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declares that no misfortune can alter the constancy of his affection; and Em, learning the faithlessness of her former lover, discloses the conduct she has pursued.

During the progress of this, the main portion of the plot, we have a succession of scenes alternating with those in which the miller's daughter is concerned, exhibiting the history of the love adventures of the disguised king at the Danish court. William

is disappointed in the reality of the lady, with whose picture he became enamoured. But he as readily falls in love with Mariana, a Swedish captive, the chosen fair of the Marquis of Lubeck. Blanche, however, the Danish king's daughter, falls in love with William; and we have then a pretty succession of jealousies and quarrels, which terminate in William carrying off the princess to England, masked, and disguised as Mariana. Upon their arrival in England, the king and his fair companion fall into the hands of some barons who are in arms. The mistakes are of course cleared up; and the King of Denmark offers his daughter to the King of England, who has resumed his state. He has to decide upon the claims of the fair Em, and of Elner, to the hand of Manvile. The scene on this occasion is perhaps the best passage in the play :

"Em. I lov'd this Manvile so much, that still methought,

When he was absent, did present to me
The form and feature of that countenance
Which I did shrine an idol in my heart:
And never could I see a man, methought,
That equall'd Manvile in my partial eye.
Nor was there any love between us lost,
But that I held the same in high regard,
Until repair of some unto our house,
Of whom my Manvile grew thus jealous,

As if he took exception I vouchsaf'd

To hear them speak, or saw them when they came;

On which I straight took order with myself,

To avoid the scruple of his conscience,

By counterfeiting that I neither saw nor heard :

Any ways to rid my hands of them.

All this I did to keep my Manvile's love,

Which he unkindly seeks for to reward.

Man. And did my Em, to keep her faith with me,
Dissemble that she neither heard nor saw?

Pardon me, sweet Em, for I am only thine.

Em. Lay off thy hands, disloyal as thou art !

Nor shalt thou have possession of my love,

That canst so finely shift thy matters off.

Put case I had been blind, and could not see,

As oftentimes such visitation falls, .

That pleaseth God, which all things doth dispose;
Shouldst thou forsake me in regard of that?

I tell thee, Manvile, hadst thou been blind,
Or deaf, or dumb, or else what impediments
Might befal to man, Em would have lov'd, and kept,
And honour'd thee; yea, begg'd, if wealth had fail'd,
For thy relief.

Man.

Forgive me, sweet Em.

Em. I do forgive thee with my heart,

And will forget thee too, if case I can;

But never speak to me, nor seem to know me.

Man. Then farewell frost:

Well fare a wench that will:

Now, Elner, I ain thy own, my girl.

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Elner. Mine, Manvile? thou never shalt be mine;

I so detest thy villainy,

That whilst I live I will abhor thy company."

This issue of the contest produces a singular effect upon the King of England. He determines that "women are not general evils ;" and so he accepts the hand of Blanche. Valingford is united to the fair Em, and Sir Thomas Goddard is restored to his rank and fortune.

It is exceedingly difficult for us to understand how a man of great ability, like Tieck, perfectly conversant with the dramatic art and style of Shakspere-sometimes going far beyond Shakspere's own countrymen in sound as well as elevated criticism—should fancy that a play like this could have been written by our great poet. Whatever merit it possesses, and it is certainly in some respects a lively and spirited performance, arises out of the circumstance that the author had good models before him. But we look in vain for all that sets Shakspere so high above his contemporaries; his wit, his humour, his poetry, his philosophy, his intimate knowledge of man, his exquisite method. Scenes such as these pass before our eyes like the tricks of the fantoccini. There is nothing of vitality in them ;-they

"Come like shadows, so depart."

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THE first known edition of this "comedy" is that of 1598:- -A most pleasant Comedy of Mucedorus, the Kings Sonne of Valentia, and Amadine the Kings Daughter of Arragon. With the merry Conceits of Mouse.' There are repeated reprints of this play up to 1639, denoting an extraordinary popularity; and, what is more remarkable, the piece is revived after the Restoration, and the edition before us of 1668 is "Amplifyed with new Additions, as it was Acted before the King's Majestie at White-hall on Shrovesunday night." A more rude, inartificial, unpoetical, and altogether effete performance the English drama cannot, we think, exhibit. Popularity, however, is not obtained by mere accident. Mediocrity and positive stupidity will often command it, but in the case of Mucedorus' it appears to us that the piece was expressly adapted for a very common audience. Whilst the highest and the best educated of the land were captivated by Shakspere and Jonson, there must necessarily have been rude farces and melodramas for

