LETTER TO THE EDITOR. DEAR SIR, It is not unknown to you, that about nineteen years since I published "Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, who lived about the time of Shakspeare.' For the scarcer Plays I had recourse to the collection bequeathed to the British Museum by Mr. Garrick. But my time was but short, and my subsequent leisure has discovered in it a treasure rich and exhaustless beyond what I then imagined. In it is to be found almost every production in the shape of a Play that has appeared in print, from the time of the old Mysteries and Moralities to the days of Crown and D'Urfey. Imagine the luxury to one like me, who, above every other form of poetry, have ever preferred the Dramatic, of sitting in the princely apartments, for such they are, of poor condemned Montagu House, which I predict will not speedily be followed by a handsomer, and culling at will the flower of some thousand Dramas. It is like having the range of a Nobleman's Library, with the Librarian to your friend. Nothing can exceed the courteousness and attentions of the Gentleman who has the chief direction of the Reading Rooms here; and you have scarce to ask for a volume, before it is laid before you. If the occasional Extracts which I have been tempted to bring away, may find an appropriate place in your Table Book, some of them are weekly at your service. By those who remember the "Specimens," these must be considered as mere after-gleanings, supplementary to that work, only comprising a longer period. You must be content with sometimes a scene, sometimes a song; a speech, or passage, or a poetical image, as they happen to strike me. I read without order of time; I am a poor hand at dates; and for any biography of the Dramatists, I must refer to writers who are more skilful in such matters. My business is with their poetry only. Your well-wisher, January 27, 1827. C. LAMB. 411 KING JOHN AND MATILDA: A TRAGEDY, BY ROBERT DAVENPORT. ACTED IN 1651. JOHN, not being able to bring MATILDA, the chaste daughter of the old Baron FITZWATER, to compliance with his wishes, causes her to be poisoned in a nunnery. SCENE. JOHN. The Barons: they being as yet ignorant of the murder, and having just come to composition with the King after tedious wars. MATILDA's hearse is brought in by HUBERT. John. Hubert, interpret this apparition. Hub. Behold, sir, A sad-writ tragedy, so feelingly Languaged, and cast; with such a crafty cruelty Would weep to lay their ears to, and (admiring Told thee thou hadst a daughter. O, look here! Barons. Matilda! Fitzw. By the labouring soul of a much-injured man, Bruce. Sweet niece! Leic. Chaste soul! John. Do I stir, Chester? Good Oxford, do I move? stand I not still To watch when the grieved friends of wrong'd Matilda That in a thousand prayers they might be happy? 1 Fitzwater: son of water. A striking instance of the compatibility of the serious pun with the expression of the profoundest sorrows. Grief, as well as joy, finds ease in thus playing with a word. Old John of Gaunt in Shakspeare thus descants on his name: Gaunt, and gaunt indeed;" to a long string of conceits, which no one has ever yet felt as ridiculous. The poet Wither thus, in a mournful review of the declining estate of his family, says with deepest nature: The very name of Wither shows decay. A man of tears. O, immaculate Matilda, Hub. Unmatch'd Matilda; Celestial soldier, that kept a fort of chastity Fitzw. Not to be a queen, [reed: Truth crowns your Would she break her chaste vow. John. O take into your spirit-piercing praise I have well-clad woes, Pathetic epithets to illustrate passion, And steal true tears so sweetly from all these Insinuates a chaste soul in a clean body, To make our griefs ingenious. Let all be dumb, Chest. His very soul speaks sorrow. Oxf. And it becomes him sweetly. John. Hail maid and martyr! lo, on thy breast, I offer (as my guilt imposes) Thy merit's laurel, lilies and roses; Lilies, intimating plain Thy immaculate life, stuck with no stain; Roses red and sweet, to tell How sweet red sacrifices smell. Hang round then, as you walk about this hearse, Brace. My noble brother, I have lost a wife and son1 A public benefit. When it shall please, Fitzw. Do any thing; Do all things that are honourable; and the Great King Make you a good king, sir! and when your soul Shall at any time reflect upon your follies, Good king John, weep, weep very heartily; It will become you sweetly. At your eyes Your sin stole in; there pay your sacrifice. John. Back unto Dunmow Abbey. There we pay To sweet Matilda's memory, and her sufferings, A monthly obsequy, which (sweeten'd by The wealthy woes of a tear-troubled eye) Shall by those sharp afflictions of my face Court mercy, and make grief arrive at grace. SONG. Matilda, now go take thy bed In the dark dwellings of the dead; Rest there, chaste soul, fix'd in thy proper sphere, [This scene has much passion and poetry in it, if I mistake not. The last words of Fitzwater are an instance of noble temperament; but to understand him, the character throughout of this mad, merry, feeling, insensible-seeming lord, should be read. That the venomous John could have even counterfeited repentance so well, is out of nature; but, supposing the possibility, nothing is truer than the way in which it is managed. These old playwrights invested their bad characters with notions of good, which could by no possibility have coexisted with their actions. Without a soul of goodness in himself, how could Shakspeare's Richard the Third have lit upon those sweet phrases and inducements by which he 1 also cruelly slain by the poisoning John. 2 i. e. of peace; which this monstrous act of John's in this play comes to counteract, in the same way as the discovered death of Prince Arthur is like to break the composition of the king with his barons in Shakspeare's play. 3 The Dauphin of France, whom they had called in, as in Shakspeare's play. |