Part 27
As a dramatist, Dekker was most active between the years 1598 and 1602. In one of those years alone he was engaged on twelve plays. Many of these have been lost; of the few that remain, two of the most characteristic belong to this period. 'The Shoemaker's Holiday,' published in 1599, shows Dekker on his genial, realistic side, with his sense of fun and his hearty sympathy with the life of the people. It bubbles over with the delight in mere living, and is full of kindly feeling toward all the world. It was sure to appeal to its audience, especially to the pit, where the tradesmen and artisans with their wives applauded, and noisiest of all, the 'prentices shouted their satisfaction: here they saw themselves and their masters brought on the stage, somewhat idealized, but still full of frolic and good-nature. It is one of the brightest and pleasantest of Elizabethan comedies. Close on its heels followed 'The Pleasant Comedy of Old Fortunatus.' Here Dekker the idealist, the poet of luxurious fancy and rich yet delicate imagination, is seen at his best. Fortunatus with his wishing-hat and wonderful purse appealed to the romantic spirit of the time, when men still sailed in search of the Hesperides, compounded the elixir of youth, and sought for the philosopher's stone. Dekker worked over an old play of the same name; the subject of both was taken from the old German _volksbuch_ 'Fortunatus' of 1519. Among the collaborators of Dekker at this time was Ben Jonson. Both these men were realists, but Jonson slashed into life with bitter satire, whereas Dekker cloaked over its frailties with a tender humor. Again, Jonson was a conscientious artist, aiming at perfection; Dekker, while capable of much higher poetry, was often careless and slipshod. No wonder that the dictator scorned his somewhat irresponsible co-worker. The precise nature of their quarrel, one of the most famous among authors, is not known; it culminated in 1601, when Jonson produced 'The Poetaster,' a play in which Dekker and Marston were mercilessly ridiculed. Dekker replied shortly in 'Satiromastix, or the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet,' a burlesque full of good-natured mockery of his antagonist.
Dekker wrote, in conjunction with Webster, 'Westward Ho,' Northward Ho,' and 'Sir Thomas Wyatt'; with Middleton, 'The Roaring Girl'; with Massinger, 'The Virgin Martyr'; and with Ford, 'The Sun's Darling' and 'The Witch of Edmonton.' Among the products of Dekker's old age, 'Match Me in London' is ranked among his half-dozen best plays, and 'The Wonder of a Kingdom' is fair journeyman's work.
One of the most versatile of the later Elizabethans,--prolonging their style and ideas into the new world of the Stuarts,--Dekker was also prominent as pamphleteer. He first appeared as such in 1603, with 'The Wonderfull Yeare 1603, wherein is showed the picture of London lying sicke of the Plague,' a vivid description of the pest, which undoubtedly served Defoe as model in his famous book on the same subject. The best known of his many pamphlets, however, is 'The Gul's Horne Booke,' a graphic description of the ways and manners of the gallants of the time. These various tracts are invaluable for the light they throw on the social life of Jacobean London.
Lastly, Dekker as song-writer must not be forgotten. He had the genuine lyric gift, and poured forth his bird-notes, sweet, fresh, and spontaneous, full of the singer's joy in his song. He also wrote some very beautiful prayers.
Varied and unequal as Dekker's work is, he is one of the hardest among the Elizabethans to classify. He at times rises to the very heights of poetic inspiration, soaring above most of his contemporaries, to drop all of a sudden down to a dead level of prose. But he makes up for his shortcomings by his whole-hearted, manly view of life, his compassion for the weak, his sympathy with the lowly, his determination to make the best of everything, and to show the good hidden away under the evil.
"Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail,"--
these he knew from bitter experience, yet never allowed them to overcloud his buoyant spirits, but made them serve his artistic purposes. Joyousness is the prevailing note of his work, mingled with a pathetic undertone of patience.
