MASSINGER.*

THE general public are not, we suspect, particularly familiar with Philip Messinger. They do not ask for him at the popular libraries. Shakespeare is more or less known to all, but only scholarly men and genuine lovers of the drama are acquainted with the other writers for the stage of the Elizabethan era. The plays of the Tudor period are rarely performed, and many theatregoers, fully alive to the merits of Mr. Robertson's last comedy and Mr. Boucicault's last sensation scene, scarcely know more than the names of Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Webster, Beaumont and Fletcher, Messinger, Decker, and John Ford. It is true that from time to time playgoers have an opportunity of seeing one work of Webster's and one of Mesainger's—The Duchess of Malfi and A Nov Way to Pay Old Debts, affording ambitious performers the luxury of a great " part "—bnt, in the main, the dramatic literature of the Elizabethan age is for the general public a hidden treasure. Good service is therefore rendered by Colonel Cunningham, who gives us Massinger's works, nineteen la

number, in one volume, not too big to be just portable, and printed in a type that is clear, though of course not large. The nineteen are all that have been preserved; many manuscripts perished during the last century.

Among the more celebrated of Massinger's plays are The Maid of' Ihwur and The Great Duke of Florence—high-sounding names, both of them, such as the author was fond of. But if we had to select from the entire collection four dramas most worthy to be read, our caoice would fall upon The Virgin Mlirtyr, The Fatal Dowry, A New Way to Pay Old Debts, and The City Madam. No student of English literature should neglect to make himself acquainted with these works. They show, as none others can, their writer's vigour and versatility. They are characteristic of the age in which they were produced. It was a rough, strong age, and much of its popular literature reflected its roughness and its strength. In the pathetic dramas of those days audiences were not afraid of sensation. With broad swift touches the playwright painted his scenes of horror. Virtue was rewarded and vice was punished, then as now ; but the spectators shrunk from no narrative of crime, and from no fury of revenge. In comedy the same spirit prevailed. Heartiness of humour was preferred to finish of wit. If the " situation" was funny the dialogue need hardly be brilliant. That age was, indeed, incapable of the artificial tragedy of the eighteenth century, but it was likewise incapable of its highly polished comedy. Had Sheridan lived in the days of Messinger, The School for Scandal would never have been written. Had Messinger lived in our day, or a hundred years ago, his work must have been other than it is. For theorizers tell us that we have lost the power of laughing at bad jokes, and that the very finish of our wit belies our gaiety.

