with the life of his father, we impute an act of illiberality to the Earl of Pembroke which is inconsistent with the whole tenor of his life and character. From whatever source the expenses of our author's education were originally defrayed, their suddenly ceasing argues in favour of the account intimated by Wood and detailed by Davies. If his father had, during his life, supported him at the university, there must have been some reason for the earl's not continuing that support when the father of Massinger was no more; and perhaps the most honourable supposition for both parties is that which represents the earl as offended by the bent of our author's studies and pursuits. By adopting this view of the case we are saved from the painful necessity of either assuming, on the one hand, that a nobleman distinguished among the most amiable characters of his age allowed a highly gifted and meritorious young man, a natural dependant of his house, to languish in the want of that countenance and protection on which he had an hereditary claim; or, on the other hand, that Massinger had incurred the displeasure of his natural and hereditary patron by the commission of some more crying offence. Every, even the slightest, surmise of Mr. Gifford is deserving attention and respect; but I cannot admit the supposition by which he would account for the alienation that subsisted between the Earl of Pembroke and our author. That distinguished critic has inferred, from the religious sentiments contained in The Virgin Martyr, that Massinger was a Roman catholic, and for that cause neglected by the protector of his father. But if the intimations scattered through this play and others should be received as sufficient evidence of the faith of Massinger, we must, on similar evidence—the intimations contained in Measure for Measure, for instance—conclude that the religion of Shakspeare was the same; and then we are cast back upon our old difficulty, and have to explain why William Earl of Pembroke, a celebrated patron of literary men, and of dramatists in particular, scorned to yield his notice to the catholic Massinger, while (to use the expression of Heminge and Condell) he "prosequuted" the catholic Shakspeare and "his works with so much favour[8]?" There are many reasons for believing Shakspeare to have been a member of the church of Rome; and the patronage afforded him by the Earl of Pembroke proves, that that nobleman extended his liberality to men of genius without any regard to distinctions of faith; but, on the other hand, we have no just grounds for assuming that Massinger really did hold the same opinions. The only evidence we have upon this point, that afforded by the general tone of his writings, is of a most vague and superficial description. What, in fact, can be inferred from it? We may from such a source derive very satisfactory information respecting the sentiments which would be favourably received by the audience, but very little respecting those of the author. The truth is, that though the national religion was reformed in its liturgy and articles, the feelings, prejudices, and superstitions of the people were still almost entirely catholic; and Massinger, like any other dramatic author, writing for the amusement of the people, necessarily addressed them in a language they would understand, and with sentiments that accorded with their own. Besides, as a poet, he would never carry his theological distinctions to his literary labours: Voltaire himself is catholic in his tragedies; and Massinger naturally adopted the creed which was most suitable to the purposes of poetry, and afforded the most picturesque ceremonies and romantic situations. I feel inclined, therefore, to dismiss entirely the theory suggested by Mr. Gifford, for these two reasons; first, supposing our author to have been a catholic, we have no reason for condemning the Earl of Pembroke as a bigot and a persecutor, who would close his eyes to the merits of so great an author, because his faith did not tally with his own; and, secondly, we have no sufficient grounds for supposing him to have been a catholic at all. But with regard to all such visionary conjectures, thinking is literally a waste of thought. Whatever may have been the nature of Massinger's studies at Oxford, it is quite certain, from the general character of his works, that his time could not have been wasted there; and his literary acquirements, at the period of his leaving the university, appear to have been multifarious and extensive. He was about two-and-twenty (1606) when he arrived in London, where, as he more than once observes, he was driven by his necessities, and somewhat inclined, perhaps, by [Pg 5] [Pg 6] [Pg 7] [Pg 8] the peculiar bent of his talents, to dedicate himself to the service of the stage. The theatre, when Massinger first took up his abode in the metropolis, must have presented attractions of all others the most calculated to excite the interest, and inspire the imagination, of a young man of sensibility, taste, and education like our poet. No art ever attained a more rapid maturity than the dramatic art in England. The people had, indeed, been long accustomed to a species of exhibition, called Miracles or Mysteries, founded on sacred subjects, and performed by the ministers of religion themselves, on the holy festivals, in or near the churches, and designed to instruct the ignorant in the leading facts