FROM 'THE GUL'S HORNE BOOKE'
HOW A GALLANT SHOULD BEHAVE HIMSELF IN POWLES WALK[49]
Now for your venturing into the Walke: be circumspect and wary what piller you come in at, and take heed in any case (as you love the reputation of your honour) that you avoide the _serving-man's_ dogg; but bend your course directly in the middle line, that the whole body of the Church may appear to be yours; where, in view of all, you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either with the slide of your cloake from the one shoulder, and then you must (as twere in anger) suddenly snatch at the middle of the inside (if it be taffata at the least) and so by the meanes your costly lining is betrayed, or else by the pretty advantage of complement. But one note by the way do I especially wooe you to, the neglect of which makes many of our gallants cheape and ordinary; that you by no means be seen above fowre turnes, but in the fifth make your selfe away, either in some of the Sempsters' shops, the new Tobacco-office, or amongst the Bookesellers, where, if you cannot reade, exercise your smoke, and inquire who has writ against this divine weede, &c. For this withdrawing yourselfe a little will much benefite your suit, which else by too long walking would be stale to the whole spectators: but howsoever, if Powles Jacks be up with their elbowes, and quarrelling to strike eleven, as soone as ever the clock has parted them and ended the fray with his hammer, let not the Duke's gallery conteyne you any longer, but passe away apace in open view. In which departure, if by chance you either encounter, or aloofe off throw your inquisitive eye upon any knight or squire, being your familiar, salute him not by his name of Sir such a one, or so, but call him _Ned_ or _Jack_, &c. This will set off your estimation with great men: and if (tho there bee a dozen companies betweene you, tis the better) hee call aloud to you (for thats most gentile), to know where he shall find you at two a clock, tell him at such an Ordinary, or such; and bee sure to name those that are deerest; and whither none but your gallants resort. After dinner you may appeare againe, having translated yourselfe out of your English cloth cloak, into a light Turky-grogram (if you have that happiness of shifting) and then be seene (for a turn or two) to correct your teeth with some quill or silver instrument, and to cleanse your gummes with a wrought handkercher: It skilles not whether you dinde or no (thats best knowne to your stomach) or in what place you dinde, though it were with cheese (of your owne mother's making, in your chamber or study).... Suck this humour up especially. Put off to none, unlesse his hatband be of a newer fashion than yours, and three degrees quainter; but for him that wears a trebled cipres about his hatte (though he were an Alderman's sonne), never move to him; for hees suspected to be worse than a _gull_ and not worth the putting off to, that cannot observe the time of his hatband, nor know what fashioned block is most kin to his head: for in my opinion, ye braine that cannot choose his felt well (being the head ornament) must needes powre folly into all the rest of the members, and be an absolute confirmed foule in _Summa Totali_.... The great dyal is your last monument; these bestow some half of the threescore minutes, to observe the sawciness of the jaikes that are above the man in the moone there; the strangenesse of the motion will quit your labour. Besides you may heere have fit occasion to discover your watch, by taking it forth and setting the wheeles to the time of Powles, which, I assure you, goes truer by five notes then S. _Sepulchers_ chimes. The benefit that will arise from hence is this, that you publish your charge in maintaining a gilded clocke; and withall the world shall know that you are a time-server. By this I imagine you have walkt your bellyful, and thereupon being weary, or (which rather I believe) being most gentlemanlike hungry, it is fit that I brought you in to the Duke; so (because he follows the fashion of great men, in keeping no house, and that therefore you must go seeke your dinner) suffer me to take you by the hand, and lead you into an Ordinary.
SLEEP
Do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is; it is so inestimable a jewel that if a tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slumber, it cannot be bought; yea, so greatly are we indebted to this kinsman of death, that we owe the better tributary half of our life to him; and there is good cause why we should do so; for sleep is that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. Who complains of want, of wounds, of cares, of great men's oppressions, of captivity, whilst he sleepeth? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure as kings. Can we therefore surfeit on this delicate ambrosia? Can we drink too much of that, whereof to taste too little tumbles us into a churchyard; and to use it but indifferently throws us into Bedlam? No, no. Look upon Endymion, the moon's minion, who slept threescore and fifteen years, and was not a hair the worse for it. Can lying abed till noon then, being not the threescore and fifteenth thousand part of his nap, be hurtful?
