some spirit and comic effect; but, as the antagonists address each other in no very decent terms, we prefer quoting the following as a farther specimen of this play.

"Tib. Se, Gammer, Gammer, Gib our cat, cham afraid what she ayleth,

She stands me gasping behind the door, as though her winde her

faileth;

Now let ich doubt what Gib shuld mean, that now she doth so dote. Hodge. Hold hether, ichould twenty pound, your neele is in her

throte.

Grope her, ich say, me thinks ich feele it; does not prick your hand? Gammer. Ich can feele nothing.

Hodge. No? ich know that's not within this land

A muriner cat then Gib is, betwixt the Tems and Tine,

Shase as much wit in her head almost as chave in mine.

Tib. Faith, shase eaten some thing, that will not easely down, Whether she gat it at home, or abrode in the town,

Ich cannot tell.

Gammer. Alas! ich fear it be some crooked pin,

And then farewel Gib, she is undone, and lost all save the skin. Hodge. 'Tis your neele, woman, I say: Gog's soul, geve me a knife,

And chil have it out of her maw: or else chal lose my life."

The good old song, beginning "I can eat but little meat," is in this comedy.

About the year 1561 was written-A lamentable Tragedy, full of pleasant mirth, conteyning the life of Cambises, King of Percia, from the beginning of his kingdome unto his death. His one good deed of execution, after that many wicked deeds and tirannous murders committed by and through him, and last of all his odious death by God's justice appointed. Doon in such order as followeth, by Thomas Preston. We were in doubt for some time whether the writer had not a covert design in this comical tragedy, from an idea that absurdity could not seriously be carried to such a pitch by a master of arts of King's College, Cambridge; who, for his admirable performance in the Latin tragedy of Dido, and for his genteel and graceful disputation before Queen Elizabeth in 1564, was complimented with an annuity of twenty pounds or we should have thought some malicious wag had written it in Preston's name, with a view to deprive him of the pension his munificent queen had bestowed upon him for his graceful demeanor, did it not appear to have been written before she did this act of royal bounty. But on second thoughts we were inclined to think that it was indited by Master Thomas

Preston, in sad and sober earnest. In "the division of the partes" there are thirty-eight dramatis persona which are to be played by eight men. We have Venus and Small-habilitieHuff and Murder-Ruff and Commons-cry-Execution, and Cupid; besides other equally delectable personages.

In the course of the piece, which is not divided into acts, Cambises orders a judge to be flayed alive; and to shew a faithful counsellor, who had warned him against the vice of drunkenness, that he could in that state act with judgement and discretion, he gets drunk, has his counsellor's son tied up, sends an arrow into his breast, and then has the body opened, to shew what an accurate aim he has taken at the heart. He subsequently murders his brother, and next his wife for reproving his cruelty, and lastly, runs his own sword into his side as he is getting on horseback. What a delightful bloody treat was this for an English audience, if it were ever presented to one-a Roman amphitheatre was nothing to it-it was a feast for a vampire. But it is charitable to suppose this Master Preston meant no great harm; for we find, from the stage directions, that the judge is only to be smitten on the neck with a sword, to signify his death, and afterwards is to be flayed with a false skin; and when the king's brother is to be slain, a little bladder of vinegar is to be spilled, instead of his heart's blood. It may farther be proper to inform the reader, that the greater part of this mischief is brought about by Ambidexter the Vice. The piece is written in long alexandrines. One quotation will be enough to shew the reader the style in which it is written, which was not uncommon

at that time.

"King. My queen, parpend, what I pronounce

I wil not violate;

But one thing which my hart makes glad,
I minde to explicate:

You knowe, in court up trained is

A lyon very yung,

Of one litter two whelps beside,

As yet not very strong;

I did request, one whelp to see
And this yung lyon fight:
But lyon did the whelp convince

By strength of force and might;
His brother whelp, perceiving that
The lion was to good,

And he by force was like to see

The other whelp his blood,

With force to lion he did run

His brother for to help:

A wunder great it was to see
That freendship in a whelp.

So then the whelpes between them both
The lion did convince;
Which thing to see before mine eyes

Did glad the hart of prince.

[At this tale tolde, let the Queene weep.'

The tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex, acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1561, a spurious copy of which originally appeared under the title of Gorboduc, is generally considered as the first tragedy which appeared in the English language. It was the joint production of Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville, afterwards Lord Buckhurst; the three first acts being ascribed to the former, and the remainder to the latter. This play has been much lauded, and we think far, very far, beyond its intrinsic merit; but it nevertheless possesses the extrinsic value of being the first piece which, in plot, incident, and character, is entitled to the name of an English tragedy. Sir Philip Sidney says, it is "full of stately speeches and well-sounding phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca his style, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach." Rymer thinks it might have been a better direction to Shakspeare and Jonson, than any guide they had the luck to follow; and Pope praises it for the propriety of the sentiments and the perspicuity of the style. It is written in blank verse, and divided into five acts, each of which is preceded by a dumbshow, typical of the ensuing act, and, except the last, concluded with a chorus. The incidents are described in the argument of the tragedy.

"Gorboduc, King of Britain, divided his realm in his life-time to his sons, Ferrex and Porrex: the sons fell to dissention: the younger killed the elder: the mother, that more dearly loved the elder, for revenge killed the younger: the people, moved with the cruelty of the fact, rose in rebellion, and slew both father and mother: the nobility assembled, and most terribly destroyed the rebels: and afterwards, for want of issue of the prince whereby the succession of the crown became uncertain, they fell to civil war, in which both they and many of their issues were slain, and the land for a long time almost desolate and miserably wasted."

*This is supposed to be alluded to by Shakspeare when he introduces Falstaff, saying, "Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambises' vein."-Hen. 4, 1st part.

Of the nature of the dumb show, our readers will judge from that prefixed to the third act, which, as the shortest, we shall

"First the musick of flutes began to play, during which came in upon the stage a company of mourners all clad in black, betokening death and sorrow to ensue upon the ill-advised misgovernment and dissention of brethren, as befell upon the murder of Ferrex by his younger brother. After the mourners had passed thrice about the stage, they departed, and then the musick ceased."

This play is purely of a political character, and is filled with speeches on the advantages of union and the evils of civil dissention, of an immeasurable length, written undoubtedly with clearness and precision, but as dry and uninteresting as can well be conceived. There is no poetry that we can find, and but one burst of genuine passion in the whole play, and this is in the part attributed to Sackville..

"Marcella. O, where is ruth? or where is pity now?

Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled?
Are they exil'd out of our stony breasts,
Never to make return? Is all the world
Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty?
If not in women mercy may be found,
If not, alas, within the mother's breast,
To her own child, to her own flesh and blood;
If ruth be banish'd thence; if pity there
May have no place; if there no gentle heart
Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then?

Gorboduc. Madam, alas, what means your woful tale?
Marcella. O, silly woman I; why to this hour

Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath,'
That I should live to see this doleful day?
Will ever wight believe that such hard heart
Could rest within the cruel mother's breast?
With her own hand to slay her only son?
But out, alas, these eyes beheld the same:
They saw the dreary sight, and are become
Most ruthful records of the bloody fact.
Porrex, alas, is by his mother slain,
And with her hand, a woful thing to tell,
While slumbering on his careful bed he rests,
His heart stab'd in with knife is reft of life.

Arostus. O, damned deed.

Marcella. But hear his ruthful end:

The noble prince, pierc'd with the sudden wound,
Out of his wretched slumber hastily start,
Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew,
When in the fall his eyes even new unclos'd
Beheld the queen, and cry'd to her for help.
We then, alas, the ladies which that time
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed,
And hearing him oft to call the wretched name
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid,
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound,
Pitying (alas, for nought else could we do)
His ruthful end, ran to the woful bed,
Despoiled straight his breast, and, all we might,
Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand
The sudden streams of blood that flushed fast
Out of the gaping wound. O, what a look!
O, what a ruthful, stedfast eye, methought
He fix'd upon my face, which to my death
Will never part from me! when with a braid,
A deep set sigh he gave, and therewithal
Clasping his hands, to heav'n he cast his sight;
And straight pale death, pressing within his face,
The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook.

Arostus. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact!
Marcella. O hard and cruel hap, that thus assigned

Unto so worthy wight so wretched end:

But most hard cruel heart, that could consent

To lend the hateful destinies that hand,

By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought
O, queen of adamant! O, marble breast!

If not the favour of his comely face,

If not his princely cheer and countenance,
His valiant active arms, his manly breast,
If not his fair and seemly personage,
His noble limbs, in such proportion cast
As would have warpt a silly woman's thought;
If this mought not have mov'd thy bloody heart,
And that most cruel hand, the wretched weapon
Ev'n to let fall, and kiss him in the face,
With tears for ruth to reave such one by death:
Should nature yet consent to slay her son?

O mother, thou to murder thus thy child!

Ev'n Jove with justice must with lightning flames
From heaven, send down some strange revenge on thee,
Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld