ON THE WRITINGS OF RICHARD CLITHEROE.
Among the singular events which have happened in the history of literature, I know none more curious than that which has condemned to so long a period of oblivion the name and writings of Richard Clitheroe, one of the best dramatic writers of the reign of James I. I was fortunate enough, some months ago, to purchase for a trifling price the plays of this writer, in two quarto volumes: and this copy, as I am assured, is the only one at present extant.
The tragedies of Clitheroe are six in number: Crichton; Julius Cæsar; Fortune's Fool; The Unlucky Marriage; Julian, the Apostate; and Virginia, or Honour's Sacrifice. To these tragedies is prefixed a history of the early part of the author's life, which is curious for the quaint simplicity with which it is written, and the interesting anecdotes which it contains of contemporary poets.
The following extracts from the first of these plays, the hero of which is the admirable Crichton, may enable your readers to form some opinion of the style and talents of this writer.
The first extract is from the commencement of the tragedy, which opens with a dialogue between Angelo, a young nobleman of Mantua, and Father Ilario, tutor to the Duke's son. This worthy ecclesiastic had been despatched to Padua by the Duke, for the purpose of overcoming Crichton in disputation.
Angelo. Hail holy father! welcome back to Mantua!
What tidings bring you from the learned city?
How sped your errand, and the Duke's desire?
The lying voice of fame has been before
And told us wondrous news: we heard that Crichton
Came off with greater fame at Padua
Than all that he had won at Rome and Paris.
Our noble Duke, I speak it to his shame,
Gave to his dull and hasty messengers
Too easy credence; for I cannot doubt
That you have well sustain'd his confidence,
And taught this hitherto successful Crichton,
That, though a man may once or twice do well,
And win the palm in learned disputation,
He must not hope to overcome the world,
Which he, poor youth! has all too rashly challenged.
Ilario. Oh, Angelo! how often have I thought,
That, in the times of old, Heaven rain'd more largely
The shower of portents, signs, and prodigies,
Than in these latter days! But now my mind
Is strangely alter'd. Who could have believed-
Had we not known it-that an unfledged youth,
With scarcely twenty summers o'er his head,
No student neither, but one who, in the use
Of arms, and every manly exercise,
Outshines the ablest of our chevaliers-
That he, without the aid of preparation,
At Padua, in the natural seat of learning,
Should find no doctor who could cope with him!
Angelo. None, didst thou say? Not one! But thou wert
Ilario. Oh! if thou lovest me, mention it no more;
Or, if thou needs must speak of my disgrace,
Oblige not me to keep thee company,
And publish my own shame. Oh, fortune! fortune!
But one short week ago, and I had then
All that I wish'd of honour, fame, respect;
Now they are gone, and I am less than nothing.
Before this curst intruder came among us,
No one had greater credit than myself,
For any learning that becomes a churchman;
And thence alone arose Gonzaga's favour:
Now all too quickly will the flame expire,
When the fresh breeze that fann'd it blows no more;
And those that, in the tide of my prosperity,
Have cringed the lowest to obtain my grace,
Will be the first to spurn my alter'd fortunes.
The prophecy of Ilario is accomplished. Crichton arrives at Mantua, and Ilario's situation is taken from him, to be bestowed upon the new favourite. The following is the priest's soliloquy thereon:
Heaven's curse be on them all! oh, wretched slave!
Fool that I was! Where are my honours now?
Gone-gone-all fled and vanish'd with the tide
Of princes' gratitude! Smiles changed to frowns!
And those attentions, that were once so servile,
Now turn'd to cold neglect! Would I had lived
And spent my days in some poor cloister'd cell,
Where I had never known what fortune was,
Nor ever had it held up to my view,
Thus to lament its loss. Begone, vain dreams
Of high preferment, and of bishopricks,
The state of cardinals, nay even the popedom,
And all that fancy paints to cheat the mind-
Begone!-Hence vain delusions! Ye are all,
Like the foundation ye were built upon,
But air no more-so light-so changeable.
Would that you were as easy to forget,
As lightly overthrown; but oh, vain thought!
That cannot be-when I shall seek some cell
To close my life, and be by all forgotten,
Still faithful memory will present the picture
Of what I was, and what I might have been
But for a cursed chance. Be still, be still,
Ye busy thoughts, or you will drive me mad.
The next extract is a dialogue between Angelo and Ilario, in the beginning of the second act; where Angelo for certain reasons of his own, persuades Ilario to revenge himself upon Crichton.
Angelo. (alone) Thank heaven! here he comes. How
changed his gait,
Shame has bow'd down his head, and bent his neck.
His eyes seem reading lessons in the dust,
Good morrow, holy father,
Again well met-if we may use that term
In times like these, when gratitude has fled
Above the earth, as if to hide its face
From man's neglect. He seems to hear me not.
Ilario!-whither would thou go, òld man?
In search of gratitude? men have it not;
And yet I lie; for, if I know my heart,
It bleeds for thee.
Ilario. Bleeds for me! Who art thou?
Poor gaudy insect! Painted butterfly!