of sacred history[9]. From the occasional introduction of allegorical characters, such as Faith, Death, Hope, or Sin, into these religious dramas, representations of another kind, called Moralities, had by degrees arisen, of which the plots were more artificial, regular, and connected, and which were entirely formed of such personifications: but the first rough draught of a regular tragedy and comedy—Lord Sackville's Gorboduc, and Still's Gammer Gurton's Needle[10]—were not produced till within the latter half of the sixteenth century, and little more than twenty years before the stage acquired its highest splendour in the productions of Shakspeare. About the end of the sixteenth century, the attention of the public began to be more generally directed to the drama; and it throve most admirably beneath the cheering beams of popular favour. The theatrical performances which in the early part of Elizabeth's reign had been exhibited on temporary stages, erected in such halls or apartments as the actors could procure, or, more generally, in the yards of the larger inns, while the spectators surveyed them from the surrounding windows and galleries, began to find more convenient and permanent habitations. About the year 1569, a regular playhouse, under the appropriate name of The Theatre, was erected. It is supposed to have stood somewhere in Blackfriars; and, three years after the commencement of this establishment, the queen, yielding to her own inclination for such amusements, and disregarding the remonstrances of the Puritans, granted licence and authority to the servants of the Earl of Leicester ("for the recreation of her loving subjects, as for her own solace and pleasure when she should think good to see them") to exercise their occupation throughout the whole realm of England. From this time the number of theatres increased with the increasing demands of the people. Various noblemen had their respective companies of performers, who were associated as their servants, and acted under their protection; and when Massinger left Oxford, and commenced dramatic author, there were no less than seven principal theatres open in the metropolis. With respect to the interior arrangements, there were very few points of difference between our modern theatres and those of the days of Massinger. The prices of admission, indeed, were considerably cheaper: to the boxes the entrance was a shilling; to the pit and galleries only sixpence. Sixpence also was the price paid for stools upon the stage; and these seats, as we learn from Decker's Gull's Hornbook, were particularly affected by the wits and critics of the time. The conduct of the audience was less restrained by the sense of public decorum, and smoking tobacco, playing at cards, eating and drinking, were generally prevalent among them. The hours of performance were also earlier: the play commencing at one o'clock. During the representation a flag was unfurled at the top of the theatre; and the stage, according to the universal practice of the age, was strewn with rushes; but, in all other respects, the theatres of Elizabeth and James's days seem to have borne a perfect resemblance to our own. They had their pit, where the inferior class of spectators, the groundlings, vented their clamorous censure or approbation; they had their boxes—rooms as they were called—to which the right of exclusive admission was engaged by the night, for the more affluent portion of the audience; and there were again the galleries, or scaffoldings above the boxes, for those who were content to purchase less commodious situations at a cheaper rate. On the stage, in the same manner, the appointments appear to have been nearly of the same description as at present. The curtain divided the audience from the actors, which, at the third sounding, not indeed of the bell, but of the trumpet, was drawn for the commencement of the performance. Malone, in his account of the ancient theatre, supposes that there were no moveable scenes; that a permanent elevation of about nine feet was raised at the back of the stage, from which, in many of the old plays, part of the dialogue was spoken; and that there was a private box on each side this platform. Such an arrangement would have destroyed all theatrical illusion; and it seems extraordinary that any spectators should desire to fix themselves in a station where they could have seen nothing but the backs and trains of the performers; but, as Malone himself acknowledges the spot to have been inconvenient, and that "it is not very easy to ascertain the precise situation where these boxes really were[11]", it may very reasonably be presumed, that they were not placed in the position that the historian of the English stage has supposed. As to the permanent floor, or upper stage, of which he speaks, he may or may not be correct in his statement. All that his quotations upon the subject really establish is, that in the old, as in the modern theatre, when the actor was to speak from a window, or balcony, or the walls of a fortress, the requisite ingenuity was not wanting to contrive a representation of the place. But with regard to the use of painted moveable scenery, it is not possible, from the very circumstances of the case, to believe him correct in his theory. Such a contrivance could not have escaped our ancestors. All the materials were ready to their hands. They had not to invent for themselves, but