conventional
scarecrows of improving tracts.

This is Massinger's weakest side. His villains want backbone, and his
heroes are deficient in simple overmastering passion, or supplement
their motives by some overstrained and unnatural crotchet. Impulsiveness
takes the place of vigour, and indicates the want of a vigorous grasp of
the situation. Thus, for example, the 'Duke of Milan,' which is
certainly amongst the more impressive of Massinger's plays, may be
described as a variation upon the theme of 'Othello.' To measure the
work of any other writer by its relation to that masterpiece is, of
course, to apply a test of undue severity. Of comparison, properly
speaking, there can be no question. The similarity of the situation,
however, may bring out Massinger's characteristics. The Duke, who takes
the place of Othello, is, like his prototype, a brave soldier. The most
spirited and effective passage in the play is the scene in which he is
brought as a prisoner before Charles V., and not only extorts the
admiration of his conqueror, but wins his liberty by a dignified avowal
of his previous hostility, and avoidance of any base compliance. The
Duke shows himself to be a high-minded gentleman, and we are so far
prepared to sympathise with him when exposed to the wiles of
Francisco--the Iago of the piece. But, unfortunately, the scene is not
merely a digression in a constructive sense, but involves a
psychological inconsistency. The gallant soldier contrives to make
himself thoroughly contemptible. He is represented as excessively
uxorious, and his passion takes the very disagreeable turn of posthumous
jealousy. He has instructed Francisco to murder the wife whom he adores,
in case of his own death during the war, and thus to make sure that she
could not marry anybody else. On his return, the wife, who has been
informed by the treachery of Francisco of this pleasant arrangement, is
naturally rather cool to him; whereupon he flies into a rage and swears
that he will

Never think of curs'd Marcelia more.

His affection returns in another scene, but only in order to increase
his jealousy, and on hearing Francisco's slander he proceeds to stab his
wife out of hand. It is the action of a weak man in a passion, not of a
noble nature tortured to madness. Finding out his mistake, he of course
repents again, and expresses himself with a good deal of eloquence which
would be more effective if we could forget the overpowering path