spectators, and all the court, will rise and make proffer to defend her in spite of the utmost conviction of her guilt." This is true, and the whole scene is a powerful one; but it has not been sufficiently observed that the interference, we may add the brutality, of the presiding judge dispose us to something like sympathy with the accused. When we perceive that passion is admitted to the seat of justice, we naturally take part with the object of abuse. But in this respect the representation is untrue. No such scene as this ever disgraced a bench of justice; not even Jeffreys, in his most brutal mood, ever approached it. Least of all could such a disgrace be expected in Rome, a city where, above every other place, judicial decorum is observed, - where, above every other place, there is mercy in the spirit, no less than the forms, of justice. And there is an impropriety here, which none of the critics have perceived: the presiding judge is a cardinal; but no cardinal, no bishop, no priest, no abbot, no ecclesiastic, high or low, ever sits in judgment of blood." The canons inflict no less a doom than interdictio à sacris, and the greater excommunication, on any churchman who should presume to sit, or to concur, in the judgment of a cause where death would be the penalty of conviction. Of the canons, however, Webster knew nothing; and, notwithstanding the want of verisimilitude in the trial, we cannot but admire it as a production of great art.

As there is not evidence of the capital offence, Vittoria is next arraigned on the charge of adultery, and is easily found guilty. Her sentence is confinement in the House of Convertites, a sort of penitentiary, extremely rigid in its discipline. Thither she is conducted, and thither she is followed by the heart of Brachiano. His passion, indeed, makes him the instrument of his now mortal enemy, Francisco de' Medicis. To degrade him still more, Francisco writes a love-letter to Vittoria, which he causes to fall into the hands of Brachiano. In it he tells her that he has contrived the means of her escape: that he will if she pleases become has

But the lovers have a spy on their actions: it is discovered that the duchess has been delivered of a child, and the news is borne to Rome, where the two brothers reside. Vengeance is decreed, but it is not promptly pursued: the duchess has time to bring forth two more Then Ferdinand prochildren before it overtakes her.

ceeds to her court. Aware of her danger, she sends. Antonio away, and, under the plea of a pilgrimage to Loretto, follows him. She prefers living in obscurity with the husband of her choice, to all the worthless splendour which surrounds her. The next scene finds Antonio, the duchess, their children and servants, on the way to Loretto. But the bloodhounds are in pursuit of him; and, for his own safety (she does not fear for herself), she compels him to fly towards Milan, with his eldest son, while she faces the pursuers. By them she is taken back to her palace, imprisoned, and kept in dread of her life. Her fate is not long doubtful: Bosola,

is employed to

(Enter Executioners, with a coffin, cords, and a bell.)

Here is a present from your princely brothers,
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings

Last benefit, last sorrow.

"Dutch. Let me see it:

I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
"Bos. This is your last presence chamber.
"Cari. O, my sweet lady!

"Dutch. Peace; it affrights not me.
"Bos. I am the common bellman,

That usually is sent to condemn'd persons
The night before they suffer.

"Dutch. Even now thou said'st

Thou wast a tomb-maker.

"Bos. 'T was to bring you By degrees to mortification. Listen.

Hark, now every thing is still,

The screech owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay's now competent :
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is signed.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,

Their death, a hideous storm of terror."
Strew your hair with powders sweet,

Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

And (the foul fiend more to check,)

A crucifix let bless your neck:

'T is now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan, and come away.

"Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! alas!

What will you do with my lady? Call for help.