land. To James I., on the contrary, these passages must have given offence. But Shakspere was indebted to James for many kindnesses; and he has praised and celebrated him in several of his plays. Thus, in order to avoid wounding his sense of gratitude, he may either have expressly denied the paternity of 'Edward III.,' or have refused to recognize it, and abandoned to its fate a piece that perhaps did not satisfy him upon other grounds. And in this way it may be also explained how a poem, which bears Shakspere's stamp so evidently, should have been overlooked or intentionally omitted by his friends Heminge and Condell, the editors of the first folio. That the piece probably belongs to Shakspere's earlier labours (without doubt two years at least before the date of its first being printed) is evident from the language and versification, from the many rhymed passages, but more particularly from the composition, which, if we consider the piece as one whole, is incontestably faulty. For the first two acts clearly stand alone much too independently; internally only partially united, and not at all externally, with the following three acts. In the first part the point of the action turns upon the love of the king for the beautiful Countess of Salisbury, whom he has released from the besieging Scottish army. The whole of this connection is no farther mentioned in the following part; it comes to a total conclusion at the end of the second act, where the king, conquered, and at the same time strengthened, by the virtuous greatness of the countess, renounces his passion, and becomes again the master of himself. The countess then disappears wholly from the scene, which is changed to the victorious campaign of Edward III. and his heroic son the Black Prince. The play thus falls into two different Parts. But the fault which this involves wholly vanishes immediately that we take the two halves for two different pieces, united into a whole, in the same manner as the two Parts of 'Henry IV.' Everything then rounds itself into a complete and beautiful historical composition, which is throughout worthy of the great poet."

Of the value of this opinion of the very able German critic before us we shall endeavour to lead our readers to form their own judgment. If they come to the conclusion that the play is not Shakspere's, they will at least acquire a familiarity with some striking scenes and passages which are little known to English readers. The early editions are very rare; and Capell's volume is by no means a common book.

The view which Ulrici has taken that "The Reign of Edward III.' must be considered as a play in two Parts is perfectly just. But it must also be borne in mind that Shakspere has himself furnished us no example of such a complete division of the action in any one historical play which he has left us. The two Parts of 'Henry IV.' comprised two distinct plays, each complete in itself, each performed on a separate day, but each connected with the other by a chorus which fills up the gap of time. So the three Parts of 'Henry VI.' and 'Richard III.' are perfectly separate, although essentially connected. The plan pursued in the 'Edward III.' is, to say the least, exceedingly inartificial. If the writer of this play had possessed more dramatic skill, he might have made the severance of the action less abrupt. As it is, the link is snapped short. In the first two acts we have the Edward of romance,―a puling lover, a heartless seducer, a despot, and then a penitent. In the last three acts we have the Edward of history,— the ambitious hero, the stern conqueror, the affectionate husband, the confiding father. The one portion of the drama pretty closely follows the apocryphal and inconsistent story in 'The Palace of Pleasure,' how "A King of England loved a daughter of one of his noblemen, which was Countess of Salisbury." And here the author has certainly produced some powerful scenes, and considerably improved upon the fable which he in great part followed. In the latter portion of the play he has Froissart before him; and, dealing with those incidents which were calculated to call forth the highest poetical efforts, such as the battle of Poitiers and the siege of Calais, the dramatist is strikingly inferior to the fine old

chronicler. When Shakspere dealt with heroic subjects, as in his 'Henry V.,' he kept pretty closely to the original narratives; but he breathed a life into the commonest occurrences, which leaves us to wonder how the exact could be so intimately blended with the poetical, and how that which is the most natural should, through the force of a few magical touches, become the most sublime. We do not trace this wonderful power in the play before us: talent there certainly is, but the great creative spirit is not visible.