THE PRAISE OF FORTUNE
From 'Old Fortunatus'
Fortune smiles, cry holiday! Dimples on her cheek do dwell. Fortune frowns, cry well-a-day! Her love is heaven, her hate is hell. Since heaven and hell obey her power,-- Tremble when her eyes do lower. Since heaven and hell her power obey, When she smiles, cry holiday! Holiday with joy we cry, And bend and bend, and merrily Sing hymns to Fortune's deity, Sing hymns to Fortune's deity.
_Chorus_
Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily, With our songs let heaven resound. Fortune's hands our heads have crowned. Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily.
CONTENT
From 'Patient Grissil'
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet Content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers? O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace, Honest labor bears a lovely face. Then hey nonny, nonny; hey nonny, nonny.
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet Content! Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O Punishment! Then he that patiently Want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king. O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
RUSTIC SONG
From 'The Sun's Darling'
Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, Wait on your Summer Queen! Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, Daffodils strew the green! Sing, dance, and play, 'Tis holiday! The sun does bravely shine On our ears of corn. Rich as a pearl Comes every girl. This is mine, this is mine, this is mine. Let us die ere away they be borne.
Bow to our Sun, to our Queen, and that fair one Come to behold our sports: Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one, As those in princes' courts. These and we With country glee, Will teach the woods to resound, And the hills with echoes hollow. Skipping lambs Their bleating dams 'Mongst kids shall trip it round; For joy thus our wenches we follow.
Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly, Hounds, make a lusty cry; Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely, Then let your brave hawks fly! Horses amain, Over ridge, over plain, The dogs have the stag in chase: 'Tis a sport to content a king. So ho! ho! through the skies How the proud birds flies, And sousing, kills with a grace! Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.
LULLABY
From 'Patient Grissil'
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you. You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
JEAN FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
(1793-1843)
BY FREDERIC LOLIEE
[Illustration: CASIMIR DELAVIGNE]
This French lyrical poet and dramatist, born in Havre in 1793, and brought up at Paris, was awarded a prize by the Academie Francaise in 1811, elected a member of that illustrious body July 7th, 1825, and died December 11th, 1843. When hardly twenty years of age he had already made his name famous by dithyrambs, the form of which, imitated from the ancients, enabled him to express in sufficiently poetic manner quite modern sentiments. Possessed of brilliant and easy imagination, moderately enthusiastic, and more sober than powerful, he hit upon a lucky vein which promptly led him to fame. He described the recent disasters of his country in fine odes entitled 'Messeniennes,' in allusion to the chants in which the defeated Messenians deplored the hardships inflicted on them by the Spartans. Those political elegies were named--'La Bataille de Waterloo' (The Battle of Waterloo); 'La Devastation du Musee' (The Spoliation of the Museum); 'Sur le Besoin de S'unir apres le Depart des Etrangers' (On the Necessity of Union after the Departure of the Foreigners). They expressed emotions agitating the mind of the country. At the same time they appealed to the heart of the "liberals" of the period by uttering their regrets for vanished power, their rancor against the victorious party, their fears for threatened liberty. The circumstances, the passions of the day, as also the awakening of young and new talent, all concurred to favor Casimir Delavigne, who almost from the very first attained high reputation. In 1819 the publication of two more Messeniennes, on the life and death of Joan of Arc,--inspired like the first with deep patriotic fervor,--was received with enthusiasm.
Earlier even than the day of Lamartine and Victor Hugo, Casimir Delavigne had the glory of stirring the heart of France. He had the added merit of maintaining, after Beaumarchais and before Emile Augier, the dignity of high comedy. Ingenious scenes of life, lively and spirited details, grace and delicacy of style, save from oblivion such pieces as 'L'Ecole des Vieillards' (The School of Age), first performed by the great artists Mademoiselle Mars and Talma; and 'Don Juan d'Autriche' (Don John of Austria), a prose comedy. Other dramas of his--'Marino Faliero,' 'Les Vepres Siciliennes' (The Sicilian Vespers), 'Louis XI.,' 'Les Enfants d'Edouard' (The Children of Edward), and 'La Fille du Cid' (The Daughter of the Cid)--are still read with admiration, or acted to applauding spectators. A pure disciple of Racine at first, Delavigne deftly managed to adopt some innovations of the romanticist school. 'Marino Faliero' was the first of his productions in which, relinquishing the so-called classic rules, he endeavored, as a French critic fitly remarks, to introduce a kind of eclecticism in stage literature; a bold attempt, tempered with prudent reserve, in which he wisely combined the processes favored by the new school with current tradition. That play is indeed a happy mixture of drama and comedy. It contains familiar dialogues and noble outbursts, which however do not violate the proprieties of academic style.
