paramour of the historic Accoramboni. I am not prepared to maintain that
in one scene too much has not been sacrificed to immediate vehemence of
effect. The devotion of the discarded wife, who to shelter her Antony
from the vengeance of Octavius assumes the mask of raging jealousy, thus
taking upon herself the blame and responsibility of their final
separation, is expressed with such consummate and artistic simplicity of
power that on a first reading the genius of the dramatist may well blind
us to the violent unlikelihood of the action. But this very extravagance
of self-sacrifice may be thought by some to add a crowning touch of
pathos to the unsurpassable beauty of the scene in which her child,
after the murder of his mother, relates her past sufferings to his
uncle. Those to whom the great name of Webster represents merely an
artist in horrors, a ruffian of genius, may be recommended to study
every line and syllable of this brief dialogue:

_Francisco_. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black?

_Giovanni_. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you
In virtue, and you [? now] must imitate me
In colors of your garments. My sweet mother
Is--

_Francisco_. How! where?

_Giovanni_. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I'll not tell you,
For I shall make you weep.

_Francisco_. Is dead?

_Giovanni_. Do not blame me now,