wound inflicted on his tenderest hopes being aggravated by virtuous horror at the crime of his father, a crime to which he thinks himself accessory, as he had, to screen Andromana's fame, sworn to his father that she was pure and innocent. The whole of this scene is replete with deep feeling, but it is long, and we may only give a few of the finest passages.

Inophilus. Why, this were handsome in some country fellow, Whose soul is dirty as the thing be's mad for ;

'Twere pretty in a lady that had lost her dog;

But

Plangus. I know what thou would'st say,

But for Plangus: Oh! 'tis for none but him to be so.
Those that have injured me are persons

I once held dearer than my eyes; but how much
Greater was my love, so much more is the offence;
Wounds from our friends are deepest.

Had any but my father-and yet methinks
That name should have protected me;

Or was it made only to secure offenders?

My life was his, he gave it me: my honour too

I could have parted with; but 'las! my love

Was none of mine, no more than vows made to a deity,

And not performed.-And for that creature,

Who must be lost for ills through which

I must make way for my revenge,

Had she betrayed my honour to any thing

But him that gave me being,

She had made me half amends, in that my way

To vengeance had been open. Now I am spurred
Forward to revenge by fury, and yet
Held in by the rein of foolish piety.

*

*

Methinks I hear Heaven tell me I am slow,
And it is time I had begun revenge.
Ephorbas has done him wrong, who loved him
More than heaven or his happiness, and would
Have run out of the world to have left him free,
Whatever he would lay claim to-but Andromana.'

While he is thus debating between revenge and filial duty, Andromana enters, and discovers the extent of her depravity by her guilty proposals. The character of Plangus is finely supported through the interview. His bitter scorn and stern indignation excite her fury, and she resolves on his immediate destruction. The scene in which she awakens the jealousy of the suspicious king is well conceived. Wrought upon by the arts of his wife, Ephorbas condemns his son to death, for attempting to gain the love of his queen; but the people rise in defence of their prince, and rescue him. Plangus afterwards overhears Andromana and her creature, Libaces, plotting the murder of the king; and

in a transport of rage stabs the paramour. Andromana's shrieks bring in Ephorbas, who, believing her artful tale, buries his sword in the breast of his son-who exclaims

Sir, I at length am happy,

To the height of all my wishes.
I am going suddenly-from all
My troubles, all your fears--
But I will tell my story first.'

He then briefly relates the treachery of Andromana, and dies: and here the play ought to have closed. But our old writers seem to have taken a strange pleasure in shedding blood, and leaving the stage covered with dead bodies. Andromana, not contented with killing Ephorbas, stabs Inophilus, and then completes the bloody scene by despatching herself. Though there are many tedious and ranting passages in this play—and the plot, disagreeable in itself, is coarsely handled, some of the scenes are vigorous and affecting; such as where Plangus generously criminates himself to shield his worthless mistress from the anger of his father: the interview between the king and his son, when the prince returns from battle, where he was reported to have fallen : and the noble rebuke of Plangus, when he first meets Andromana after her marriage. We have noticed the similarity between this play and Mirandola, and our readers must have perceived the resemblance in the story, though Mr. Proctor's better taste has given it more refinement. But some of the characters and passages in Mirandola bear a more determined likeness to Andromana. Mr. Proctor says, in the advertisement prefixed to his tragedy, that the character of the sensitive Mirandola, more particularly, is unborrowed. We are not to learn that authors have often coincided in their expressions, even when they have been entirely unacquainted with each others productions; but the similarity between Mirandola and the suspicious, irresolute, and impetuous Ephorbas, seems to merit a stronger term than coincidence.

John Webster, who flourished in the reign of James the first, possessed more boldness and originality of mind, than Shirley. All his productions evince a strong and vehement genius, which often rose to nobleness of thought, and as frequently sunk into the lowest absurdity. The laws of the unities, which were never strictly obeyed at that period, were not regarded with any respect by Webster. He transfers his reader to distant and different climes, and annihilates all time and space with as much sang froid as if it were not "clean against rule." Anachronisms too of the most glaring kind pervade his writings; and he shares largely in the taste for extravagance, which disfigured the literature of his age. Notwithstanding these faults, there is that in Webster's plays which well repays the trouble of perusal. Mag

nificent thoughts clothed in rich language, pathetic incidents and delicate touches, break through the surrounding grossness with great effect.