Though he never displayed the genius of Lamartine or of Victor Hugo, and though some of his pictures have faded since the appearance of the dazzling productions of the great masters of romanticism, Casimir Delavigne still ranks high in the literature of his country and century, thanks to the lofty and steady qualities, to the tender and generous feeling, to the noble independence, which were the honorable characteristics of his talent and his individuality. His works, first published in Paris in 1843 in six octavo volumes, went through many subsequent editions.
[Illustration: Signature: Frederic Loliee]
THE CONFESSION OF LOUIS XI.
[On the point of dying, Louis XI. clings desperately to life, and summons before him a holy monk, Francis de Paula, whom he implores to work a miracle in his favor and prolong his life.]
_Dramatis personae:_--King Louis XI, _and_ Saint Francis de Paula, _founder of the order of the Franciscan friars_.
_Louis_--We are alone now.
_Francis_--What do you wish of me?
_Louis_ [_who has knelt down_]--At your knees see me trembling with hope and fear.
_Francis_--What can I do for you?
_Louis_--Everything, Father; you can do everything: you can call the dead to life again.
_Francis_--I!
_Louis_--To the dead you say, "Leave your graves!" and they leave them.
_Francis_--Who? I?
_Louis_--You bid our ailments to be cured.
_Francis_--I, my son?
_Louis_--And they are cured. When you command the skies clear, the wind suddenly blows or likewise abates; the falling thunderbolt at your command moves back to the clouds. Oh, I implore you, who in the air can keep up the beneficent dew or let it pour its welcome freshness on the withering plant, impart fresh vigor to my old limbs. See me; I am dying; revive my drooping energy; stretch ye out your arms to me, touch ye those livid features of mine, and the spell of your hands will cause my wrinkles to vanish.
_Francis_--What do you ask of me? You surprise me, my son. Am I equal to God? From your lips I first learn that I go abroad rendering oracles, and with my hands working miracles.
_Louis_--At least ten years, father! grant me ten more years to live, and upon you I shall lavish honors and presents.... I shall found shrines to your name, in gold and jasper shall have your relics set; but!--twenty years more life are too little a reward for so much wealth and incense. I beseech you, work a whole miracle! Do not cut so short the thread of my life. A whole miracle! give me new life and prolong my days!
_Francis_--To do God's work is not in his creature's power. What! when everything dies, you alone should last! King, such is not God's will. I his feeble creature cannot alter for you the course of nature. All that which grows must vanish, all that which is born must perish, man himself and his works, the tree and its fruit alike. All that produces does so only for a time; 'tis the law here below, for eternity death alone shall fructify.
_Louis_--You wear out my patience. Do your duty, monk! Work in my favor your marvelous power; for if you refuse, I shall compel you. Do you forget that I am a king? The holy oil anointed my forehead. Oh, pardon me! but it is your duty to do more for kings, for crowned heads, than for those obscure and unfortunate wretches whom, but for your prayers, God in heaven would never have remembered.
_Francis_--Kings and their subjects are equal in the eyes of the Lord; he owes you his aid as to the rest of his children; be more just to yourself, and claim for your soul that help for which you beg.
_Louis_ [_eagerly_]--No, not so much at a time: let us now mind the body; I shall think of the soul by-and-by.
_Francis_--It is your remorse, O King, 'tis that smarting wound inflicted by your crimes, which slowly drags your body to final ruin.
_Louis_--The priests absolved me.