The play opens with Robert of Artois explaining to Edward III. the claims which he has to the crown of France through his mother Isabelle. This finished, the Duke of Lorraine arrives to summon Edward to do homage to the King of France for the dukedom of Guienne. The scene altogether reminds us of the second scene of the first act of 'Henry V.,' where the Archbishop of Canterbury expounds the Salic law, and the ambassadors of France arrive with an insolent message to Henry from the Dauphin. The parallel scenes in both plays have some resemblance to the first scene of King John,' where Chatillon arrives with a message from France. It is probable that the Henry V.' of Shakspere was not written till after this play of Edward III.;' and the 'King John,' as we now have it, might probably be even a later play: but the original 'King John,' in two Parts, belongs, without doubt, to an earlier period than the 'Edward III.,' and the same resemblance in this scene holds good with that play. Upon the departure of Lorraine, the rupture of the league with the Scots is announced to Edward, with the further news that the Countess of Salisbury is besieged in the castle of Roxburgh. The second scene shows us the countess upon the walls of the castle, and then King D d of Scotland enters, and thus addresses himself to Lorraine :

"Dav. My lord of Lorraine, to our brother of France

Commend us, as the man in Christendom Whom we most reverence and entirely love. Touching your embassage, return, and say, That we with England will not enter parley, Nor never make fair weather, or take truce;

It was en

If this speech be not Shakspere's, it is certainly a closer imitation of the freedom of his versification, and the truth and force of his imagery, than can be found in any of the historical plays of that period. We do not except even the Edward II.' of Marlowe, in which it would be difficult to find a passage in which the poetry is so little conventional as the lines which we have just quoted. And this brings us to the important consideration of the date of Edward III.' Ulrici holds that it was written at least two years before it was published. We cannot see the reason for this opinion. tered on the Stationers' registers on the 1st of December, 1595, and we have pretty good evidence in many cases that such entry was concurrent with the time of the original performance. If the Edward III.,' then, was first produced in 1595, there can be no doubt that Shakspere's historical plays were already before the public-the 'Henry VI.,' and 'Richard III.,'-in all probability the Richard II.' Bearing this circumstance in mind, we can easily understand how a new school of writers should, in 1595, have been formed, possessing, perhaps, less original genius than some of the earlier founders of the drama, but having an immense advantage over them in the models which the greatest of those founders had produced. Still this consideration does not wholly war

6

No, he's my friend; and where is found the friend

That will do friendship such endamagement? Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend's wife.

I am not Warwick, as thou think'st I am,
But an attorney from the court of hell;
That thus have housed my spirit in his form,
To do a message to thee from the king.
The mighty king of England dotes on thee:
He, that hath power to take away thy life,
Hath power to take thine honour; then con-
sent

To pawn thine honour, rather than thy life;
Honour is often lost, and got again;
But life, once gone, hath no recovery.
The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass;
The king, that would distain thee, will advance
thee.

The poets write, that great Achilles' spear
Could heal the wound it made: the moral is,
What mighty men misdo, they can amend.
The lion doth become his bloody jaws,
And grace his foragement, by being mild
When vassal fear lies trembling at his feet.
The king will in his glory hide thy shame;
And those, that gaze on him to find out thee,
Will lose their eyesight, looking in the sun.
What can one drop of poison harm the sea,
Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill,
And make it lose his operation?

The king's great name will temper thy misdeeds,

And give the bitter potion of reproach
A sugar'd sweet and most delicious taste:
Besides, it is no harm to do the thing

Which without shame could not be left undone.

Thus have I, in his majesty's behalf,
Apparell'd sin in virtuous sentences,
And dwell upon thy answer in his suit.

Cou. Unnatural besiege! Woe me, unhappy,
To have escaped the danger of my foes,
And to be ten times worse invired by friends!
Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,
But to corrupt the author of my blood,
To be his scandalous and vile solicitor?
No marvel though the branches be infected,
When poison hath encompassed the root:
No marvel though the leprous infant die,
When the stern dam envenometh the dug.
Why, then, give sin a passport to offend,
And youth the dangerous rein of liberty:
Blot out the strict forbidding of the law;

And cancel every canon that prescribes
A shame for shame, or penance for offence.
No, let me die, if his too boist'rous will
Will have it so, before I will consent
To be an actor in his graceless lust.