merely to adapt an old invention to that peculiar purpose; and at a time when every better-furnished apartment was adorned with tapestry; when even the rooms of the commonest taverns were hung with painted cloths; while all the materials were constantly before their eyes, we can hardly believe our forefathers to have been so deficient in ingenuity, as to have missed the simple contrivance of converting the common ornaments of their walls into the decorations of their theatres. But, in fact, the use of scenery was almost co-existent with the introduction of dramatic representations in this country. In the Chester Mysteries (1268), the most ancient and complete collection of the kind which we possess, is found the following stage direction: "Then Noe shall go into the arke with all his familye, his wife excepte. The arke must be boarded round about; and upon the boardes all the beastes and fowles, hereafter rehearsed, must be painted , that their wordes may agree with their pictures[12]." In this passage we have a clear reference to a painted scene. It is not likely that, in the lapse of three centuries, while all other arts were in a state of rapid improvement, and the art of [Pg 9] [Pg 10] [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] dramatic writing, perhaps, more rapidly and successfully improved than any other, the art of theatrical decoration should have alone stood still. It is not improbable that their scenes were few; and that they were varied, as occasion might require, by the introduction of different pieces of stage furniture. Mr. Gifford, who adheres to the opinions of Malone, says, "A table with a pen and ink thrust in, signified that the stage was a counting-house; if these were withdrawn and two stools put in their place, it was then a tavern[13]." And this might be perfectly satisfactory as long as the business of the play was supposed to be passing within doors; but when it was removed to the open air, such meagre devices would no longer be sufficient to guide the imagination of the audience, and some new method must have been adopted to indicate the place of action. After giving the subject very considerable attention, I cannot help thinking that Steevens was right in rejecting Malone's theory, and concluding that the spectators were, as at the present day, assisted in following the progress of the story by means of painted moveable scenery. This opinion is confirmed by the ancient stage directions. In the folio Shakspeare, 1623, we read "Enter Brutus in his orchard; Enter Timon in the woods; Enter Timon from the cave." In Coriolanus, "Marcius follows them to the gates and is shut in." Innumerable instances of the same kind might be cited to prove that the ancient stage was not so defective in the necessary decorations as some antiquaries of great authority would represent. "It may be added," says Steevens, "that the dialogue of our old dramatists has such perpetual reference to objects supposed visible to the audience, that the want of scenery could not have failed to render many of the descriptions absurd. Banquo examines the outside of Inverness castle with such minuteness, that he distinguishes even the nests which the martens had built under the projecting part of its roof. Romeo, standing in a garden, points to the tops of fruit-trees gilded by the moon. The prologue speaker to the second part of Henry the Fourth expressly shows the spectators 'This worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,' in which Northumberland was lodged. Iachimo takes the most exact inventory of every article in Imogen's bed-chamber, from the silk and silver of which her tapestry was wrought, down to the Cupids that support her andirons. Had not the inside of the apartment, with its proper furniture, been represented, how ridiculous must the action of Iachimo have appeared! He must have stood looking out of the room for the particulars supposed to be visible within it." The works of Massinger would afford innumerable instances of a similar kind to vindicate the opinion which Steevens has asserted on the testimony of Shakspeare alone. But on this subject there is one passage which appears to me quite conclusive. Must not all the humour of the mock play in The Midsummer Night's Dream have been entirely lost, unless the audience before whom it was performed were accustomed to all the embellishments requisite to give effect to a dramatic representation, and could consequently estimate the absurdity of those shallow contrivances and mean substitutes for scenery devised by the ignorance of the clowns[14]? In only one respect do I perceive any material difference between the mode of representation at the time of Massinger and at present: in his day, the female parts were performed by boys. This custom, which must in many cases have materially injured the illusion of the scene, was in others of considerable advantage: it furnished the stage with a succession of youths, regularly educated for the art, to fill, in every department of the drama, the characters suited to their age. When the lad had become too tall for Juliet, he had acquired the skill, and was most admirably fitted, both in age and appearance, for performing the part which Garrick considered the most difficult on the stage, because it needed "an old head upon young shoulders," the ardent and arduous character of Romeo. When the voice had "the mannish crack," that rendered