ddleton. 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, coher