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1818.]

On the Early English Dramatists.

659

putation, notwithstanding the concealment of their birth, is gone. Ferdinand comes to her court, and having got false keys to her bed-chamber, secrets himself there, and overhears a soliloquy, which convinces him that his sister is married. He discovers himself, and puts a dagger into her hand; but apparently for little purpose, as a conversation ensues between them of a dull and unimpassioned nature, and Ferdinand leaves the chamber. The Duchess, perceiving that her husband is in danger, pretends to dismiss him from her service for dishonesty, and tells him to fly to Ancona, where, in due time, she will join him. On receiving his discharge, Antonio says,

"O the inconstant And rotten ground of service you may see! 'Tis even like him, that in a winter's night Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire,As loth to part from't; yet parts thence as cold As when he first sat down."

Bosola sees through this trick, and by praising Antonio's merits to the Duchess, when all the other courtiers are reviling him in his disgrace, she is thrown off her guard, and confesses that he is her husband. In speaking of Antonio, Bosola makes use of this fine image.

"For know, an honest Statesman to a Prince Is like a cedar planted by a Spring; The Spring bathes the Tree's roots, the grateful Tree Rewards it with its shadow."

The unfortunate Duchess now reveals to Bosola all her secrets, and among the rest, her husband's appointed plan of retreat, and appoints the traitor to manage every thing connected with her future fortunes.

Having fled to Ancona, the Duchess and Antonio are, through the interest of her brothers, banished that state, and the Pope has meanwhile seized the dukedom, which she held as dowager. Fearing that an ambush is laid against his life, the Duchess counsels her husband to fly, with their elder boy, till the storm is over-blown. Their parting is exceedingly tender.

Duch. I know not which is best, To see you dead or part with you! Farewell, boy, Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding To know thy misery. For all our wit And reading brings us to a truer sense Of sorrow: in the Eternal church, sir, I do hope we shall not part thus. Ant. Oh! be of good comfort! Make Patience a noble Fortitude; And think not how unkindly we are used. Man (like to Cassia) is proved best, being bruised. Duch. Must I, like to a slave-born Russian, Account it praise to suffer Tyranny? And yet, O'Heaven, thy heavy hand is in't! I have seen my little Boy oft scourge his top, And compared myself to't: naught made me go right But Heaven's scourge-stick. Ant. Do not weep. Heaven fashion'd us of nothing: and we strive To bring ourselves to nothing. Farewell Cariola, And thy sweet armful. If I see neither more, Be a good mother to our little ones, And save them from the Tiger. Fare you well. Duch. Let me look upon you once more, for that speech Come from a dying Father: your kiss is colder Than that I have seen an holy Anchorite Give to a dead man's skull. Ant. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump of lead, With which I sound my danger. Fare ye well.

When about to part, they are surrounded by a troop of armed men, and the third act closes.

Hitherto the chief merit of this drama has consisted in the delineation of the mutual affection and attachment of the Duchess and her husband. We have purposely taken no notice of much low and worthless matter in the subordinate conduct of the play. There is something very touching and true to nature in the warmth, yet purity of feeling, that characterises the Duchess; and knowing from the first that fiendish machinations are directed against her peace, we all along consider her as an interesting object, upon whom there is destined to fall some fatal calamity. In the fourth act the tragedy assumes a very different complexion, and the peculiar genius of Webster bursts forth into a strange, wild, fantastic, and terrible grandeur. The Duchess is sitting in solitary imprisonment, and, by the command of her savage brother Ferdinand, in utter darkness. He breaks in on her sable solitude.

Fer. Where are your cubs? Duch. Whom? Fer. Call them your children! For though our national Law distinguish Bastards From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature Makes them all equal. Duch. Do you visit me for this? You violate a sacrament of the church, Shall make you howl in hell for't.