necan
drama, Tragedy now found herself debased and almost caricatured in the
English Interlude stage. Fortunately the danger was seen in time.
English writers, face to face with self-conscious tragedy, realized that
here at least was more than unaided native art could compass. Despairing
of success if they persisted in the old methods, they fell back
awkwardly upon classical imitation and, by assiduous study tempered by a
wise criticism, achieved success.

Only two plays with any claim to the designation of tragedies have
survived to us from the Interludes, neither of them of much interest.
_Cambyses_ (1561), by Thomas Preston, has all the qualities of an
imperfect Interlude. There are the base fellows and the clowns, Huff,
Ruff, Snuff, Hob and Lob; the abstractions, Diligence, Shame, Common's
Complaint, Small Hability, and the like; the Vice, Ambidexter, who
enters 'with an old capcase on his head, an old pail about his hips for
harness, a scummer and a potlid by his side, and a rake on his
shoulder'; and the same scuffling and horseplay when the comic element
is uppermost. Incident follows incident as rapidly and with as trifling
motives as before. In the course of a short play we see Cambyses, king
of Persia, set off for his conquests in Egypt; return; execute
Sisamnes, his unjust deputy; prove a far worse ruler himself; shoot
through the heart the young son of Praxaspes, to prove to that too-frank
counsellor that he is not as drunk as was supposed; murder his own
brother, Smirdis, on the lying report of Ambidexter; marry, contrary to
the law of the Church and her own wish, a lovely lady, his cousin, and
then have her executed for reproaching him with the death of his
brother; and finally die, accidentally pierced by his own sword when
mounting a horse. All these horrors, except the death of the lady, take
place on the stage. Thus we have such stage-directions as, 'Smite him in
the neck with a sword to signify his death', 'Flay him with a false
skin', 'A little bladder of vinegar pricked', 'Enter the King without a
gown, a sword thrust up into his side, bleeding.' Of real tragedy there
is little, the hustle of crime upon crime obliterating the impression
which any one singly might produce. Yet even in this crude orgy of
bloodshed the melancholy voice of unaffected pathos can be heard
mourning the loss of dear ones. It speaks in the farewells of Sisamnes
and his son Otian, and of Praxaspes (the honest minister) and hi