'We shall speak briefly, before closing, of those plays which we have ventured to single out for notice. Bat the plays will be the better understood if something be known of the circumstances under which they were produced. To this end we will, for the present, leave the work, and consider only the man. Arthur Misssinger, the father of the poet, must have been a person of good birth, of goad education, and of high principle. In 1587, Henry, Earl of Pembroke, wrote to the fatuous Earl of Barghley, recommending him very strongly indeed for the reversion of the office of Examiner in the Court of Marches ; and ten years afterwards, when a marriage was pending between membera of the two great houses, the delicate busiuess of arrangement was confided to Arthur Messinger. Philip was born at Salisbury in 1581. Hartley Coleridge liked to think that Sir Philip Sidney was his godfather, but we are not aware that he succeeded in proving this connection between the poet who wrote The Virgin 3fartyr in the struggling life of London, and the poet who wrote Arcadia amidst the cedar groves of Wilton. But Messinger WAS certainly a protégé of the Pembroke family, the Earl p tying his expenses at Oxford, where he was entered, at St. Alban's Hall, in 1602. Four years later he suddenly left the university, in conaequence of misconduct, some have said ; but as Arthur Messinger died about this time, leaving his offspring mn poverty, and as the son was evidently not an idle student, it is as well to conclude that Philip was thrown upon the world and had to make his own way in it in consequence of this event. But we do not pretend to explain how. it was that the patronage of the house of Pembroke was withdrawn—as about the same period it assuredly was—from the future poet ; nor are we able to give the preference to any one among the several reasons which his biographers suggest. He went to London, and occupied him. Self upon literary work ; at first, however, with only a small measure of success. Probably he began as an assistaut to writers of more or less repute. Literary partnerships were common enough in those days, and we know that at different periods of his life Philip Messinger laboured with Decker and with Fletcher, who was his senior by eight years. The first distinct record of his independent doings is—says Colonel Cunningham—the performance at Court, 1621, of his lost comedy of The Woman's Plot. Before that date he must, according to the calculations of his editors, have produced no leas than seven other plays which have perished, as well as four other plays which still remain to us,—a comedy and three tragedies, one of which is The Virgin Martyr, considered by some to be his masterpiece. For each dramatic work it is probable that he received ten or fifteen pounds, and it seems reasonable—judging by the various evidence—to mistime that every year a new piece saw the light. The manager's payment, together With the customary dedication-fee of forty shillings or over, amounted then to sixteen or seventeen pounds, which, we believe, wanld go as far in the days of Elizabeth Its fifty or sixty pounds at the present time. This annual income was certainly not an ample one, and when the bare necessities of life had been provided for, little was left to defray the expense of convivialities at the Mermaid. But Messinger struggled on,—and that his life was a struggle we know by sundry memoranda, showing that more than once he owed sums of money which, though they would now be thought small, were doubtless of importance to him. The Great Duke of Florence appears to have been about the first of his more distinguished successes. It was produced in 1627 at the Phosnix in Drury Lane, and often played there by "the Queen's Majesties' Servants." But no one printed it till nine years afterwards, when it was prefaced by commendatory verses, the work of G. Denim, and of Ford, the writer of The Broken Heart. Another most successful play, The City Madam—of which we are speedily to say a word—was produced in 1632, but not printed till long after the author's death. For thirty years those who desired to enjoy its wit could only do so by undertaking afternoon journeys to Drury Lane, and sitting in the boxes or on the stage of the Phoenix.

Massinger's latter years were busy amid laborious. In earlier days he had been the recipient of the friendly officea of the great. Later on, he "stood much engaged to the noble Society of the Inner Teuaple for their so frequent bounties." But we may believe that during his last years he was free from the pressure of poverty, for his death took place at " his own house "in Bankaide. It was in 1639 that his work, which had never before been relaxed, was finally closed. His cud was very sudden. Friends had seen him in good health late on a March evening, and on the next morning they found him dead. A few days afterwards, in the Priory Church of St. Saviour's, Southwark, they laid him to rest. His associate John Fletcher had been buried there, twelve years before. Sir Aston Cockayne, who was greatly attached to Messinger, wrote the following epitaph on both :—

o In the same grave Fletcher was bulled, hero Lies the stago-poot, Philip Messinger; Playos they did write together, were great friends, And now ono grave includes them at their ends So wham on earth nothing did part, beneath Here, in their fames, they lie in spight of death."

• Having briefly told the story of Massinger's difficult life, our survey of the man and the poet will, perhaps, be rendered somewhat less imperfect if we speak, however slightly, of four important works. The scene of the Virgin Martyr is laid in Cmaarea, and the reader is taken back to the time of the Emperors Diocletian and Maximinus. Angelo, a good spirit, waits upon Dorothea, the heroine, as "dainty, delicate Ariel " waited upon Prospero. Theophilius, the persecutor of the Christians, has also an attendant spirit, Ilarpax, a spirit of evil, following his master in the guise of a secretary. To furnish the incidents of this tragedy all the catalogue of crime has been exhausted, and though it may be instructive, we cannot say that it is pleasant reading. Dorothea's constancy and her saintly life stand out, however, in vivid and delightful contrast to the horrors around, and they have their influence in effecting the conversion of many, and notably of the very man who had been foremost in the ranks of the persecutors. Charles Lamb, in his selections from the Tudor dramatists, has given as a specimen of the Virgin Martyr a scene between Dorothea and her attendant spirit, which is full of quiet beauty. But he did not believe that Messinger was capable of the best things in this scene. Decker, who wrote Old Fos-inmates, and a better play with a worse nesse, and who had most certainly the command of simple and unforced pathos, is known to have assisted Messinger in the composition of the piece we are speaking of r and Charles Lamb credits him with all that is most pathetic here. We refrain from quoting the scene. But was it Messinger, or was it Decker, who supplied the drama with the following exquisite lines? Theophilius, the persecutor, has himself become a martyr, and having submitted to the tortures, he beholds a vision, in which Angelo, with whom is the whiterobed Dorothea, offers him a crown—the crown reserved for those who are faithful unto death :—

