ns condemn
themselves, because such a practice would save so much trouble to judges
and moralists. Not appreciating the full force of passions, it allows
the existence of grotesque and eccentric motives. It fancies that a
little rhetoric will change the heart as well as the passing mood, and
represents the claims of virtue as perceptible on the most superficial
examination. The morality which requires such concessions becomes
necessarily effeminate; it is unconsciously giving up its strongest
position by implicitly admitting that the world in which virtue is
possible is a very different one from our own.

The decline of the great poetic impulse does not yet reveal itself by
sheer blindness to moral distinctions, or downright subservience to
vice. A lowered vitality does not necessarily imply disease, though it
is favourable to the development of vicious germs. The morality which
flourishes in an exhausted soil is not a plant of hardy growth and tough
fibre, nourished by rough common-sense, flourishing amongst the fierce
contests of vigorous passions, and delighting in the open air and the
broad daylight. It loves the twilight of romance, and creates heroes
impulsive, eccentric, extravagant in their resolves, servile in their
devotion, and whose very natures are more or less allied to weakness and
luxurious self-indulgence. Massinger, indeed, depicts with much sympathy
the virtues of the martyr and the penitent; he can illustrate the
paradox that strength can be conquered by weakness, and violence by
resignation. His good women triumph by softening the hearts of their
persecutors. Their purity is more attractive than the passions of their
rivals. His deserted King shows himself worthy of more loyalty than his
triumphant persecutors. His Roman actor atones for his weakness by
voluntarily taking part in his own punishment.

Such passive virtues are undoubtedly most praiseworthy; but they may
border upon qualities not quite so praiseworthy. It is a melancholy
truth that your martyr is apt to be a little sanctimonious, and that a
penitent is generally a bit of a sneak. Resignation and self-restraint
are admirable qualities, but admirable in proportion to the force of the
opposing temptation. The strong man curbing his passions, the weak woman
finding strength in patient suffering, are deserving of our deepest
admiration; but in Massinger we feel that the triumph of virtue implies
rather a want of passion than a power of com