The "White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona," has been lately noticed in Blackwood's Magazine, and due praise was given to its pathos and beauty. We shall close this article with a slight sketch of the " Duchess of Malfy," which may be ranked next to Vittoria Corombona in point of merit, and which also posesses a large share of the author's characteristic faults and virtues. The plot of this play is not new; it has been used by Lope de Vega, may be found in Bandillo's novels, and was said to be founded on fact.-The Duchess of Malfy, a young and lovely widow, is narrowly watched by her imperious brothers, the Cardinal and Prince Ferdinand, who from interested motives wish to prevent her from forming a second union. Despite of their threats and influence, the duchess becomes attached to her lord chamberlain, Antonio, and is privately married to him. Their marriage is discovered by Bosala, a spy of the brothers, who finds means to gain the confidence of the duchess. Suspecting an intrigue, and his suspicions pointing to Antonio as the lover of the duchess, the wily spy in his sovereign's presence pours extravagant praises on Antonio's character. The duchess answers him at first with reserve, and affects to doubt Antonio's virtue, as if for the pleasure of being convinced of its reality. Bosala follows the clue, and parries all her objections to Antonio with such vehement praise, that, forgetful of prudence, she, with the exultation of a fond wife, declares that he is her husband and the father of her children. Bosala receives this startling tidings with a rapture of admiration at the greatness of soul which could overcome so many barriers in order to reward merit, and leaves the duchess, to convey his information to his employers. The rage of the princes is unbounded; and the duchess is persuaded by the treacherous Bosala to leave her country, when she is betrayed into the power of her brothers, and her husband narrowly escapes the same snare. After suffering the most horrid torment, the duchess is strangled by Bosala, who also despatches her two children, and her attendant. Antonio, returning to avenge her wrongs, is stabbed by Bosala-who mistakes him for the cardinal, with whom he has quarrelled. Ferdinand becomes a maniac after the murder of his sister; and the play closes with the double murder of the cardinal and Ferdinand by the hand of Bosala, the great executioner in the piece, who also receives his death wound in the struggle; and thus there is not one left to tell the story. The characters are well supported; those of the duchess, her brothers, and the villain Bosala, are striking and original. The scene between Ferdinand

and Bosala, whom the prince wishes to employ as a spy, is characteristic.

• Ferdinand. My brother here (the cardinall) could never abide you. Bosala. Never since he was in my debt.

Ferdinand. May be some oblique character in your face made him suspect you?

Bosala. Doth he study physiognomy?

He did suspect me wrongfully.

Ferdinand. There's gold.

Bosala. So.

What followes? (never rained such showres as these
Without thunderbolts in the tail of them :)

Whose throat must I cut?

Ferdinand. Your inclination to shed blood rides poste
Before my occasion to use you: I give you that

To live i' th' court here, and observe the dutchesse ;
To note all the particulars of her behaviour;

What suitors do solicit her for marriage,

And whom she best affects.

Bosala. It seems you would create me

One of your familiars.

Ferdinand. Familiar? What's that?

Bosala. Why a very quant invisible devil in flesh. An intelligencer.

The scene in which the duchess offers her hand to Antonio is very happily represented. Her fear lest she should discover too much, and the difficulty with which she represses the tenderness of her feelings, is finely met by the noble frankness of Antonio. When he seems to hesitate, she exclaims, "Goe, goe brag you have left me heartlesse, mine is in your bosom." And immediately after, forgetting the princess, she says:

'Oh let me shroud my blushes in your bosom,

Since 'tis the treasury of all my secrets.'

Nice touches like these occur frequently in the play, and have greater effect than the most sounding description. The interview between the Cardinal and Ferdinand, when they hear of their sister's unequal marriage, is boldly written. The loud and wordy wrath of Ferdinand, is well contrasted with the deep stern anger of the Cardinal. His cautious character is finely evinced, when even in the first transports of surprise and rage he tells his brother to "speak lower," and while Ferdinand is venting his fury in words, the Cardinal has silently made his cruel determination, and proceeds to find the means to execute it. The parting of the Duchess and Antonio is affecting; and her allusion to the sports of her child is touching.

Duchess. 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.
Antonio. Oh be of comfort!

Make patience a noble fortitude,

And think not how unkindly we are used:
"Man (like to cassia) is proved best being bruised."
Duchess. Must I, like to a slave-born ruffian,
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 e'er go right,
But Heaven's Scourge stick.

Antonio. Do not weep:

Heaven fashioned us of nothing; and we strive

To bring ourselves to nothing. Farewell, Cariola,

And thy sweet armful. If I never do see thee more,

Be a good mother to thy little ones,

And save them from the tiger. Fare you well.

Duchess. Let me look upon you once more; for that speech Came from a dying father.

The first scene in the fourth act is an instance of the wild extravagance which we have noticed as Webster's greatest fault. Ferdinand visits his imprisoned sister,-first premising that the apartment must be darkened. He then presents her a hand which he says she has "vowed much to love." The Duchess, supposing that he has brought Antonio to her, kisses it, when she discovers that it is a "dead man's hand," and lights being brought, the waxen images of Antonio and his two children, representing them dead, are shown her. The unfortunate wife wishes to die upon the body of her husband, but the taunting Bosala bids her live, and pursues her with his malicious irony, But her sufferings do not end here. Maniacs are sent to torment her with their ravings and grimaces, and nothing can equal the horror, but the absurdity of this scene. After this mummery is dismissed, Bosala enters, disguised as an aged man, and a fine scene ensues, in which the character of the Duchess rises superior to outrage and death.

Bosala. I am come to make thy tombe.

Duchess. Hah! my tombe?

Thou speakest as if I lay upon my death-bed,

Gasping for breath; dost thou perceive me sicke ?

Bosola. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sicknesse is in

sensible.

Duchess. Thou art not mad sure; dost know me?
Bosala. Yes.

Duchess. Am I not thy Duchesse?