War. Why, now thou speak'st as I would
have thee speak;

And mark how I unsay my words again.
An honourable grave is more esteem'd,
Than the polluted closet of a king:

The greater man, the greater is the thing,
Be it good, or bad, that he shall undertake:
An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
Presents a greater substance than it is:
The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint
The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss:
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe:
That sin doth ten times aggravate itself
That is committed in a holy place:
An evil deed, done by authority,
Is sin and subornation: Deck an ape
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.
A spacious field of reasons could I urge
Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame:
That poison shows worst in a golden cup;
Dark night seems darker by the lightning
flash;

Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds;
And every glory that inclines to sin,
The shame is treble by the opposite.
So leave I, with my blessing in thy bosom;
Which then convert to a most heavy curse,
When thou convert'st from honour's golden

the Prince of Wales arrives at the Castl of Roxburgh, and the conflict in the mind of the king is well imagined:—

"Edw. I see the boy. Oh, how his mother's face,

Moulded in his, corrects my stray'd desire, And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye;

Who, being rich enough in seeing her,
Yet seeks elsewhere; and basest theft is that
Which cannot check itself on poverty.-
Now, boy, what news?

Pri. I have assembled, my dear lord and
father,

The choicest buds of all our English blood, For our affairs in France; and here we come, To take direction from your majesty.

Edw. Still do I see in him delineate
His mother's visage; those his eyes are hers,
Who, looking wistly on me, made me blush;
For faults against themselves give evidence:
Lust is a fire; and men, like lanthorns, show
Light lust within themselves, even through
themselves.

Away, loose silks of wavering vanity!
Shall the large limit of fair Brittany
By me be overthrown? and shall I not
Master this little mansion of myself?
Give me an armour of eternal steel;
I go to conquer kings: And shall I then
Subdue myself, and be my enemy's friend?
It must not be.-Come, boy, forward, advance!
Let's with our colours sweep the air of France.
Lod. My liege, the countess, with a smiling
cheer,

Desires access unto your majesty.

[Advancing from the door, and whispering

him.

Edw. Why, there it goes! that very smile

of hers

Hath ransom'd captive France; and set the king,

The dauphin, and the peers, at liberty.— Go, leave me, Ned, and revel with thy friends. [Exit Prince."

The countess enters, and with the following scene suddenly terminates the ill-starred passion of the king:

"Edw. Now, my soul's playfellow! art thou

come.

To speak the more than heavenly word of yea, To my objection in thy beauteous love?

Cou. My father on his blessing hath commanded

Edw. That thou shalt yield to me.

Cou. Ay, dear my liege, your due.

Edw. And that, my dearest love, can be no less

Than right for right, and tender love for love.

Cou. Than wrong for wrong, and endless

hate for hate.—

But, sith I see your majesty so bent,
That my unwillingness, my husband's love,
Your high estate, nor no respect respected
Can be my help, but that your mightiness
Will overbear and awe these dear regards,-
I bind my discontent to my content,
And, what I would not, I'll compel I will;
Provided that yourself remove those lets
That stand between your highness' love and

mine.

Edw. Name them, fair countess, and, by heaven, I will.

Cou. It is their lives, that stand between our love,

That I would have chok'd up, my sovereign. Edw. Whose lives, my lady?

Cou.
My thrice loving liege,
Your queen, and Salisbury my wedded hus-
band;

Who living have that title in our love,
That we cannot bestow but by their death.
Edw. Thy opposition is beyond our law.
Cou. So is your desire: If the law
Can hinder you to execute the one,
Let it forbid you to attempt the other:
I cannot think you love me as you say,
Unless you do make good what you have

sworn.

Edw. No more; thy husband and the queen shall die.

Fairer thou art by far than Hero was;
Beardless Leander not so strong as I:
He swom an easy current for his love:
But I will, through a helly spout of blood,
Arrive that Sestos where my Hero lies.

Cou. Nay, you'll do more; you'll make the river too,

With their heart-bloods that keep our love asunder,

Of which, my husband, and your wife, are twain.

Edw. Thy beauty makes them guilty of their death,

And gives in evidence, that they shall die;