the youth unfit to appear as the representative of the gentle Imogen, the stage possessed in him the very person that was wanting to do justice to the princely sentiments of Arviragus or Guiderius[15]. Such was the state of the stage when Massinger arrived in the metropolis, and dedicated his talents to its service. He joined a splendid fraternity, for Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Shirley, were then flourishing at the height of their reputation, and the full vigour of their genius. Massinger came among them no unworthy competitor for such honours and emoluments as the theatre could afford. Of the honours, indeed, he seems to have reaped a very fair and equitable portion; of the emoluments, the harvest was less abundant. In those days, very little pecuniary reward was to be gained by the dramatic poet, unless, as indeed was most frequently the case, he added the profession of the actor to that of the author, and recited the verses which he wrote. The distinguished performers of that time, Alleyn, Burbage, Heminge, Condell, Shakspeare, all appear to have died in independent, if not affluent, circumstances; but the remuneration obtained by the poet was most miserably curtailed. The price given at the theatre for a new play fluctuated between ten and twenty pounds; the copyright, if the piece was printed, might produce from six to ten pounds more; in addition to these sums, the dedication-fee may be reckoned, the usual amount of which was forty shillings. Our author appears to have produced about two or three plays every year. Most of them were successful; but, even with this industry and good fortune, his annual income would rarely have exceeded fifty pounds: and we cannot, therefore, feel surprised at finding him continually speaking of his necessities; or that the only existing document connected with his life should be one that represents him in a state of pecuniary embarrassment. Among the papers of Dulwich College, the indefatigable Mr. Malone discovered the following letter tripartite, which, coming from persons of such deserved celebrity, cannot fail of interesting the reader. "To our most loving friend, Mr. Phillip Hinchlow, esquire, these. "Mr. Hinchlow, "You understand our unfortunate extremitie, and I doe not thincke you so void of Christianitie but that you would throw so much money into the Thames as wee request now of you, rather than endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is xl. more, at least, to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend us vl. of that, which shall be allowed to you; without which, we cannot be bayled, nor I play any [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] [Pg 17] more till this be dispatch'd. It will lose you xxl. ere the end of the next weeke, besides the hindrance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true freind in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mr. Davison to deliver this note, as well to witness your love as our promises, and alwayes acknowledgement to be ever "Your most thankfull and loving friends, "Nat. Field[16]." "The money shall be abated out of the money remayns for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours. "Rob. Daborne[17]." "I have ever found you a true loving friend to mee, and in soe small a suite, it beinge honest, I hope you will not fail us. "Philip Massinger." Indorsed. "Received by mee, Robert Davison, of Mr. Hinchlow, for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr. Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of vl. "Rob. Davison[18]." The occasion of the distress in which these three distinguished persons were involved it is not possible to fathom. We may imagine a thousand emergencies, either creditable or discreditable to the fame of the writers, with which the letter would perfectly tally; but, on such slight and vague intimations, no ingenuity could determine which was most likely to be correct. But from the document a circumstance is ascertained, which, before its discovery, had been called in question. Sir Aston Cockayne, a friend of Massinger, had asserted in a volume of poems, published in 1658, that our author had written in conjunction with Fletcher; Davies doubted this report, but the above letter establishes the fact beyond the possibility of dispute. Massinger is known to have produced thirty-seven plays for the stage, a list of which is given at the conclusion of this memoir. Sixteen entire plays and the fragment of another, The Parliament of Love, alone are extant. No less than eleven of his productions, in manuscript, were in possession of Mr. Warburton (Somerset Herald), and destroyed with the rest of that gentleman's invaluable collection by his cook, who, ignorant of their worth, used them as waste paper for the purposes of the kitchen. The great and various merits of the works of Massinger will be better seen in the following volumes than in any elaborate, critical dissertation. If our author be compared with the other dramatic writers of his age, we cannot long hesitate where to place him. More natural in his characters and more poetical in his diction than Jonson or Cartwright, more elevated and nervous than Fletcher, the only writers who can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence, Massinger ranks immediately under Shakspeare himself. Our poet excels, perhaps, more in the description than in the expression of passion; this may in some measure be ascribed to his attention to the fable: while his scenes are managed with consummate skill, the lighter shades of character and sentiment are lost in the tendency of each part to the catastrophe. The melody, force, and variety of his versification are always remarkable. The prevailing beauties of his productions are dignity and elegance; their predominant fault is want of passion. Massinger's last play—which is unfortunately lost—The Anchoress of Pausilippo, was acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death, which happened on the 17th of March, 1640. He went to bed in good health, says Langbaine, and was found dead in the morning, in his own house on the Bankside. