Of Shakespeare notably, of Jonson less, of Marlowe (and of Keats to the term of life allowed him), one can say that they _se transvasaient goutte à goutte_; and in England, which has produced a prodigious number of men of genius and comparatively few works of art, there are not many writers of whom one can say it. Certainly not of Massinger. A brilliant master of technique, he was not, in this profound sense, an artist. And so we come to inquire how, if this is so, he could have written two great comedies. We shall probably be obliged to conclude that a large part of their excellence is, in some way which should be defined, fortuitous; and that therefore they are, however remarkable, not works of perfect art. This objection raised by Leslie Stephen to Massinger’s method of revealing a villain has great cogency; but I am inclined to believe that the cogency is due to a somewhat different reason from that which Leslie Stephen assigns. His statement is too _apriorist_ to be quite trustworthy. There is no reason why a comedy or tragedy villain should not declare himself, and in as long a period as the author likes; but the sort of villain who may run on in this way is a simple villain (simple not _simpliste_). Barabas and Volpone can declare their character, because they have no inside; appearance and reality are coincident; they are forces in particular directions. Massinger’s two villains are not simple. Giles Overreach is essentially a great force directed upon small objects; a great force, a small mind; the terror of a dozen parishes instead of the conqueror of a world. The force is misapplied, attenuated, thwarted, by the man’s vulgarity: he is a great man of the City, without fear, but with the most abject awe of the aristocracy. He is accordingly not simple, but a product of a certain civilization, and he is not wholly conscious. His monologues are meant to be, not what he thinks he is, but what he really is: and yet they are not the truth about him, and he himself certainly does not know the truth. To declare himself, therefore, is impossible. Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows’ cries, And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold, I only think what ’tis to have my daughter Right honourable; and ’tis a powerful charm Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity, Or the least sting of conscience. This is the wrong note. Elsewhere we have the right: Thou art a fool; In being out of office, I am out of danger; Where, if I were a justice, besides the trouble, I might or out of wilfulness, or error, Run myself finely into a praemunire, And so become a prey to the informer, No, I’ll have none of’t; ’tis enough I keep Greedy at my devotion: so he serve My purposes, let him hang, or damn, I care not....