the white house wan: yet still the black doth bragg they had the power to put mee in the bagge. use but your royall hand. Twill set mee free 'Tis but removing of a man that's mee.

So great a boon as liberty was seldom acquired for the consideration of so small a jest.

Middleton's first literary work was in 1597, "The wisdom of Solomon Paraphrased," an effusion of some seven hundred stanzas, in the whole length of which one finds only an aggravating facility of versification without freshness or sparkle, and only a barren waste of words. When one tastes the quality of the comedies of this and other writers of that time, he is not slow in coming to the conclusion that sacred writing is not exactly the kind of production one could reasonably expect from the author. In 1597 he wrote "Microcynicon, Six Snarling Satyres, likewise seem to carry with them no cuse for republication at this time. 1604 he published two tracts, "Father Hubbard's Tale, or the Ant and the Nightingale," and "The Black Book," which are chiefly interesting to students of the social life of the sixteenth century, the former depicting a prodigal driven to the life of the sharpers who have fleeced him, and the latter making us familiar with the lowest parts of London, "Turnbull street and Birchin Lane, the haunts of drabs and thieves.

that

ex

In

In the beginning of the seventeenth century he appeared as a writer of plays, producing comedies and tragi-comedies. "Blurt, Master Constable," was the earliest of his printed plays, having been published in 1602. Its plot is not very savory and it contains little that is quotable, though in it is the following love-song, the most musical product of his pen:

Love is like a lamb, and love is like a lion,
Fly from love, he fights, fight then does he fly on;
Love is all in fire and yet is ever freezing;
Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesing;*
Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

Love is ever true and yet is ever lying;
Love does doat in liking, and is mad in loathing;
Love indeed is everything, yet indeed is nothing.
*Losing.

Of his comedies the greatest merit is claimed for "A Trick to Catch the Old One" and "A Chaste Maid in Cheapside." If we are right in believing there is any standard. of purity to which a book should attain before it could be commended as reading matter for any people, or take its place in literature, it seems to us that that standard is too high for any discussion of such works as these. The plot of the former takes the reader among persons noted chiefly for their vices a young rake and his male and female companions, of the same characterless sort, at work upon a finally successful scheme to get money to cancel the debts of former profligate living. The trick is gross, and while the action of the play is rapid and some of the scenes not without considerable humor, it is of the kind that one cannot retell in polite society. The editor of these volumes stands well to his work, as if, en

gaged upon a not very savory task, he felt

He

in honor bound to defend the author. admits that "in writing this comedy Middleton was more anxious to amuse than teach a moral lesson," bids for withholding of censure upon these "airy comedies of intrigue," and asserts the success of the author in what he undertook. "It is impossible," he adds, "not to admire the happy dexterity with which the mirthful situations are multipled." And yet, with all the relish of audiences of the present day for amusement and the entertainment that exists in "mirthful situations," there is no manager so bold as to venture to produce this "excellent old play;" and what discriminating faculty we have. fails in its attempt to make quotation from its pages by which the play could commend itself to the admiration or entertainment of our readers. Perhaps the best that can be said of it is, that this play furnishes the plot to the much more admirable and still extant play of "A New Way to Pay Old Debts,"

by Phillip Massinger, a contemporary of Middleton. "A Chaste Maid in Cheapside" is spoken of by the editor as extant. "The play," he says, "is exceedingly diverting, but I cannot conscientiously commend it virginibus puerisque, for the language and situations occasionally show an audacious disregard for propriety." When Middleton quits for a while the task of being simply amusing, and becomes serious, he sometimes assumes a tone of tender sentiment.

In this mood he utters in this play the following pretty lyric strain:

,,,

'To Middleton and Witliam Rowley are to be credited the authorship of "A Fair Quarrel" but the credit of all that is seriously worth; attention in the play plainly belongs to Middleton. Lightness and airiness and rollicking humor seem to be the characteristics of Rowley's ability, and these in admirable measure seem not present herein. "In 'A Fair Quarrel,' says the editor, " Middleton showed how nobly he could depict moral dignity." But the modern reader advances amazed through the scenes that depict the real cause of this so-called "Fair Quarrel," conscious that his moral sense and delicacy of feeling are therein wantonly wounded, and though there comes at length evidence of self-respect, and a personal integrity too late awakened, the finer sense holds it all but as a moral spasm, in which, like an interpolation of some foreign intelligence, appears a tone of dignity out of all keeping with the tone or with any suggestion of all the rest of the play. And then the drama proceeds by the devious paths of a weak and impossible plot, with characters beneath contempt and a denouement lame and impotent, wherein morality and dignity seem to have

faded into forgetfulness.