My pride has had its full, and so will thine;
But let us go.
Angelo. And whither wouldst thou go?
Where is thy place of rest?
Ilario. I know of none.
When men have hell behind them, and within them,
Their thoughts will seldom wander.
Angelo. Dost thou feel
The poison'd sting of passion in thy mind?
Cure it as I have done.
Ilario. What grief hadst thou?
Angelo. Such as might make a wiser man blaspheme.
The young and old are moved by different toys;
But such as both feel equal grief to part with.
When we are young, our minds are turn'd to love;
For then the heart is pure, and seeks to find
A mate, but of a somewhat softer mould,
Whose gentle soul, apt to receive impressions,
Like a well-polish'd mirror, may reflect
His own thoughts. Or, at least, the blood is warm,
And loves to cool itself in beauty's arms.
When we are old, we cast off childish thoughts,
And seek new playthings. Then the thirst of power,
Greedy ambition, and the nod of princes,
That makes but to unmake
Ilario. Oh, curse thy tongue!
Art thou not Angelo? I know thee now.
What wouldst thou have with me?
Angelo. Hast thou not heard
Of men, that, smitten with some sore disease,
Through Heaven's guidance, find a remedy
To cure the wound; and then, through gratitude,
Discover and make public the receipt,
For other's benefit?
Ilario. And what of that?
Angelo. But this; that such a medicine have I found, And would to thee impart.
Ilario. Why, then I thank thee:
And yet with little credence in thy skill;
Yet tell it: drowning men, they say, will catch
At straws.
Angelo. Then hear it in one word-Revenge!
Ilario. Thy remedy, in truth, is like thyself,
A painted sepulchre; outwardly fair,
Yet full of bones and rottenness within.
Angelo. Stop! stop! Thou wilt not leave me; nay, thou shalt not.
I spoke it but to try thee: well I know
Thou lovest Crichton, as he loves himself.
Ilario. What! can the devil hide his cloven feet? Thou shouldst be him; and yet thou hast them not.
Oh! if thou art a man, beware, beware,
Look to thyself. What! canst thou have a soul
Yet to be saved? and wilt thou seek to tempt
An old man, loaden'd with infirmities,
And tottering to his grave?
Angelo. Oh, fancy! fancy!
How thou canst blind men's views, and change their thoughts, Setting before their eyes themselves and others
In strange misshapen forms. Consider, man,
Thou art Ilario, who, a week
In glowing health, and fill'd with expectation
Of honours and success, set out for Padua.
Ilario. Didst thou say Padua? Cursed be that name? Angelo. What happen'd there yourself must know the best,
It matters not to me; and yet I think
It was not that which caused your love for Crichton.
Ilario. Crichton! my love for him! Avaunt, thou fiend,
I see thy damned art! I would begone,
And yet I cannot move. Speak then, I'll hear thee.
Angelo. Not till your passion cools: I will not speak
Till you shall know me better. Am I Crichton?
Why, how that name torments you! Do you think,
Hating him thus, that you have left the power
To do him greater wrong? If this your hate
Be just, may you not stab him at the altar,
Or poison him, or take away his life
In any way you please, with equal justice ?
If it be unjust, you may do all this,
And yet not sin more deeply than you have done, &c. &c.
The next quotation is a soliloquy of Ilario in the third act; when, in order to bring about his revenge, he has rendered the prince jealous of Crichton.
Begone, ye coward fears! these communings,
That men hold with themselves are never happy:
The seeds of overbearing resolution
Are found in action: this it is which gives
The thoughts their life and vigour. But when once
The mind turns inward, then the coward soul
Becomes diseased by preying on itself.
False doubts arise without a cause existing.
Then farewell confidence, and, oh farewell!
The careless spirit that on itself relies,
And is its own support. Thus it is ever,
And so it is with me. It is, you say,
Forestalling Heaven's justice, even if right,
(Which of himself no mortal man may do)-
Nay more, by false suggestions, leading those
That else were innocent, to what perchance
May turn out murder! Oh, I must not think:
These meditations will unfix my purpose.
Come, blood-thirsty revenge, with all thy train
Of sufferings endured, revilings, insults,
All that sharp-witted malice can devise,
Or patience undergo. Come, fill my mind,
And let me brood on you. Ay, now I feel
Myself again. Would it were always so!
The last quotation, from the third scene of the first act, is a soliloquy of Ippolita, the duke's daughter; and to, use the theatrical phrase, in love with Crichton.
Ah me! there is no softener of the heart
So sure as love. There is no power like it
Can play the tyrant in a woman's breast.
But some few months ago, and men were wont
To call me proud, and so I thought myself;
But now, alas, how altered are my thoughts!
Fain would I hide my weakness from the world:
Fain hide it from myself. Oh, vain attempt!
For what is passion if I feel it not?
Is it the throbbing breast, and kindling eye?
Is it the burning cheeks, or quivering lips?
These are its outward signs, and these I feel;
But there are other tokens, more than these,
That false love cannot feign, but true love suffers.
When he is absent—all the world of sighs
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