[Footnote 1:  This abortion of letters is such a very moon-calf, begotten by malice on idiocy, that no human creature above the intellectual level of its author will ever dream of attempting to decipher the insignificant significance which may possibly—­though improbably—­lie latent under the opaque veil of its inarticulate virulence.]

That the same noble poet and high-souled humorist was not responsible for the offence given to Caledonian majesty in the comedy of “Eastward Ho!” the authentic word of Jonson would be sufficient evidence; but I am inclined to think it a matter of almost certain likelihood—­if not of almost absolute proof—­that Chapman was as innocent as Jonson of a jest for which Marston must be held responsible—­though scarcely, I should imagine, blamable at the present day by the most rabid of Scottish provincialists.  In the last scene of “The Malcontent” a court lady says to an infamous old hanger-on of the court:  “And is not Signor St. Andrew a gallant fellow now?” to which the old hag replies:  “Honor and he agree as well together as a satin suit and woollen stockings.”  The famous passage in the comedy which appeared a year later must have been far less offensive to the most nervous patriotism than this; and the impunity of so gross an insult, so obviously and obtrusively offered, to the new knightships and lordships of King James’s venal chivalry and parasitic nobility, may naturally have encouraged the satirist to repeat his stroke next year—­and must have astounded his retrospection, when he found himself in prison, and under threat of worse than imprisonment, together with his unoffending associates in an admirable and inoffensive comedy.  It is impossible to suppose that he would not have come forward to assume the responsibility of his own words—­as it is impossible to imagine that Jonson or Chapman would have given up his accomplice to save himself.  But the law of the day would probably have held them all responsible alike.

In the same year as “Eastward Ho!” appeared the best and completest piece of work which we owe to the single hand of Marston.  A more brilliant and amusing play than “The Dutch Courtesan,” better composed, better constructed, and better written, it would be difficult to discover among the best comic and romantic works of its incomparable period.  The slippery and sanguinary strumpet who gives its name to the play is sketched with such admirable force and freedom of hand as to suggest the existence of an actual model who may unconsciously have sat for the part under the scrutiny of eyes as keen and merciless as ever took notes for a savagely veracious caricature—­or for an unscrupulously moral exposure.  The jargon in which her emotions are expressed is as Shakespearean in its breadth and persistency as that of Dr. Caius or Captain Fluellen; but the reality of those emotions is worthy of a less farcical vehicle for the expression of such natural craft and passion.  The sisters,