the cross incidents of our life? Here whole families would break forth into lamentations of the impending cala. mity—there men, intoxicated with joy and delight at the approaching felicity, would caper about. None would work any more-none care any longer to promote the public weal. Many from despair would destroy their own or others' lives. The father would kill his infant son in the cradle sooner than see him in his thirtieth year mounting the scaffold. The friend who to-mor row should deprive us of our fortune, we would get rid of to-day; and to-mor row, perhaps, others would have murdered us out of revenge; or we, in a fit of insanity, have committed summary justice on ourselves. In short, the world would soon be topsy-turvey if we had a detailed prescience of our fate. Many would die in the flower of their years from sorrow aud vexation; or, like drowsy people who had little to fear, sink into sleep. At present we deceive ourselves with the hope that our good fortune is to come yet, and so one day imperceptibly passes away after another. We dread uncertain evils, and in this way we continue tolerably easy and fit to avert them. How garrulously would men reveal their fate to one another if they knew it beforehand; and what envy, and with it what mischief, would not ensue from such knowledge? What would Cæsar have done, had he known that he should be assassinated at the Senate House? Would Cicero have been the founder of so many good institutions? Would he, notwithstanding his ambition, ever have become cousul, had be foreseen that of all his patriotic deeds a violent death would be the reward? Would many a one have aspired to a fortune, had he known before-hand all the labour and trouble which, year after year, he has overcome without perceiving it? who would feel inclined to perform a great and laudable deed, if, by the foreknowing of his fate, the hope of remuneration were taken away from him? Who, in the ever undis turbed possession of felicity, would shew himself temperate and grateful to Providence, bumble and kind hearted towards men? Would not, by a full prescience, virtue and religion be almost totally annihilated ?

To be brief, the man who desires to be informed of his future fate in every Europ. Mag. Vol, LXXVIII. July 1820,

particular, is wishing for something contradictory either one way or the other. He wishes either to know events, which will never be events as soon as he knows them, and as long as with his prescience he retains the same affections, desires, and passions, the same free agency in which at present his nature consists; that is to say, he wishes to know whether something is to happen, which, however, will not happen. What a coutradiction! Or were it possible for the events to take place, he wishes to lose either the present regulation of his nature or his liberty; in other words, he wishes to be a man, and also no man. So anomalous and silly is the desire to know. one's future fortune in detail. And suppose it were otherwise; still it would be one of the most hostile wishes mau could possibly entertain against himself. Suppose too it were consistent with the world and human nature; what a hell would be the former, and what a frightful lot that of man! Nay, could there be men possessed of the gift of predicting my fortune, I pray and conjure them to keep their fatal wisdom from me. Pestilence, famine, and the sword, are great scourges; but fortune-tellers, if any there be, fortunetellers for the whole of mankind, would be much more horrid than all those evils taken together.

BIOGRAPHY. No. 1.

J. B. D.

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF PHILIP MASSINGER.

IT

T is a matter of surprise that a poet, who was countenanced by persons of eminence and rank, and who associated with men of high attainment and superior genius, whose writings were, as Authony Wood declares," much applauded and cried up in their time," and whose fame, as appears by Andrew Pennycuike's dedication to the City Madam, survived him for many years, should have left so few records of bis life, so few anecdotes illustrative of his domestic history or descriptive of his private character, as remain of Philip Massinger. This deficiency, which it is useless to regret, may in some measure be supplied by his works. The number of them affords the best proof that he was not idle in the employment E

of his time;—and the frequent acknowledgments of support in the dedicatory epistles prefixed to the plays which are left, while they exhibit in a favourable light the gratitude of his disposition, convey also a lamentable evidence of his poverty and dependence.

The father of the poet was Arthur Massinger, a gentleman attached to the family of Henry, second Earl of Pembroke; in whose service he remained till the death of that nobleman in 1601,-and he continued in that of his son, William, the third earl, till his own, which is supposed to have taken place about 1606. Of his wife nothing is known; and no mention is made of any other child than Philip, the subject of the present memoir.

Philip Massinger was born at Salisbury in 1584, the 26th year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and was educated probably at Wilton the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, at whose death he had reached his sixteenth year. In the following year (May 14, 1602) he was entered as a commoner at St. Alban's

Hall, in the University of Oxford, where he remained about four years, and then left it abruptly without taking a degree;-not, Mr. Gifford appre hends, on account of the Earl of Pembroke's witholding his assistance, (as suggested by Anthony Wood.) for it does not appear that the Earl ever afforded any, but of a much more calamitous event, the death of his father. No misconduct on the part of Massinger is related, to account for the Earl of Pembroke's neglecting, at so critical a period of his life, a young man whose father had been a faithful servant to the family:-but Mr. Gifford attributes "it to the poet's having, during his residence at the University, exchanged the religion of his father for one at this time the object of persecution, batred, and terror." A reference to the Virgin Martyr, the Renegado, and the Maid of Honour, the plays mentioned by Mr. Gifford, as supporting his argument, will satisfy the reader of the probable correctness of the suggestion.

