fire and air." The faithful wife of Matheo sits at home drooping, "like the female dove, the whilst her golden couplets are disclosed;" while the insulted and persecuted Vittoria darts killing scorn and pernicious beauty at her enemies. This White Devil (as she is called) is made fair as the leprosy, dazzling as the lightning. She is dressed like a bride in her wrongs and her revenge. In the trial-scene in particular, her sudden indignant answers to the questions that are asked her, startle the hearers. Nothing can be imagined finer than the whole conduct and conception of this scene, than her scorn of her accusers and of herself. The sincerity of her sense of guilt triumphs over the hypocrisy of their affected and official contempt for it. In answer to the charge of having received letters from the Duke of Brachiano, she says,

"Grant I was tempted:

Condemn you me, for that the Duke did love me?
So may you blame some fair and chrystal river,
For that some melancholic distracted man

Hath drown'd himself in't."

And again, when charged with being accessary to her husband's death, and shewing no concern for it

"She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'd

With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit?"

she coolly replies,

"Had I foreknown his death as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning.”

In the closing scene with her cold-blooded assassins, Lodovico and Gasparo, she speaks daggers, and might almost be supposed to exorcise the murdering fiend out of these true devils, Every word probes to the quick. The whole scene is the sublime of contempt and indiffe

rence.

"Vittoria. If Florence be i' th' Court, he would not kill me. Gasparo. Fool! princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of others.

Lodovico (To Flamineo). Sirrah, you once did strike me; I'll strike you

Unto the centre.

Flam. Thou'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow; for thou see'st

I cannot strike again.

Lod. Dost laugh?

Flam. Would'st have me die, as I was born, in whining? Gasp. Recommend yourself to Heaven.

Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither.
Lod. O! could I kill you forty times a-day,

And use 't four year together, 'twere too little :
Nought grieves, but that you are too few to feed

The famine of our vengeance. What do'st think on?
Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions-
I am i' th' way to study a long silence.

To prate were idle: I remember nothing;

There's nothing of so infinite vexation

As man's own thoughts.

Lod. O thou glorious strumpet!

Could I divide thy breath from this pure air
When 't leaves thy body, I would suck it up,
And breathe't upon some dunghill.

Vit. Cor. You my death's-man!

Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough;
Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman:
If thou be, do thy office in right form;

Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness.

Lod. O! thou hast been a most prodigious comet; But I'll cut off your train: kill the Moor first.

Vit. Cor. You shall not kill her first; behold

I will be waited on in death: my servant

Shall never go before me.

Gasp. Are you so brave?

Vit. Cor. Yes, I shall welcome death As princes do some great embassadours; I'll meet thy weapon half way.

Lod. Thou dost not tremble!

Methinks, fear should dissolve thee into air.

Vit. Cor. O, thou art deceiv'd, I am too true a woman! Conceit can never kill me. I'll tell thee what,

I will not in my death shed one base tear;

Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear.

Gasp. (To Zanche). Thou art my task, black fury.
Zanche. I have blood

As red as either of theirs! Wilt drink some?

"Tis good for the falling-sickness: I am proud Death cannot alter my complexion,

For I shall ne'er look pale.

Lod. Strike, strike,

With a joint motion.

Vit. Cor. 'Twas a manly blow:

The next thou giv'st, murther some sucking infant,
And then thou wilt be famous."

Such are some of the terrible graces of the obscure, forgotten Webster. There are other parts of this play of a less violent, more subdued, and, if it were possible, even deeper character; such is the declaration of divorce pronounced by Brachiano on his wife:

"Your hand I'll kiss:

This is the latest ceremony of my love;
I'll never more live with you," &c.

which is in the manner of, and equal to, Deckar's finest things:-and others, in a quite different style of fanciful poetry and bewildered passion; such as the lamentation of Cornelia, his mother, for the death of Marcello, and the parting scene of Brachiano; which would be as fine as Shakespear, if they were not in a great measure borrowed from his inexhaustible store. In the former, after Flamineo has stabbed his brother, and Hortensio comes in, Cornelia exclaims,

"Alas! he is not dead; he's in a trance.

Why, here's nobody shall get any thing by his death:
Let me call him again, for God's sake.

Hor. I would you were deceiv'd.

Corn. O you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! How many have gone away thus, for want of 'tendance? Rear up's head, rear up's head; his bleeding inward will kill him.

K

Hor. You see he is departed.

Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is. If he be turn'd to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both into one coffin. Fetch a looking-glass: see if his breath will not stain it; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips. Will you lose him for a little pains-taking?

Hor. Your kindest office is to pray for him.

Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you'll let me come to him.

Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the Bearer, with Flamineo and Page.

Brach. Was this your handy-work?

Flam. It was my misfortune.

Corn. He lies, he lies; he did not kill him. These have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to.

Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother.

Corn. O, you screech-owl!

Hor. Forbear, good madam.

Corn. Let me go, let me go.

(She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and
coming to him, lets it fall).

The God of Heav'n forgive thee! Dost not wonder
I pray for thee? I'll tell thee what's the reason:
I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes;
I'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well!
Half of thyself lies there; and may'st thou live
To fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes,
To tell how thou should'st spend the time to come
In blest repentance.

Brach, Mother, pray tell me,

How came he by his death? What was the quarrel?