The play which seems to have made the name of Middleton most widely known is the tragi-comedy called "The Witch." It was printed by Isaac Reed in 1770, and in Steven's note to Reed's edition of Shakespere, to this play is given the credit of the origin of the scenes of the witches in Macbeth. Malone at first accepted the theory of Shakespere's indebtedness to Middleton, but afterwards rejected it; and later critics, doubting its truth, come generally to think that the refrain, common to both,

"Black spirits, and white, red spirits and gray, Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may." came from a much earlier day, from the common songs of the people. There is a certain resemblance between two scenes in each play, in which the witches appear, attributable to the certain amount of concession to the common idea of witches. Those of Middleton have more of worldly tissue in them, having earthly habitations and alliances and offspring, while those of Shakspere are virtueless hags, coming in thunder and lightning, having no earthly ties nor relations. The first assembly of the witches, and the incantation scene in both plays, bear strong resemblance to each other, but in no other particular do the plays have the slightest similarity. This common aspect came undoubtedly from the writers upon witchcraft who were popular at that day, and who pretended to a knowledge of the characteristics of spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, satyrs, pans, faunes, sylvans, centaurs, tritons, dwarfs, giants, nymphes, and the like.

In Act. V., Sc. I is a single song, characteristic of the time, written with some lyric facility:

In a maiden-time profest,
Then we say that life is best;
Testing once the married life,
Then we only praise the wife;
There's but one state more to try,
Which makes women laugh or cry—
Widow, widow of these three
The middle's best, and that give me.

One may search all the rest of the play and be rewarded with scarcely a sentence or line that shows genius, poetry or originality. If it be true that Middleton was the master of Shakspere in the single instance of "The Witch," the gift was returned or taken back with interest by Middleton, who, in many instances in several of his plays, presents the same ideas in phrases too near those of Shakspere, to be satisfactorily explained as a mere coincidence.

If Middleton has any claim to immortality as an author, it must come from something greatly superior to any comedy he has written, or anything within the limits of "The Witch." As compared with other so-called great dramatists of his time, excepting always Shakspere, he is to be credited with facility of language and considerable humor, and in his serious plays with great moral dignity, an imagination largely superior to his fellow playwrights," and with an occasional exhibition of tenderness and sweetness in some of his lyrics.

The maturity of his genius is seen in the tragedy "Women beware Women," of which he was the sole author, and in the tragedy of "The Changeling," and the romantic comedy of "The Spanish, Gipsey," both written jointly with Mr. Rowley.

In "Women beware Women,' founded upon the story of Bianca Capello; Leantio, a young factor of Florence, elopes with Bianca, a Venetian beauty.

"A creature

Able to draw a state from serious business,
And make it their best piece to do her service.

and brings her to the poorer residence of his mother.

From Venice, her consent and I have brought her,

From parents great in wealth, more now in rage;
But let storms spend their furies; now we've got
A shelter o'er our quiet, innocent loves, *
We are contented; little sh' as brought me;
View but her face, you may see all her dowry,
Save that which lies lock'd up in hidden virtues,

His mother fears the change from wealth to the narrow fortunes of her house.

What I can bid you welcome to is mean,
But make it all your own; we're full of wants,
And cannot welcome worth.

But Bianca, full of young affection for her husband, is happy in his love and accepts his fortune willingly.

I'll call this place the place of my birth now, And rightly too, for here my love was born, And that's the birthday of a woman's joys. Leantio must go away on the morrow, and is jealous of what may happen in his absence.

Should we show thieves our wealth, 'twould make 'em bolder:

Temptation is a devil will not stick
To fasten upon a saint.

He goes reluctantly, while she lovingly bids him put off his leave until another day, but he fears one day's delay in her sweet company may beget still another day's delay, for

Love that's wanton must be rul'd awhile
By that that's careful, or all goes to ruin;
As fitting is a government in love
As in a kingdom.

He departs, and leaves standing at the window his mother and his wife in tears. They do not go from the window before there passes a procession of celebration, headed by the Lord Cardinal and the Duke, his brother. Her eye is quick at detecting the glances of the latter, and she asks, Did not the Duke look up? methought he saw us Moth. That's every one's conceit that sees a duke. If he look steadfastly, he looks straight at them, When he perhaps, good careful gentleman, Never minds any, but the look he casts Is at his own intentions, and his object Only the public good. Bian. Most likely so.

From that moment the Duke had an ob ject besides the public good," and to effect it he employs Livia, a court lady of abandoned character to ensnare Bianca for him, and with final success. Her mother finds a change in her after their visit to court.

She was but one day abroad, but ever since
She's grown so cutted, there is no speaking to her;
Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady's
And such mean fare at home, work discontent
in her,

I know not; but I'm sure she's strangely alter'd.
I'll ne'er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me
Again if I had an hundred.

Leantio returns after five days, full of high hope and joyful anticipation in meeting his bride. And the author here rises to the farther heights of poetry in his expression of tenderness and affection, and in the noble tribute which he makes Leantio pay to honorable marriage, ending with the sweetest utterances of longing for his intercepted joy.

How near am I now to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! not another like it;
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house;
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet's bed not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours.

first glance tells him where the heart of his wife resides. The Duke appoints him to the captaincy of the fort at Rouans, but the honor bestowed takes not away the dishonor already cast upon him. The Duke pledges Bianca, the entertainment proceeds, but Leantio tastes only the bitter food of reflection, and his only utterances are asides, that tell how deep his wounds, till at last the banqueters depart, leaving only himself in the presence of Livia, who was the hostess, and who plies him unheeding her, but soliloquising his dear brances of Bianca.

remem

Cans't thou forget

The dear pains my love took? how it has watch'd Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee, Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest That sung about mine ears,-like dangerous flat

terers,

That can set all their mischiefs to sweet tunes,-
And then receiv'd thee, from thy father's window,
Into these arms at midnight; when we embraced
As if we had been statues only made for't,
To show art's life, so silent were our comforts,
And kiss'd as if our lips had grown together?

Livia pretends to offer consolation to him, telling him,

You miss'd your fortunes when you met her, sir.
Young gentlemen that only love for beauty,
They love not wisely; such a marriage rather
Proves the destruction of affection.

And when he is not touched by her words and is left alone, he breaks forth overwhelmed by the wretchedness of his state in the loss of Bianca:

She's gone forever, utterly; there is
As much redemption of a soul from hell,
As a fair woman's body from this palace.
Why should my love last longer than her truth?
What is there good in women to be lov'd,
When only that which makes her so has left her?
I cannot love her now but I must like
Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty
Of law's breach with her, and mine own abusing;
All which were monstrous; then my safest course
For health of mind and body, is to turn
My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her.

An instance of the superior imaginative power of Middleton is found in Act. IV. Sec. 1, where the Cardinal reproaches this

duke for his course of life, and the example set by a great man.

Every sin thou committ'st shows like a flame Upon a mountain, 'tis seen far about,

And with a big wind made of popular breath,
The sparkles fly through cities, here one takes,
Another catches therc, and in a short time
Wastes all to cinders; but remember still,
What burnt the valleys first came from the hill;
Every offence draws his particular pain,
But 'tis example proves the great man's bane.

There is nothing else finer in the whole play, unless it be the reply, strangely put into the mouth of Bianca, which is made to the Cardinal's further reproaches, even after the duke has tried to cure the evil wrought, by a subsequent marriage.

Sir, I have read you over all this while

In silence, and I find great knowledge in you
And severe learning"; yet, 'mongst all your virtues
I see not charity written, which some call
The first-born of religion, and I wonder
I cannot see 't in yours; believe it, sir,
There is no virtue can be sooner miss'd
Or later welcom'd; it begins the rest,
And sets 'em all in order; heaven and angels
Take great delight in a converted sinner;
Why should you then, a servant and professor,
Differ so much from them? If every woman
That commits evil should be therefore kept
Back in desires of goodness, how should virtue
Be known and honour'd? From a man that's blind

To take a burning taper 'tis no wrong.

He never misses it; but to take light
From one that sees, that's injury and spite.
Pray, whether is religion better serv'd,
When lives that are licentious are made honest,
Than when they still run through a sinful blood ?
'Tis nothing virtue's temples to deface;
But build the ruins, there's a work of grace."

There is no cheer in all the play. The way out to the consummation of the plot is dark and the catastrophe melancholy, and as pitiful as that of Hamlet.

Two other plays, "The Changeling," and "The Spanish Gipsey," demand the attention. of the student who would enjoy all the finer expressions of Middleton's genius. Although William Rowley was joint author in these, it is generally conceded by critics that he wrote only the underplot of the former, and

the purely gipsey scenes of the latter, and that to Middleton alone is due the credit for the greater scenes. "The Changeling" is a dark-colored tragedy, the story of Beatrice, a daughter of the governor of the castle of Alicant, who, upon the eve of her marriage to Alonzo de Pivacquo, sees and falls deeply in love with Alsemero. Desperate at the impending loss of her new love, she engages De Flores to make way with her affianced husband. The scene which follows the murder, between Beatrice and De Flores, wherein he refuses her gold, and claiming that she is partner in his guilt, demands as his compensation the surrender of herself to him, is one of the most startling and strongly drawn pictures of deep passion in dramatic literature, scarcely surpassed by any dramatist save Shakspere. His demand she does not at first understand, and, finding him not satisfied with the proffered gold, she offers to double the sum and demands his departure.