pit, in Drury Lane, by their Majesties' Servants, with good allowance; and at the Court, before both their Majesties. 4to. London, 1640.

Wit in a Constable, a Comedy; written in 1639. The author, Henry Glapthorne; and now printed as it was lately acted at the Cockpit, in Drury Lane, by their Majesties' Servants, with good allowance. 4to. London, 1640.

The Ladies' Privilege; as it was acted, with good allowance, at the Cockpit, in Drury Lane, and before their Majesties at Whitehall, twice, by their Majesties' Servants. The author, Henry Glapthorpe.

Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido.

4to. London, 1640.

Henry Glapthorne is one of the least known of our neglected dramatists, one of the obscurest of an obscure class. Although the author of nine plays, which were received with approbation, or, as the phrase was, with good allowance, in his own time, (the reign of Charles I.) and a writer of no inconsiderable merit, he has not since been honoured with the slightest attention from the admirers of this species of literature. Dodsley's collection does not contain one of Glapthorne's plays, although it includes many far inferior to them; not a quotation from him appears in Lamb's Dramatic Specimens ; not a line in Campbell's Specimens of English Poets. We perceive, however, that two of his plays are announced for publication in the Old English Drama, a circumstance which has reminded us of a former intention of devoting a few pages to the investigation of his dramatic character, and has induced us now to afford him this tardy justice. Winstanley mentions him as "one of the chiefest dramatic poets of that age;" a judgment from which Langbaine, with his usual jealousy and contempt of his rival biographer, appeals, but, at the same time," presumes, that his plays passed with good approbation at the Globe and Cockpit Playhouses:" and the authors of the Biographia Dramatica allow him to have been a good writer, adding, however, that his plays are now entirely laid aside. For this total forgetfulness into which Glapthorne's plays have fallen, their extreme rarity will, in some measure, although not wholly, account. may also be partly owing to his not having attained the highest form in the dramatic art, and partly to that chance and change to which all things are liable. The biography of the author has experienced a similar fate to that of his plays, and we are consequently unable to supply any particulars of it. With respect to his character as an author, the opinion expressed in the

It

Biographia Dramatica is more correct than that of Winstanley. Glapthorne is certainly a better writer than a dramatist, more eloquent than impassioned, more poetical than pathetic, infinitely better qualified to describe than to feel, and to describe outward and visible things, than

"To paint the finest features of the mind;

And to most subtle and mysterious things
Give colour, strength, and motion."

To define and give a shape to the shades of feeling; which pass through the heart, with the rapidity of the varying lights and shadows which flit across the meadows on a half sunny, half cloudy day; to circumscribe the boundaries of passion, to take measure of the heart, to pourtray the "strength and beauty of the sanctuary," as well as its weakness and deformity; and to shew how fearfully and wonderfully it is made, is, indeed, a hard task. It requires qualities of mind very different from those necessary to produce an agreeable description of the beauties or peculiarities of natural scenery, of the eccentricities of human manners, or the singularities of worldly fashions. The one requires but an ordinary power of observation joined with a little fancy-the other a plastic imagination, acute sensibility and nice observation, a mind which can disclose the secret chambers of the soul, and the strange things which are there conceived, as Asmodeus unroofed the city of Madrid, and pointed out to his astonished companion the pleasures and miseries of its inhabitants.

Glapthorne belongs to an inferior order of genius: not being able to lay open the springs of passion, he covers them with flowers, in order that, as he cannot gratify us with their refreshing waters, he may, at least, hide their existence. The consequence is, that, in those situations in which we are prepared for our sympathies being called into exercise, we find poetry instead of pathos, and elaborate speeches instead of passion. Almost every thing is good, well said, eloquent, poetical; but in such a profusion of rhetorical flourishes, poetical images and dazzling metaphors, it is not possible that every thing should be in its proper place. Indeed, it must be admitted, that his imagery is not always appropriate, and is frequently but ill calculated to bear the test of logic. In exuberance of ornament, he resembles George Peele, although he does not possess the same richness of colouring, nor the same stately harmony of diction: in redundancy of similes he approaches the exquisite John Lilly, although he does not carry his fondness for them to quite so extravagant a length; nor are his compositions distinguished by such a laborious polish and mi

nute accuracy; nor do they contain the same quantity of learned allusion as those of the witty Euphuist. The excessive imagery in which Glapthorne indulges, completely spoils the dramatic effect of his plays; but, although he frequently sacrifices truth and nature to the utterance of a pretty speech, or the garnish of a well expressed similitude, there are passages to which this censure does not apply, passages of great poetical beauty, written with vigour of thought, and fervour of imagination. The justice of this praise will be seen by the extracts we shall make, particularly from Albertus Wallenstein and the Lady's Privilege.