On leaving the University he came to London, where for sixteen years after bis arrival little is recorded of him. His own expressions leave no room for doubting that this was a period of misfortune, and that he had but faintly subsisted if he had not often tasted of the bounty" of his patrons. His necessities obliged him to employ his talents,

and his inclination probably led him to dedicate them to the service of the stage; not perhaps at first producing any entire piece of his own, but lending his assistance to others of a more confirmed reputation.

It is certain that he assisted Fletcher in several of his plays; and Sir Aston Cockayne, who calls our poet his "good old friend," in the following lines, addressed to Humphrey Moseley, the publisher of the folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher, seems to imply that Massinger had at least as great a share as Beaumont in the production of the volume.

"In the large book of plays you late did print

In Beaumont and in Fletcher's name, why in't

Did you not justice give to each his due? For Beaumont of those many writ but few: And Massinger in other few; the main Being sweet issues of sweet Fletcher's brain.

But how came I, you ask, so much to know?

Fletcher's chief bosom friend informed me

80,"

Mr. Weber's edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's Plays, published in 1812, notices only four as having received the assistance of Massinger; viz. The False one, (in which he is supposed to have furnished the character of Septimius," the most finished villain in their dramatic performances,") Love's Pilgrimage, the Lover's Progress, and the Jeweller of Amsterdam, or the Hague. About the last, indeed, there is no doubt, it being entered in the Stationers' book as written by Fletcher, Field, and Massinger. The three former were produced subsequently to the death of Beaumont in 1615, after which Fletcher wrote between thirty and forty plays. It does not therefore appear unlikely, although the hand of Massinger cannot at present be traced, that he assisted in the composition of a larger number than have been named, and of some, probably, written before Beaumont's death; because otherwise the first nine years of his stay in London, from 1606 to 1615, would remain perfectly unacounted for. This supposition receives some support from the intimacy that is known to have subsisted between Fletcher and our poet,

from the curious fact that, notwithstanding that intimacy, he never prefixed commendatory verses to any of

the plays of Fletcher according to the fashion of the time, an omission which the circumstance of his having assisted in the composition of those plays would at once account for,-and from the letter of Field, Daborne, and Massinger, to "Mr. Philip Henchlow, Esq." the proprietor of the Rose theatre, asking the loan of five pounds to bail them in their "unfortunate extremitie," and adding, "the money shall be abated out of the money remayus for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours." The play here alluded to is supposed to be the Jeweller of Amsterdam, or the Hague, before mentioned: and, as Henslow died in January 1615-16, it must have beeu produced before that year, and therefore before the death of Beaumout. Future critics may perhaps trace the hand of Massinger not only in other plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, but also as the coadjutor of Shakespeare, who died in 1616, and produced, as is agreed by both Mr. Malone and Mr. George Chalmers, at least seven plays after the arrival of our poet in

London.

Although the Virgin Martyr, which is the first of Massinger's plays that was printed, did not issue from the press till 1622, Mr. Gifford proves that both that play, and some others, must have appeared on the stage long before; and he observes that they will "sufficiently fill up the time till 1622." From that year till his death, his plays afford nearly a regular succession of dates, and frequently he produced two in a season. The rapidity of his pen is recorded by the following lines of a contemporary poel: "Ingenious Shakspeare, Massinger that

knows

The strength of plot, to write in verse or

prose,

Whose easy Pegasus will amble o'er Some threescore miles of fancy in an hour." Of all that he wrote we have the names of thirty-eight, eighteen of which are contained in Mr. Gifford's edition, and the remaining twenty are wholly Jost, eleven by the extreme carlessness of Mr. Warburton, who, after having collected between fifty and sixty manuscript plays of different authors, lodged them in the hands of an ignorant servent, and she, unaware of the importance of the deposit, appropriated them to culinary purposes. The master at length, after a lapse of years, remembering his treasure, arrived only in

time to preserve three dramas from destruction.

