against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony, or lofty invectives.' The following humorous sketch of a scholar and his dog, is worthy of any poet, however exalted his genius or reputation : I was a scholar; seven useful springs Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man: Of Antick Donate: still my spaniel slept. Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt; PHILIP MASSINGER was born at Salisbury, in 1584. His father, as appears from the dedication of one of his plays, was in the service of the Earl of Pembroke; and as he was, on one occasion, intrusted with letters to Queen Elizabeth, his situation must have been a confidential one. In 1601, Massinger entered St. Alban's Hall, Oxford; but during the four years which he passed at the university, he applied his mind exclusively to romances and poetry, and, consequently, at the expiration of that time, left without his degree. On quitting Oxford, he repaired to London, there to improve his poetic fancy by intercourse with the men and manners of the metropolis. He soon after began to write for the stage, but for a number of years he had to struggle with poverty, and its usual attendant, distress. In 1814, he made a joint application with Field and Daborne, two brother dramatists, to the manager, Henslowe, for the loan of five pounds, stating that without it they could not be bailed. The sequel of Massinger's history is only an enumeration of his plays. He wrote a great many dramas, of which eighteen have been preserved, and his death was sudden and unexpected. On the evening of the eighteenth of March, 1639, he retired to rest in his own house at Bankside, Southwark, in his usual health, and the next morning was found dead in his bed. He was interred at St. Mary Overy's Church, Southwark, in the same grave which had previously received the remains of Fletcher; and upon the stone that indicated their last resting place, Sir Aston Cockaine incribed the following quaint epitaph: In the same grave Fletcher was buried, here Plays they did write together, were great friends, Here in their fames they lie, in spite of death. Massinger wrote a number of dramas conjointly with Fletcher, Middleton, Rowley, Field, Dekker, and others; and such was his popularity that most of his contemporaries esteemed it an honor to be thus connected with him. Of the dramas exclusively his own, The Virgin Martyr, The Bondman, The Fatal Dowry, The City Madam, and A New Way to Pay Old Debts, are his best known productions. Massinger's comedy resembles, in its eccentric strength and wayward exhibitions of human nature, that of Ben Jonson. The greediness of avarice, the tyranny of unjust laws, and the miseries of poverty, are drawn with a powerful hand. The luxuries and vices of a city life, also, afforded scope for his indignant and forcible invective. The tragedies of Massinger have a calm and dignified seriousness, and a lofty pride, that impresses the imagination very powerfully. His genius was more eloquent and descriptive than impassioned and inventive; yet his pictures of suffering virtue, its struggles and its trials, are calculated to touch the heart, as well as gratify the taste. The versification is so smooth and mellifluous, as to be second only to that of Shakspeare. Massinger's dramas afford fine scope for extracts, but our space will allow us to introduce only the following: A MIDNIGHT SCENE. [Angelo, an Angel, attends Dorothea as a Page.] Dor. My book and taper. Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. Were every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down Therefore my most lov'd mistress, do not bid For then you break his heart. Dor. Be nigh me still, then. Ꮓ In golden letters down I'll set that day Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye Dor. I have offer'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. Ang. I am not: I did never Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Fill'd with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you, Dor. A bless'd day. [Virgin Martyr.] COMPASSION FOR MISFORTUNE. Luke. No word, sir, I hope shall give offence; nor let it relish Of flattery, though I proclaim aloud, I glory in the bravery of your mind, To which your wealth 's a servant. Not that riches And that you feel compassion in your bowels Of others' miseries (I have found it, sir; Heaven keep me thankful for 'it!), while they are curs'd In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath, Can you think, sir, In your unquestion'd wisdom, I beseech you, Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant, For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it. Sir John. Shall I be Talk'd out of my money? Luke. No sir, but intreated * * To do yourself a benefit, and preserve What you possess entire. Sir John. How, my good brother ? Luke. By making these your beadsmen. When they eat, When your ships are at sea, their prayers will swell The sails with prosperous winds, and guard them from [City Madam.] Before we pass on to the writers who close this important dramatic period, we must very briefly notice their less eminent contemporaries, Taylor, Rowley, Tourneur, Cooke, Nabbes, Field, Day, Glapthorne, Randolph and Brome. The public demand for theatrical novelties, called forth, at this time, a succession of writers in this popular, and profitable department of literature, who, though not men of the most exalted genius, still left the rich stamp of the age, both in style and thought, upon many of their pages. Of the personal history of these writers little is known, a few scattered dates usually making up the whole amount of their biography. Of ROBERT TAYLOR, the author here first mentioned, nothing farther is known than that he wrote an amusing drama under the quaint title, The Hog hath Lost his Pearl, and some other pieces of a similar character. WILLIAM ROWLEY was an actor as well as author. Besides other plays written conjointly with Middleton and Dekker, he produced a tragicomedy, The Witch of Edmonton, in the composition of which Ford also is suspected of having taken a part. His drama embodies, in a striking form, the vulgar superstition respecting witchcraft, which so long debased the popular mind in England. We quote the following passage:— [Mother Sawyer alone.] Saw. And why on me? why should the envious world That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so) And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. What makest thou upon my grounds? Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly; I'll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. Saw. You won't! churl, cut-throat, miser! there they be. Would they stuck 'cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff— Banks. Say'st thou me so. Hag, out of my ground. Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon? Now thy bones aches, thy joints cramps, And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews. Banks. Cursing, thou hag? take that, and that. [Exit.] Saw. Strike, do: and wither'd may that hand and arm, |