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. It does not appear, though every stone and every fragment of a stone has been carefully examined, that any monument or inscription of any kind marked the place where his dust was deposited. "The memorial of his mortality," says Gifford, "is given with a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with the obscure and humble passages of his life: March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger." Such is all the information that remains to us of this distinguished poet. But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting him but that he lived, wrote, and died, we may yet form some idea of his personal character from the recommendatory poems prefixed to his several plays, in which, as Mr. Gifford justly observes, the language of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently derived not so much from his talents as his virtues: he is their beloved, much-esteemed, dear, worthy, deserving, honoured, long-known, and long-loved friend. All the writers of his life represent him as a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour, and affability; nor does it appear that he ever made or found an enemy. LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS. Those marked * are extant. Those marked † were destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] † The Forced Lady. T. † The Noble Choice. C. † The Wandering Lovers. C. † Philenzo and Hippolita. T. C. † Antonio and Vallia. C. † The Tyrant. T. † Fast and Welcome. C. † The Woman's Plot. C. * The Old Law. C. * The Virgin Martyr. T. * The Unnatural Combat. T. * The Duke of Milan. T. * The Bondman. T. C. * The Renegado. T. C. * The Parliament of Love. C. † The Spanish Viceroy. C. * The Roman Actor. T. The Judge. * The Great Duke of Florence. The Honour of Women. * The Maid of Honour. T.C. * The Picture. T. C. † Minerva's Sacrifice. T. * The Emperor of the East. T. C. † Believe as you List. C. The Unfortunate Piety. T. * The Fatal Dowry. T. * A New Way to Pay Old Debts. C. * The City Madam. C. * The Guardian. C. The Tragedy of Cleander. * A very Woman. T. C. The Orator. * The Bashful Lover. T. C. The King and the Subject. Alexius, or the Chaste Lover. The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. The Virgin-Martyr.] This very beautiful play, one of Massinger's earliest and most popular works, was first printed in 1622, but we have no account when it was first produced. In the composition of it he was assisted by Decker, a dramatist of no mean reputation. The plot of this tragedy is founded on the tenth and last general persecution of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of Dioclesian's reign with a fury hard to be expressed; the Christians being every where, without distinction of age, sex, or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most exquisite torments that rage, [Pg 23] [Pg 25] cruelty, and hatred could suggest. In the construction of their play, Massinger and his associate Decker appear to have conceived the idea of combining the prominent parts of the old Mystery with the Morality, which was not yet obliterated from the memories, nor perhaps from the affections, of many of the spectators. Among the many instances of skill displayed by the authors of The Virgin-Martyr in the management of their materials may be remarked the dexterity and good taste with which they have avoided the untimely concurrence of the good and evil spirit; an error into which Tasso and others of greater name than Massinger have inadvertently fallen.—Of the character of the heroine it is impossible to speak too highly: her genuine and dignified piety, her unsullied innocence, her unshaken constancy, her lofty pity for her persecutors, her calm contempt of torture, and her heroic death, exalt the mind in no ordinary degree. All the other parts are subordinate to her, and require little observation. Antoninus is brave and generous, and we sympathize with his genuine attachment for Dorothea. Calista and Christeta, hasty, self-confident, readily promising for their steadiness, soon forgetting their resolutions, and equally secure in every change of opinion, are well contrasted with the heroine of the piece, whose fixed principles always guard her against rashness, and therefore preserve her from contradiction. Artemia's love for Antoninus would be wholly without interest, if we were not moved for a moment by her indignation at the rejection of her offer; and we see her at length consigned to Maximinus with as little emotion as is shown by themselves. The introduction of a good and evil spirit disguised in human shapes was not to be expected in a work aspiring to the reputation of a