plays are characterised; adopt essentially different principles for the dramatic conduct of a story; copy his characters from living and breathing models of actual man; come down from his pomp and extravagance of language, not to reject poetry, but to ally poetry with familiar and natural thoughts; and delineate crime, not with the glaring and fantastic pencil that makes demons spout forth fire and blood in the midst of thick darkness, but with a severe portraiture of men who walk in broad daylight upon the common earth, rendering the ordinary passions of their fellows— pride, and envy, and ambition, and revenge-most fearful, from their alliance with stupendous intellect and unconquerable energy. This was what Marlowe must have done before he could have conducted a single sustained scene of either Part of the "Contention ; "—before he could have depicted the fierce hatreds of Beaufort and Gloster, the never-subdued ambition of Margaret and York, the patient suffering amidst taunting friends and reviling enemies of Henry, and, above all, the courage, the activity, the tenacity, the self-possession, the intellectual supremacy, and the passionless ferocity, of Richard. In the "Tamburlaine," and "Jew," and "Faustus," events move on with no natural progression. In every scene there must be something to excite. We have no repose; for, if striking situations are not presented, we have the same exaggerations of thought, and the same extravagance of language. What is intended to be familiar at once plunges into the opposite extravagance of ribaldry; and even the messengers and servants are made out of something different from life. We have looked through Marlowe's plays—those which are unquestionably of an earlier date than his "Edward II.”—for a plain piece of narrative, such as might contrast with the easy method with which Shakspere in general tells a story, and of which the "Contention" furnishes abundant examples: but we have looked in vain. On the other hand, innumerable passages may be found in Marlowe's "Edward II.” in which his peculiar characteristics continue to prevail, but associated with many evidences of a really higher style of dramatic poetry. This is decisive, we think, against Marlowe being the author of the "Contention." But it proves something more ;—it is evidence that he had become acquainted with another model, and that model we hold to be the "Contention" itself. Here it stands, with a fixed date; in itself a model, we believe, if no other works of Shakspere can be proved to have existed in, or close upon, the first half of the decad commencing in 1585. To show the contrary it would be necessary to maintain that Marlowe's " Edward II.” preceded the "Contention;" but upon this point no one has ever raised a doubt. All the English authorities have left the "Contention" amidst the dust and rubbish of that drama, which Marlowe first, and Shakspere afterwards, according to their theory, came to inform with life and poetry. They have always proclaimed these dramas as old plays-rude plays-things which Shakspere remodelled. We hold that they were the things upon which Marlowe built his later style, whether as regards the dramatic conduct of an action, the development of character, or the structure of the verse ;— and we hold that they were Shakspere's.

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But there is one point which those who deny Shakspere the authorship of the two Parts of the "Contention" altogether pass over. They know that the wonderful comedy of the Jack Cade scenes of the second Part of "Henry VI." is, with scarcely any change, to be found in the play which they say Shakspere did not write. But according to the theory of Malone, and Collier, and Dyce, and Hunter, there was some author who preceded Shakspeare" who may justly claim the merit of having given birth in England to the very highest comedy-not the mere comedy of manners, not the comedy of imitation, but that comedy which, having its roots imbedded in the most profound philosophy, is still as fresh as at the hour when it was first written, and will endure through every change in the outward forms of social life. For what is the comedy which is here before us, written, as it would

seem, by "some author who preceded Shakspeare?" Is it the comedy of Marlowe ? or of Greene? or of Peele? or of the latter two?—or of Lodge, who wrote in conjunction with Greene?—or of Lyly ?—or Kyd ?—or Nashe ?—or is it to be traced to some anonymous author, such as he who produced "The Famous Victories?" We are utterly at a loss where to assign the authorship of such comedy upon this theory. We turn to the works of the authors who preceded Shakspere, and we find abundance indeed of low buffoonery, but scarcely a spark of that universal wit and humour which, all things considered, is the very rarest amongst the gifts of genius. Those who are familiar with the works of the earliest English dramatists will know that our assertion is not made at random. We believe that the man, to use the words of our valued friend, Mr. Craik, "who first informed our drama with true wit and humour was the only man of whose existence we have any record who could Ihave written the Jack Cade scenes of the "Contention."

If Shakspere had done to these remarkable dramas what it is the fashion to assert that he did,-new-versify, new-model, transpose, amplify, improve, and polish,—he would still have been essentially a dishonest plagiarist. We have no hesitation in stating our belief that the two Parts of the "Contention " are immeasurably superior, in the dramatic conduct of the story, the force and consistency of character, the energy of language, yea, and even harmony of versification, to any dramatic production whatever which existed in the year 1591. We hold that whoever obtained possession, legally or otherwise, of the property of these productions (meaning by property the purchased right of exhibiting them on the stage), and applied himself to their amplification and improvement to the extent, and with the success, which is represented, was, to say the best of him, a presumptuous and self-sufficient meddler. We hold that it was utterly impossible that Shakspere should have set about such a work at all, having any consciousness of his own original power. We further hold, that the only consistent theory that can be maintained with regard to the amplifications and improvements upon the original work must be founded upon the belief that the work in its first form was Shakspere's own. "He new-modelled," says Malone. This is a phrase of large acceptation. We can understand how Shakspere new-modelled the old "Taming of a Shrew," and the old "King John," by completely re-writing all the parts, adding some characters, rejecting others, rendering the action at his pleasure more simple or more complex, expanding a short exclamation into a long and brilliant dialogue, or condensing a whole scene into some expressive speech or two. This, to our minds, is a sort of remodelling which Shakspere did not disdain to try his hand upon. But the remodelling which consists in the addition of lines here and there, in the expansion of a sentiment already expressed, -in the substitution of a forcible line for a weak one, or a rhythmical line for one less harmonious,—in the change of an epithet or the inversion of two epithets,— and this without the slightest change in the dramatic conception of the original, whether as to the action as a whole, or the progress of the action, or the characterization as a whole, or the small details of character;-remodelling such as this, to be called the work of Shakspere, and the only work upon which he exercised his hand in these dramas, appears to us to assume that he stood in the same relation to the original author of these pieces as the mechanic who chisels a statue does to the artist who conceives and perfects its design.