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theatres lower than the Globe and Blackfriars. There were strolling companies, too, who in many cases were unable to procure copies of the best plays, and who would justly think that other wares than poetry and philosophy would be demanded in the barn of the alehouse or in the hall of the squire. We have a curious example of the long-during popularity of 'Mucedorus.' After the suppression of the theatres in 1647, clandestine performances in London were put down by provost-marshals and troopers. But in the country the wandering players sometimes dared to lift their heads; and as late as 1653 a company went about playing 'Mucedorus.' They had acted in several villages in the · neighbourhood of Oxford, but, upon the occasion of its performance at Witney, an accident occurred, by which several persons lost their lives, and others were wounded. A pamphlet immediately appeared from the pen of an Oxford divine, showing that this calamity was an example of the Divine vengeance against stage performances. But 'Mucedorus,' as we have seen, had a higher popularity in reserve. It was revived for the entertainment of the King's Majesty, the tastes of whose court were pretty much upon a level with those of the Witney peasants and blanket-makers; and, what is not the least wonderful part in the history of this comedy, "very delectable and full of conceited mirth," some one rises up and says it is written by Shakspere. The tradition is handed down in old catalogues; and the Germans apply themselves seriously to discuss the point, whether a play which is too silly to be ascribed to any known writer of the time, might not be a youthful performance of the great poet himself.

To attempt any detailed analysis of the story of 'Mucedorus' would be a waste of time. Mucedorus, the Prince of Valentia, has heard of the beauty of Amadine, the Princess of Aragon, and he resolves to go in disguise to her father's court. The shepherd-prince, upon his arrival in Aragon, immediately saves the princess from the attack of a bear, who has rushed upon her, when in company with Segasto, a sort of lover, who takes to his heels in a very ungallant style. The lady, of course, falls in love with the shepherd, and the shepherd is very soon turned out of the court for his own presumptuous love. But the princess resolves to run away with him, and they appoint to meet and live in the forest, unscared by hunger or by bears. A wild man of the woods, however, seizes upon the lady; but Mucedorus, disguised as a hermit, very opportunely kills the wild man. The King of Valentia comes to look after his son. The lovers return to court. The gentleman who from the bear withdraws his claims to the princess, and the whole terminates with great felicity. We can easily understand how such a story would be popular, and how any surplusage of wit or poetry would have lessened its popularity. The serious adventures are relieved by the constant presence of a clown, who, to do him justice, is never guilty of the slightest cleverness, but produces a laugh by his exquisite stupidity. One specimen of the poetry will suffice. Mucedorus, clothed as a hermit, meets Bremo, the wild man of the woods, who has got Amadine safe in his grasp; and, justly considering that a wild man of the woods must be an excellent judge of rhetoric, and liable to be moved to pity by the force of fine words, thus addresses him :

ran away

"In time of yore, when men like brutish, beasts

Did lead their lives in loathsome cells and woods,

And wholly gave themselves to witless will,
A rude unruly root, then man to man became

A present prey; then might prevail'd,

The weakest men went to walls;

Right was unknown, for wrong was all in all.
As men thus liv'd in their great courage,
Behold, one Orpheus came (as poets tell),
And them from rudeness unto reason brought,

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Who, led by reason, soon forsook the woods;
Instead of caves, they built them castles strong,
Cities and towns were founded by them then :
Glad were they they found such ease;
And in the end they grew to perfect amity.
Weighing their former wickedness,

They term'd the time wherein they lived then
A golden age, a good golden age.

Now, Bremo (for so I heard thee call'd),

If men which liv'd tofore, as thou dost now,
Wild in woods, addicted all to spoil,
Returned were by worthy Orpheus' means,
Let me (like Orpheus) cause thee to return
From murther, bloodshed, and such-like cruelties:
What, should we fight before we have a cause?
No, let's live, and love together faithfully:
I'll fight for thee."

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but

There are one or two passages in Mucedorus' which indicate some poetical power, they are inappropriate to the situation and character. Whenever we compare Shakspere with other writers, the difference which, perhaps, upon the whole makes the most abiding impression is the marvellous superiority of his judgment

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