There are only three out of these eighteen plays in which it appears that he did not entirely depend on his own resourcess. In the composition of the Fatal Dowry, which, from its not appearing in the office book of Sir Henry Herbert, master of the revels, is supposed to have been produced previous to the year 1620, he was assisted by Nathaniel Field, (his connection with whom and Fletcher in the Jeweller of Amster· dam has been already mentioned) a player of considerable eminence, and author of two comedies, one called A Woman is a Weathercock, published in 1612, and the other Amends for Ladies, in 1618. A few scenes of the Virgin Martyr, some of which are far from being ornaments to the play, were contributed by Thomas Decker, the author of various dramatic pieces, and "famous for the contention he had with Ben Jonson for the bays." The other play is the Old Law, the greater part of which Mr. Gifford is inclined, with every appearance of probability, to attribute to Thomas Middleton and William Rowley, two dramatic writers with whom he united in the composi tion of this play, the former of whom was the author of the Witch, a tragi comedy of which Shakespeare is ascertained to have made a liberal use.

Besides the worthies just named, we find from the various commendatory verses addressed to him, that he num bered among his friends the great dramatic poets Shirley and Ford, together with several others of minor note. To this list the dedicatory epistles add patrons of high note and honor. As sociating with men of such reputation, and patronised by persons of such rank, it is evident that he was highly esteemed during his life; and that his talents, on which his modesty threw a greater lustre, were duly appreciated. It seem therefore extraordinary, with these considerations, and granting that he was the author of no other pieces than those the names of which have reached our time, that Massinger should have been exposed to the distress and poverty but too apparent from the expressions used in his dedications, and that his indigence should have contiBut the impronued till his death. vidence of genius has become proverbial.

His last play was produced on the

stage within six weeks of his death: but no remains either of it or of the two preceding have reached us. This loss is much to be regretted, as there is no reason to believe that his powers were at all decayed up to the time of his decease.

This event occurred without any previous illness on the 17th of March, 1640, at his house on the Bankside. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Saviour's, where "Not a stone tells where he lies." The register contains the only memorial of the fact, and records it with a "pathetic brevity" in these words: "March 20, 1689 40, buried Philip Massinger, A STRANGER!" The following epitaph, published by Sir Aston Cockayne, in his collections of Poems, Epigrams, &c. is the only one written to his memory. It is entitled, "An Epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who lie both buried in one grave in St. Mary Overy's Church, in Southwark."

·

"In the same grave was Fletcher buried here

Lies the stage poet, Philip Massinger; Plays they did write together, were great friends,

And now one grave includes them in their ends.

So whom on earth nothing could part, beneath

Here (in their fame) they lie, in spight of death."

Several of Massinger's plays have been revived with effect at different periods. The New Way to Pay Old Debts is well known: the Duke of Milan also, and the City Madam (acted under the name of Riches, with altera tions by Sir J. B. Burgess) have lately drawn forth the talents of Mr. Kean, in the character of the Duke in the former, and in that of Luke in the Jatter. The Guardian is imitated in the Inconstant of Farquhar;-and the plot and principal beauties of the Fair Penitent of Rowe were stolen, without acknowledgment, from the Fatal Dowry, the superiority of which is admirably pointed out by Mr. Cumberland in The Observer, Nos. 77, 78, 79. The Bondman, the Maid of Honour, and the Pic ture, were performed at early periods of the late reign; and the two for mer, with several others, we doubt not if now produced would become popular pieces.

It is no part of the present plan to enter into a critical disquisition on the

merits of our poet: the Essay of Dr. Ferriar, and Dr. Ireland's elegant and judicious observations added to each of the plays in Mr. Gifford's edition, together with his most excellent summary of Massinger's talents and character, at the conclusion of the Old Law, have rendered that an unnecessary task.

We cannot refrain, however, from concluding this memoir with the following extract from the latter. Speaking of the Comedy of Massinger, Dr. Ireland says

He draws copious descriptions of the trifling or vicious manners of the age, and discovers strong purposes of moral correction, rather thau smartness of conversation, and the attacks and defences of dramatic wit. Of this sort is the City Madam. This 1 regard as the chief effort of his Comedy; as the Fatal Dowry is of his Tragedy. These two plays alone would be sufficient to create an high reputation. Pity for suffering virtue can hardly be excited in a stronger manner than in the latter. In the former it is difficult to say which quality prevails; the powerful ridicule of an unfeeling affectation, or the just reprobation of hypocrisy.

"This determines the nature of Massinger's writings. He does not soar to the heights of fancy; he dwells among meu, and describes their business and their passions with judgment, feeling, and discrimination. He has a justness of principle which is admirably fitted to the best interests of human life; and I know no writer of his class from whom more maxims of prudence, morality, or religion, may be drawn. He is eminently successful in representing the tender attachment of virtuous love, and in maintaining the true delicacy and dignity of the female character; and in general he displays a warmth of zeal on the side of goodness which at once pleases and elevates the reader. To this excellence of sentiment he adds much strength and variety of talent; nor will any one doubt it who has perused these plays with attention. The general chasteness of language with which they are written, the peculiar elegance of style in the Great Duke of Florence, and the Parliament of Love,-the united dignity and madness of passion of the Duke of Milan,-the animation and heroism of the Bondman, and the talent of discrimination added to those in the Maid of Honour,-the striking eloquence of the Roman Actor,—the co

mic force of the Very Woman,-the strong ridicule and moral reprobation in the New Way to pay Old Debts, and the peculiar playfulness of the Picture:-these, and many others which might be mentioned with equal justice, are incontrovertible proofs of a genius far beyond the common level."

For the EUROPEAN MAGAZINE. A FRAGMENT OF ROMANCE.

doors, when the Squire Bazlo had given the fourth blast on the brazen horn, which hung suspended from the mouldering wall. Light of chivalry!" said the Squire, "dare not the unknown fiends, which the dolorous sounds we have heard, plainly shew, infest this gloomy fortress :"-Alberto without giving ear to the voice of his cautious Squire, called aloud-" Ye inhabitants of this secluded pile, fiends! or men! come forth; if men, my single arm shall proudly shew its master; if fiends, beware the emblem which I bear, and tremble!" thrice did the hardy knight repeat his menacing challenge, and thrice was he alone answered by echo: which reverberated his deep tones with horrible exactness from ravine, steep rock, and woody-glen.

Bazlo could brave death in all its forms, on the sanguinary plain; but his soul felt something like dismay on entering upon an achievement which, with its dangers, was wraped up in the mystery of superstition; and the tenfold darkness of that awful hour; except when the blue lightnings streamed along the expanse of ether, or, with a bolder burst of vivid blasting light, threatened the imperious forests with destruction.

Not so the Knight, he had a voice within his breast which said, thou art to brave all dangers; thy oath enjoins thee to rescue the oppressed, and hurl down the oppressor: "O Saffalena! angel of my soul," said the Knight, shall I not prove myself worthy of thee, should I rush back on my former path, how could I approach thee, thou imperious, but lovely beauty !”— Bazlo make fast our coursers to yon huge trunk"-the Squire silently obeyed; but an instant after a deafuing thunder clap was heard, and a fire ball struck and shivered a massy oak; with headlong fury rushed the snorting coursers far, far, from danger:-"Your

lance is shivered," said the Squire, "your gleaming mail will next attract the lightning's flash, Sir Knight, and there will end this bright adventure in your death:" our steeds are fled," repeated Bazlo:-" Well !" said Alberto, we must advance and dare the unknown horrors of those gloomy walls:"-he then commended himself to the all ruling power, and pressing to his lips the richly embroidered scarf, wrought by the fair hand of Saffalena, he rushed towards the huge portcullis-gate."By my faith," said the Squire, "this is the least to my taste of any adventure we have had; perchance, the dungeon's heap may end it; and chains, with dainty mouldering crusts and water, be our lot for life;-but come, Bazlo, thou must have a little fair play first:" saying this, he unchained a massy iron mace from his side, and with swift speed followed his lord.

Silent and dark was the ancient hall, but the lightning continuing at intervals, shewed the dimensions to be great, and huge doors appeared half opened, leading to unknown passage vaults; "Well," said the Squire, here we are safe from the dreadful fury of the storm; so be content, Sir Knight, with having thus far achieved without broken bones, or loss of fame, your entrance to a castle, the inhabitants of which, from the sounds we have heard, do not appear to behave with like courtesy to all who have gained entrance.". "Achieved?" said the Knight hastily, "nothing is achieved?”—“Every thing we could wish," answered Bazio, with quickness; are we not sheltered from the storm? and that is the greatest achievement I could wish on such a night."-You forget yourself, Bazlo," said the Knight, with harshness.—“ I never forget that you are my lord, and that your safety is dearer to me than my own," replied the Squire with half choked voice.—“ Bazlo," said Alberto, "I am hasty, thou well knowest my temper, why then urge me thus? this is no time for merriment, we are not at the banquet feast!"-"We are not," groaned out the Squire.

Now horrible dismal sounds issued from the direction of the vaulted passages." The centre one shall be our way," exclaimed the Knight, grasping at the moment his glittering well tried sword." The saints protect us," ejaculated Bazlo, and quickly followed the Knight, who had disappeared in the