Albertus Wallenstein, the first in order of publication, and, probably, the first which Glapthorne wrote, was originally printed in 1634. This play, which is upon the whole a good one, is founded upon the revolt of that commander from the Emperor Ferdinand the Second. The chief interest, however, centers in the subsidiary story of Albert, the general's son, and Isabella, one of his wife's attendants. This part forms a sweet piece of dramatic history, and is written with great beauty both of sentiment and diction: the characters of the two lovers are full of nobleness; that of Isabella is a fine specimen of feminine perfection. The whole of this little history we shall quote. Albert is urging his suit to Isabella.

"Alb. Why, cruel fair one, should you shun his sight,
Whose every soul moves in your eyes? or why

Should your blest voice speak health to all the world,
Yet threaten death to me? Look on my youth,

My hopeful youth, which, in the active war,
Has taught old soldiers discipline; behold it
Nipt by the cold frost of your icy beauty,
As in a fever, languishing to nothing;
Forgetful of the noble pride and strength
It has so lately boasted. 'Tis unjust,
To see me still over my foes victorious,
Made by myself your captive, to insult
Over your suppliant vassal. Would those eyes,
Which can contract lights, orb into a glance,
Become impoverish'd by a smile? those cheeks
Sully their native tincture, should they blush
At your mind's cruelty? 'twould rather add
To the illustrious excellence.

Isa. My noble lord!

Alb. Stay; you must not speak it:

There's not an accent issuing from your lips

But has the power, should thunder speak, to charm

To peaceful quiet th' affrighted world,

And would strike dumb my passion. Best of virgins!
There is not that disparity 'twixt our births,
As there's unequal difference 'twixt our hearts:
Mine's all on fire; dare combat with the sun
For heat's priority; your's, mountain snow;
Cold as the north, and cruel as my fortunes :
Yet you may make them equal, as your eyes are,
By yielding up that fort, which will, when time
Has given it ceremonious privilege, be, perhaps,
By some unworthy groom, without resistance,
Surpriz'd and entered.

Isa. My lord, custom is become

In men a second nature, to deceive

Poor virgins by their flatteries. Noble youth!
That I do love you dearly, may these tears,
Shed for your folly, testify; look back
Into your priceless honour; call that up
To assist the fortress of your mind, assail'd
By foul unlawful passion: think how base it is
To rob a silly orphan of her dowry.

I have no other, but my virgin whiteness,
Left to uphold my fame; nought but my virtue
To my inheritance: should you despoil me
Of that fair portion, by your lust, my memory
Would, like an early rose-bud by the tempest,
Die on its stalk blasted,

Alb. I do dream, sure!
Isa. Women's fame, sir,

Are, like thin crystal glasses, by a breath
Blown into excellent form, and, by a touch,

Crack'd, or quite broken. Say I should consent
To your desires; your appetite once sated,
You would repent the fact, when you should see
Yourself surrounded in a mist of cares;
View bashful virgins point at you, as at
Some hateful prodigy; hear matrons cry—
'There goes the lustful thief, that glories in
The spoil of innocent virgins; that foul thief,
That has a hundred eyes to let lust in at,

As many tongues to give his wild thoughts utterance.'

Albert alone.

Alb. To be in love, nay, to be so in love

To put off all our reason and discourse,
Which does distinguish us from savage beasts;
To dote upon a face (which, like a mirror,
Sully'd on any breath) by the least sickness

Grows pale and ghastly: is not this mere madness?
Why should't inhabit here then? Sure the god,
As 'tis a spirit of a subtle essence,

A form as thin and pure as is an angel's,
Can ne'er be author of these wild desires,
So opposite to its nature; they're all fleshly,
Sordid, as is the clay this frame's compos'd of.
Shall the soul,

The noble soul, be slave to these wild passions,
And bow beneath their weight?-ha, Isabella!

Enter Isabella.

All reason, sense, and soul are in her looks; There's no discourse beyond them. Cruel fair one! still resolute to persist in your

Are

you

Strange tyranny, and scorn my constant love?

Isa. Do not, sir,

Abuse that sacred title, which the saints

And powers celestial glory in, by ascribing

It to your loose desires; 'pray, rather clothe them
In their own attribute; term them your lust, sir;
Your wild, irregular lust; which, like those firedrakes
Misguiding nighted travellers, will lead you
Forth of the fair path of your fame and virtue,
To unavoided ruin.

Alb. This is mere coyness,

A cunning coyness, to make me esteem
At a high rate, that jewel which you seem
To part from so unwillingly (merchants use it
To put bad wares away): dear Isabella,
Think what excessive honour thou shalt reap
In the exchange of one poor trivial gem,
And that but merely imaginary, a voice,
An unsubstantial essence; yet for that
Thou shalt have real pleasures, such as queens,
Prone to delicious luxury, would covet
To sate their appetites. Think, Isabella!
That hardest marble, though not cut by force,
By oft diffusion of salt drops is brought

Into whatever form the carver's fancy

Had before destin'd it. Your heart's that substance,