_Francis_--Vain hope! The weight of your present alarms is made up of thirty years of iniquitous life. Confess your shame, disclose your sins, and let sincere repentance wash away your defiled soul.
_Louis_--Should I get cured?
_Francis_--Perhaps.
_Louis_--Say yes, promise that I shall. I am going to confess all.
_Francis_--To me?
_Louis_--Such is my will. Listen.
_Francis_ [_seating himself whilst the King stands up with clasped hands_]--Speak then, sinner, who summon me to perform this holy ministry.
_Louis_ [_after having recited mentally the_ Confiteor]--I cannot and dare not refuse.
_Francis_--What are your sins?
_Louis_--Through fear of the Dauphin, the late King died of starvation.
_Francis_--A son shortened his own father's old age!
_Louis_--I was that Dauphin.
_Francis_--You were!
_Louis_--My father's weakness was ruining France. A favorite ruled. France must have perished had not the King done so. State interests are higher than--
_Francis_--Confess thy sins, thou wicked son; do not excuse thy wrong-doings.
_Louis_--I had a brother.
_Francis_--What of him?
_Louis_--Who died ... poisoned.
_Francis_--Were you instrumental in his death?
_Louis_--They suspected me.
_Francis_--God Almighty!
_Louis_--If those who said so fell in my power!...
_Francis_--Is it true?
_Louis_--His ghost rising from the grave can alone with impunity accuse me of his death.
_Francis_--So you were guilty of it?
_Louis_--The traitor deserved it!
_Francis_ [_rising_]--You would escape your just punishment! Tremble! I was your brother, I am now your judge. Crushed under your sin, bend low your head. Return to nothingness, empty Majesty! I no longer see the King, I hear the criminal: to your knees, fratricide!
_Louis_ [_falling on his knees_]--I shudder.
_Francis_--Repent!
_Louis_ [_crawling to the monk and catching hold of his garments_]--I own my fault, have pity on me! I beat my breast and repent another crime. I do not excuse it.
_Francis_ [_resuming his seat_]--Is this not all?
_Louis_--Nemours!... He was a conspirator. But his death.... His crime was proved. But under his scaffold his children's tears.... Thrice against his lord he had taken up arms. His life-blood spattered them. Yet his death was but just.
_Francis_--Cruel, cruel King!
_Louis_--Just, but severe; I confess it: I punished ... but no, I have committed crimes. In mid-air the fatal knot has strangled my victims; in murderous pits they have been stabbed with steel; the waters have put an end to them, the earth has acted as their jailer. Prisoners buried beneath these towers groan forgotten in their depths.
_Francis_--Oh! since there are wrongs which you can still repair, come!
_Louis_--Where to?
_Francis_--Let us set free those prisoners.
_Louis_--Statecraft forbids.
_Francis_ [_kneeling before the King_]--Charity orders: come, and save your soul.
_Louis_--And risk my crown! As a king, I cannot.
_Francis_--As a Christian, you must.
_Louis_--I have repented. Let that suffice.
_Francis_ [_rising_]--That avails nothing.
_Louis_--Have I not confessed my sins?
_Francis_--They are not condoned while you persist in them.
_Louis_--The Church has indulgences which a king can pay for.
_Francis_--God's pardon is not to be bought: we must deserve it.
_Louis_ [_in despair_]--I claim it by right of my anguish! O Father, if you knew my sufferings, you would shed tears of pity! The intolerable bodily pain I endure constitutes but half my troubles and my least suffering, I desire the places where I cannot be. Everywhere remorse pursues me; I avoid the living; I live among the dead. I spend dreadful days and nights more terrible. The darkness assumes visible shapes; silence disturbs me, and when I pray to my Savior I hear his voice say: "What would you with me, accursed?" When asleep, a demon sits on my chest: I drive him away, and a naked sword stabs me furiously; I rise aghast; human blood inundates my couch, and my hand, seized by a hand cold as death, is plunged in that blood and feels hideous moving debris....
_Francis_--Ah, wretched man!
_Louis_--You shudder. Such are my days and nights; my sleep, my life. Yet, dying, I agonize to live, and fear to drink the last drop of that bitter cup.