" Most glorious vision:—

Did e'er so hard a bed yield man a dream 'So heavenly as this? I am confirofd,

Confirmed, you blessed spirits, and make haste To take that crown of inmortality

You offer to me. Death, till this blest minute, I never thought thee slow-paced; nor would I Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer, But that thou keeps't me from a glorious wreath, Which through this stormy way Iwould creep to, And humbly kneeling, with humility wear It. Oh! now I feel thee :—blessed spirits, I coin. ; And, witness for me all these wounds and seam I die a soldier in the Christian ware." The scene of the Fatal Dowry is laid at Dijon. Its subject seems to us not more attractive than that of the Virgin Martyr ; yet that it contains the elements of an effective and striking if not of a very elaborate plot is shown by the fact that Nicholas Rowe derived from it something more than the idea of the Fair Penitent, and that Rowe's play in its turn supplied Richardson with materials for his masterpiece. Readers who a twelvemonth ago knew nothing of Clarissa, are now more or less familiar with it, through the abridgment by Mr. Dallas, or through that by Mrs. Ward. It will therefore be allowable for us to say that if they can fancy the heroine of Richardson standing voluntarily in that relation to Lovelace in which she was really placed involuntarily, and if they can at the same time fancy her the bride of a third person not introduced into the great romance of the last century, they will have some conception of the leading "situation" of the Fatal Dowry. What follows is worth giving. It is part of a dialogue between the father and the husband of the now repentant heroine : " Rochfort.—And you have killed her ?

" Charalois.—True, and did it by your doom.

" Rochfort.—Bnt I pronounced it

As a judge only, and a friend to justice: And, zealous in defence of your wrong'd honour, Broke all the ties of nature, and cast off The love and soft affection of a father.

I, in your cause, put on a scarlet robe Of red -dyed cruelty, but in return, You have advanced for me no flag of mercy.

I looked on you as a wroug'd husband ; but You closed your eyes against me as a father.

0 Beaumolle ! my daughter !

" Charalois.—This is madness.

" Rochfort.—Keep from me ! Could not one good thought rise up,

To tell you that she was my age's comfort, Begot by a weak man, and born a woman, And could not, therefore, but partake of frailty ? Or wherefore did not thankfulness step forth, To urge my many merits, which I may Object unto you, since you prove ungrateful, Flint-hearted Charalois !

" Charalois.—Naturo does prevail

Above your virtue."

In turning to the two comedies, we notice, first, that they are comedies of intrigue. But the intrigue is not elaborate. Certain ends are attained by deceptions which are meant to be harmless, and which are indeed comparatively simple expedients for putting

