assigning to Middleton the two satirical tracts in the style of Nash, or rather of Dekker, which appeared in the same year with his initials subscribed to their prefatory addresses.  Mr. Dyce thought they were written by the poet whose ready verse and realistic humor are both well represented in their text:  Mr. Bullen agrees with Mr. Dyce in thinking that they are the work of Middleton.  And Mr. Carew Hazlitt thinks that they are not.

No such absolute and final evidence as this can be adduced in favor or disfavor of the theory which would saddle the reputation of Middleton with the authorship of a dull and disjointed comedy, the work (it has hitherto been supposed) of the German substitute for Shakespeare.  Middleton has no doubt left us more crude and shapeless plays than “The Puritan”; none, in my opinion—­excepting always his very worst authentic example of farce or satire, “The Family of Love”—­so heavy and so empty and so feeble.  If it must be assigned to any author of higher rank than the new Shakespeare, I would suggest that it is much more like Rowley’s than like Middleton’s worst work.  Of the best qualities which distinguish either of these writers as poet or as humorist, it has not the shadow or the glimmer of a vestige.

In the last and the greatest work which bears their united names—­a work which should suffice to make either name immortal if immortality were other than an accidental attribute of genius—­the very highest capacity of either poet is seen at its very best.  There is more of mere poetry, more splendor of style and vehemence of verbal inspiration, in the work of other poets then writing for the stage:  the two masterpieces of Webster are higher in tone at their highest, more imaginative and more fascinating in their expression of terrible or of piteous truth:  there are more superb harmonies, more glorious raptures of ardent and eloquent music, in the sometimes unsurpassed and unsurpassable poetic passion of Cyril Tourneur.  But even Webster’s men seem but splendid sketches, as Tourneur’s seem but shadowy or fiery outlines, beside the perfect and living figure of De Flores.  The man is so horribly human, so fearfully and wonderfully natural, in his single-hearted brutality of devotion, his absolute absorption of soul and body by one consuming force of passionately cynical desire, that we must go to Shakespeare for an equally original and an equally unquestionable revelation of indubitable truth.  And in no play by Beaumont and Fletcher is the concord between the two partners more singularly complete in unity of spirit and of style than throughout the tragic part of this play.  The underplot from which it most unluckily and absurdly derives its title is very stupid, rather coarse, and almost vulgar:  but the two great parts of Beatrice and De Flores are equally consistent, coherent, and sustained in the scenes obviously written by Middleton and in the scenes obviously written by Rowley.  The subordinate