In the spring of 1588, and through the summer also, we may well believe that Shakspere abided in London. The course of public events was such that he would scarcely have left the capital, even for a few weeks. For the hearts of all men in the vast city were mightily stirred; and whilst in that shop of war" might be heard on every side the din of "anvils and hammers waking to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice," "* the poet had his own work to do, in urging forward the noble impulse through which the people, of whatever sect, or whatever party, willed that they would be free. It was the year of the Armada. *Milton: "Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing."

When Shakspere first exchanged the quiet intercourse of his native town for the fierce contests of opinion amongst the partisans of London-he must have had fears for his country. A conspiracy, the most daring and extensive, had burst out against the life of the Queen; and it was the more dangerous that the leaders of the plot were high-minded enthusiasts, who mingled with their traitorous designs the most chivalrous devotion to another Queen, a long-suffering prisoner. The horrible cruelties that attended the execution of Babington and his accomplices aggravated the pity which men felt that so much enthusiasm should have been lost to their country. More astounding events were to follow. In a year of dearth the citizens had banqueted, amidst bells and bonfires, in honour of the detection of Babington and his followers; and now, within three weeks of the feast of Christmas, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, assisted with divers earls, barons, and gentlemen of account, and worshipful citizens "in coats of velvet and chains of gold, all on horseback, in most solemn and stately manner, by sound of four trumpets, about ten of the clock in the forenoon, made open and public proclamation and declaration of the sentence lately given by the nobility against the Queen of Scots under the great seal of England.' At the Cross in Cheap, or at the end of Chancery Lane, or at St. Magnus' Corner near London Bridge, would the young sojourner in this seat of policy hear the proclamation; and he would hear also the " great and wonderful rejoicing of the people of all sorts, as manifestly appeared by ringing of bells, making of bonfires, and singing of psalms in every of the streets and lanes of the City."+ But amidst this show of somewhat ferocious joy would he encounter gloomy and fear-stricken faces. Men would not dare even to whisper their opinions, but it would be manifest that the public heart was not wholly at ease. On the eighth of February the Queen of Scots is executed. Within a week after London pours forth its multitudes to witness a magnificent and a mournful pageant. The Queen has taken upon herself the cost of the public funeral of Sir Philip Sydney. She has done wisely in this. In honouring the memory of the most gallant and accomplished of her subjects, she diverts the popular mind from unquiet reflections to feelings in which all can sympathise. Even the humblest of the people, who know little of the poetical genius, the taste, the courtesy, the chivalrous bearing of this star of the Court of Elizabeth, know that a young and brave man has fallen in the service of his country. Some of his companions in arms have perhaps told the story of his giving the cup of water, about to be lifted to his own parched lips, to the dying soldier whose necessities were greater than his. And that story indeed would move their tears, far more than all the gallant recollections of the tilt-yard. From the Minorites at the eastern extremity of the City, to St. Paul's, there is a vast procession of authorities in solemn purple; bnt more impressive is the long column of certain young men of the City, marching by three and three in black cassokins, with their short pikes, halberds, and ensign trailing on the ground." There are in that procession many of the "officers of his foot in the Low Countries," his "gentlemen and yeomen-servants," and twelve "knights of his kindred and friends." One there is amongst them upon whom all eyes are gazing-Drake, the bold seaman, who has carried the terror of the English flag through every sea, and in a few months will be "singeing the King of Spain's beard." The corpse of Sydney is borne by fourteen of his yeomen; and amongst the pall-bearers is one weeping manly tears, Fulke Greville, upon whose own tomb was written as the climax of his honour that he was "friend to Sir Philip Sydney." The uncle of the dead hero is there also, the proud, ambitious, weak, and incapable Leicester, who has been kinging it as Governor-General of the Low Coutries, without the courage to fight a battle, except that in which Sydney was sacrificed. He has been recalled; and is in some disfavour in the courtly circle, *Stow's "Annals." † Ibid.

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although he tried to redeem his disgraces in the Netherlands by boldly counselling the poisoning of the Queen of Scots. Shakspere may have looked upon the haughty peer, and shuddered when he thought of the murderer of Edward Arden.*

Within a year of the burial of Sydney the popular temper had greatly changed. It had gone forth to all lands that England was to be invaded. Philip of Spain was preparing the greatest armament that the combined navies of Spain and Portugal, of Naples and Sicily, of Genoa and Venice, could bear across the seas, to crush the arch-heretic of England. Rome had blessed the enterprise. Prophecies had been heard in divers languages, that the year 1588 "should be most fatal and ominous unto all estates," and it was now plainly discovered that England was the main subject of that time's operation."+ Yet England did not quail. "The whole commonalty," says the annalist, "became of one heart and mind." The Council of War demanded five thousand men and fifteen ships of the City of London. Two

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days were craved for answer; and the City replied that ten thousand men and thirty ships were at the service of their country. In every field around the capital were the citizens who had taken arms practising the usual points of war. The Camp at Tilbury was formed. "It was a pleasant sight to behold the soldiers,

* See page 55.

† Stow's "Annals."

It has been said, in contradiction to the good old historian of London, that the City only gave what the Council demanded; 10,000 men were certainly levied in the twenty-five wards.