had been entirely his own, had stood out as much from others, resting only on their own naked merits, as that of the honest Hidalgo, on whose praises I have dwelt so much above. Decker has, I think, more truth of character, more instinctive depth of sentiment, more of the unconscious simplicity of nature; but he does not, out of his own stores, clothe his subject with the same richness of imagination, or the same glowing colours of language. Decker excels in giving expression to certain habitual, deeply-rooted feelings which remain pretty much the same in all circumstances, the simple uncompounded elements of nature and passion: Webster gives more scope to their various combinations and changeable aspects, brings them into dramatic play by contrast and comparison, flings them into a state of fusion by a kindled fancy, makes them describe a wider arc of oscillation from the impulse of unbridled passion, and carries both terror and pity to a more painful and sometimes unwarrantable excess. Decker is contented with the historic picture of suffering: Webster goes on to suggest horrible imaginings. The pathos of the one tells home and for itself; the other adorns his sentiments with some image of tender or awful beauty. In a word, Decker is more like Chaucer or Boccaccio; as Webster's mind appears to have been cast more in the mould of Shakspeare's, as well naturally as from studious emulation. The Bellafront and Vittoria Corombona of these two excellent writers, show their different powers and turn of mind. The one is all softness; the other "all 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 crystal river, For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in 't."* And again, when charged with being accessory to her husband's death, and showing no concern for it: "She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'd she coolly replies: "Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning." In the closing scenes 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 indiffer ence: "Vittoria. If Florence be i' th' court, would he would kill me. Gasparo. Fool! princes give rewards with their own hands, but death or punishment by the hands of others. * [Act iii. sc. 2 (Webster's Works, ed. Hazlitt, ii. 62).] [Ubi suprà.] H 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 seest 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? I am i' th' way to study a long silence: To prate were idle. I remember nothing; Lod. [To Vittor.] O thou glorious strumpet! Vit. Cor. You my death's-man! Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough; 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. [To Gasparo. Vit. Cor. You shall not kill her first; behold my breast; 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 ambassadors; Lod. Thou dost 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, murder some sucking infant, 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, Decker'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 Shakspeare 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. Hor. You see he is departed. Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is. If he be turn'd * [Ubi suprà, pp. 139-40.] 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 beaver, with Flamineo and others. Brach. Was this your handy-work? Flam. It was my misfortune. Corn. He lies, he lies! he did not kill him. him, that would not let him be better looked to. Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother. Hor. Forbear, good madam. Corn. Let me go, let me go. These have killed [She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and The God of Heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonder Brach. Mother, pray tell me, How came he by his death? What was the quarrel? Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words, Drew his sword first; and so, I know not how, For I was out of my wits, he fell with's head Just in my bosom. Page. This is not true, madam. Corn. I pray thee, peace. One arrow's graz'd already: it were vain T' lose this for that will ne'er be found again." * This is a good deal borrowed from Lear; but the in-. most folds of the human heart, the sudden turns and * [Ubi suprà, pp. 109-10.] |