right the things that are wrong. In this simplicity of their intrigue, the works present a very marked contrast to some comedies of later date ; notably to the brain-wearying puzzles which Scribe set out, with the neatness of a mechanic and the ingenuity of a Chinaman. Sir Giles Overreach, the leading character in A New Way to Pay Old Debts, is an unrelenting extortioner and wealthy parvenu. (Massinger, by the way, had a peculiar hatred of wealthy parvenus,—a race with which one would imagine the country to have been less afflicted in his day than in our own.) It is his pleasure to see his daughter, Margaret, waited upon by " decayed " ladies of family. He destines his daughter to make a brilliant marriage, and selects Lord Lovell for his future son-in-law. The coarseness of his nature and absolute bluntness of his feeling are well enough, though of necessity disagreeably shown in the instructions he gives his daughter relative to her reception of the supposed suitor. Lord Lovell is faithfully served by a page, young Allworth, who loves the extortioner's daughter, and the nobleman, disgusted with Sir Gibe's pretensions, and willing to help Allworth, allows the young pair to have frequent interviews ; the page doing on his own account what he is imagined to do for his patron. A secret marriage takes place, — Sir Giles having readily and even slavishly assented to what he thought was a nobleman's whim,—and the old man is thus obliged to renounce his pretensions, and to endure a son-in-law of less distinction than Lord Lovell. A side plot reveals to us another phase of the extortioner's character, his attempt to lead his own nephew to ruin himself through the vices of the prodigal. But the minor persons of the play are as well drawn, and certainly not less amusing. Marall, Sir Gdes's steward, thinks his master's scheming is "above wonder," and when he is afforded some particularly villainous proof of it, exclaims :—

" The beat I ever heard ! I could adore you."

He unconsciously points a satire at Sir Giles in the comment he utters upon the words which follow :—

" Overreach.—In being out of office, I am out of danger ; Where if I were a justice, besides the trouble, I might, or out of wilfulness or error, Run myself finely into a premunire, And so become a prey to the informer. No: I'll have none of it ; 'tis enough, I keep

Greedy at my devotion ; so he serve My purposes, let him hang, or damn,—I care notFriendship is but a word. " Marall.—You are all wisdom."

Greedy, too,—this justice, who does the dirty work for Overreach, —is capitally drawn, and one almost hears him "give thanks" for his "chine of beef, well seasoned, and pheasant larded." When Lord Lovell is expected, Greedy is commissioned to see to the cuisine, and in doing so, he complains bitterly of Furnace, an ancestor, perhaps, of the "great artist" who prepared dinners in Tancred. Sir Gilea's sordid calculations are interrupted with this "matter of importance :"— " The cook, Sir, is self-willed, and will not learn From my experience. There's a fawn brought in, Sir, And for my life I cannot make him roast it With a Norfolk dumpling in the midst of it. And, Sir, we wise men know, without the dumpling 'Tis not worth threepence."

But the following fatherly remark contains perhaps the bitterest satire in the play. It is Sir Giles's lament over his daughter's deficiencies :—

"It must be so: should the foolish girl prove modest, She may spoil all ; she had it not from me, But from her mother : I was ever forward, As she must be."

Lady Frugal, who gives the title to the comedy of the City Madam, would, with very few alterations, pass for the portrait of any one of three or four ladies who have flourished in our day north and south of Hyde Park. Sir John has amassed a large fortune through industry in trade, and his wife is determined to plant her daughters in the best society. But not content with this modest and motherly ambition, she destinee them to rule over their husbands ; and when a couple of suitors—Plenty, a country gentleman, and Sir Maurice Lacy, the son of Lord Lacy— present themselves, they are not a little astonished at the excessive demands which the young ladies make under the instructions of Lady Frugal. The gentlemen refuse to submit to any feminine dictation, and Sir John takes means to teach a lesson to his wife and daughters. It is announced that he has retired into monastic life, and left the management of all his property to his poor brother Luke, whom Lady Frugal had persistently snubbed. The ruse does double service, for it shows Sir John that his meek relative is harsh and cruel when he thinks he can be so with impunity, and it shows Lady Frugal and her daughters that there are worse fates for a woman than to submit to a husband who desires her good. There is much in the City Madam peculiarly applicable to our day, but the comedy could not be presented in its present form. We are not anxious to encourage literary larceny, but it might be well for playwrights who cannot be original to acquire materials from more sources than one. There is, at all events, a wealth of suggestion in the works of Philip Massinger.