regular tragedy: still, whatever be their departure from propriety, it must be remembered that such representations had a most solemn origin, and that the business in which the spirits are engaged has a substantial conformity with the opinions of the early ages in which the plot is laid. The opposition of the demons to the progress of the faith, and the reasoning and raillery which Dorothea expresses, under the influence of Angelo, against the pagan gods, are to be found in Justin, Tatian, Arnobius, and others. The separate agency of the spirits, and the consequence of their personal encounter, are also described in a characteristic manner. Apart from Angelo, Harpax seems to advance in his malignant work. When the daughters of Theophilus express their zeal for paganism, he "grows fat to see his labours prosper;" yet he cannot look forward to the defeat of those labours in their approaching conversion, though on some occasions we find he could "see a thousand leagues" in his master's service. And this agrees with the doctrine, that when some signal triumph of the faith was at hand, the evil spirits were abridged of their usual powers. Again, when Harpax expects to meet Angelo, he thus expresses the dread of his presence, and the effect which it afterwards produced on him: "————I do so hate his sight, That, should I look on him, I should sink down." Act II. sc. 2. And this, too, perfectly agrees with the power attributed to the superior spirits of quelling the demons by those indications of their quality which were not to be perceived by mortals: per occultissimæ signa præsentiæ, quæ angelicis sensibus etiam malignorum spirituum, potius quam infirmitati hominum, possunt esse perspicua. Civ. Dei, lib. ix. The tragedy is too full of horrors; but this is a fault of which our ancestors were very tolerant. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Dioclesian, Maximinus, } Emperors of Rome. King of Pontus. King of Epire. King of Macedon. Sapritius, Governor of Cæsarea. Theophilus, a zealous persecutor of the Christians. Sempronius, captain of Sapritius' guards. Antoninus, son to Sapritius. Macrinus, friend to Antoninus. Harpax, an evil spirit, following Theophilus in the shape of a secretary. Angelo, a good spirit, serving Dorothea in the habit of a page. Julianus, Geta, } servants of Theophilus. Priest of Jupiter. British Slave. Artemia, daughter to Dioclesian. Calista, Christeta, } daughters to Theophilus. [Pg 26] [Pg 27] Dorothea, the Virgin-Martyr. Officers and Executioners. SCENE, Cæsarea. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT I. SCENE I. The Governor's Palace. Enter Theophilus and Harpax. Theoph. Come to Cæsarea to-night! Harp. Most true, sir. Theoph. The emperor in person! Harp. Do I live? Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange! The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, Are step by step observed; and loud-tongued Fame The harbinger to prepare their entertainment: And, were it possible so great an army, Though cover'd with the night, could be so near, The governor cannot be so unfriended Among the many that attend his person, But, by some secret means, he should have notice Of Cæsar's purpose;—in this, then, excuse me, If I appear incredulous. Harp. At your pleasure. Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never fail'd me In things more difficult, but have discover'd Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant from me, When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret vaults, No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these Christians Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magic Still laid them open; I begin again To be as confident as heretofore; It is not possible thy powerful art Should meet a check, or fail. Enter the Priest of Jupiter, bearing an Image, and followed by Calista and Christeta. Harp. Look on the Vestals, The holy pledges that the gods have given you, Your chaste, fair daughters. Were 't not to upbraid A service to a master not unthankful, I could say these, in spite of your prevention, Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, (Which is the strength of nature) quite forsaking The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves To this new-found religion. This I cross'd, Discover'd their intents, taught you to use, With gentle words and mild persuasions, The power and the authority of a father, Set off with cruel threats; and so reclaim'd them: And, whereas they with torment should have died, (Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it!) [Aside. They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple, [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31] And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar With all the mysteries, nay, the most abstruse ones, Belonging to his deity. Theoph. 'Twas a benefit, For which I ever owe you.—Hail, Jove's flamen! Have these my daughters reconciled themselves, Abandoning for ever the Christian way, To your opinion? Priest. And are constant in it. They teach their teachers with their depth of judgment, And are with arguments able to convert The enemies to our gods, and answer all They can object against us. Theoph. My dear daughters! Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung sect, In private or in public. Harp. My best lady, Perséver[19] in it. Chris. And what we maintain, We will seal with our bloods. Harp. Brave resolution! I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper. Theoph. I young again. To your devotions. Harp. Do— My prayers be present with you. [Exeunt Priest, Cal. and Chris. Theoph. O my Harpax! Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft compassion, Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on Babes torn by violence from their mothers' breasts To feed the fire, and with them make one flame; Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by dogs; Virgins and matrons tire the executioners; Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy— Harp. And in that, just, not cruel. Theoph. Were all sceptres That grace the hands of kings made into one, And offer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet, I would contemn them all,—thus spit at them; So I to all posterities might be call'd The strongest champion of the Pagan gods, And rooter out of Christians. Harp. Oh, mine own, Mine own dear lord! to further this great work, I ever live thy slave. Enter Sapritius and Sempronius. Theoph. No more—The governor. Sap. Keep the ports close[20], and let the guards be doubled; Disarm the Christians; call it death in any To wear a sword, or in his house to have one. Semp. I shall be careful, sir. Sap. 'Twill well become you. [Pg 31] [Pg 32] Such as refuse to offer sacrifice To any of our gods, put to the torture. Grub up this growing mischief by the roots; And know, when we are merciful to them, We to ourselves are cruel. Semp. You pour oil On fire that burns already at the height: I know the emperor's edict, and my charge, And they shall find no favour. Theoph. My good lord, This care is timely for the entertainment Of our great master, who this night in person Comes here to thank you. Sap. Who! the emperor? Harp. To clear your doubts, he doth return in triumph, Kings lackeying[21] by his triumphant chariot; And in this glorious victory, my lord, You have an ample share: for know, your son, The ne'er-enough commended Antoninus, So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword[22], and dyed His snowy plumes so deep in enemies' blood, That, besides public grace beyond his hopes, There are rewards propounded. Sap. I would know No mean in thine, could this be true. Harp. My head Answer the forfeit. Sap. Of his victory There was some rumour: but it was assured, The army pass'd a full day's journey higher Into the country. Harp. It was so determined; But, for the further honour of your son, And to observe the government of the city, And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence, The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay here: [Trumpets. For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival. Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our guards, And with all ceremonious pomp receive The conquering army. Let our garrison speak Their welcome in loud shouts, the city show Her state and wealth. Semp. I'm gone. [Exit. Sap. O, I am ravish'd With this great honour! cherish, good Theophilus, This knowing scholar. Send for your fair daughters; I will present them to the emperor, And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror, Express your zeal and duty. Theoph. Fetch them, good Harpax. [Exit Harpax. Enter Sempronius, at the head of the guard, soldiers leading three kings bound; Antoninus and Macrinus bearing the emperor's eagles; Dioclesian with a gilt laurel on his head, leading in Artemia: Sapritius kisses the emperor's hand, then embraces his son; Harpax brings in Calista and Christeta. Loud shouts. Diocle. So: at all parts I find Cæsarea [Pg 33] [Pg 34] Completely govern'd: the licentious soldier Confined in modest limits, and the people Taught to obey, and not compell'd with rigour: The ancient Roman discipline revived, Which raised Rome to her greatness, and proclaim'd her The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world; But, above all, the service of the gods, So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius, In words to thank you for your care and duty, Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour, Or his magnificence to his loyal servants.— But I shall find a time with noble titles To recompense your merits. Sap. Mightiest Cæsar, [23]Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal To Jove's in heaven; whose victorious triumphs On proud rebellious kings that stir against it, Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies Won in the Giants' war; whose conquering sword, Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills As did his thunder! all that I have done, Or, if my strength were centupled, could do, Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge. But, if in any thing I have deserved Great Cæsar's smile, 'tis in my humble care Still to preserve the honour of those gods, That make him what he is: my zeal to them I ever have express'd in my fell hate Against the Christian sect that, with one blow, (Ascribing all things to an unknown Power,) Would strike down all their temples, and allows them Nor sacrifice nor altars. Diocle. Thou, in this, Walk'st hand in hand with me: my will and power Shall not alone confirm, but honour all That are in this most forward. Sap. Sacred Cæsar, If your imperial majesty stand pleased To shower your favours upon such as are The boldest champions of our religion, Look on this reverend man, [points to Theophilus.] to whom the power Of searching out, and...