guage out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in some measure excuse Shakspeare, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an observation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those who rigidly exaggerate every blemish of the finest genius for the drama ever the world enjoyed: they ought also for their own sake to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie generally at the surface, than his beauties, which cannot be truly relished but by those who dive deep into human nature. One thing must be evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever passion is to be displayed, Nature shews itself mighty in him, and is conspicuous by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression.*

Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens
The form of plausive manners; that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
(Being Nature's livery, or Fortune's scar,)
Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault.

Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 7.

* The critics seem not perfectly to comprehend the genius of Shakspeare. His plays are defective in the mechanical part; which is less the work of genius than of experience, and is not otherwise brought to perfection but by diligently observing the errors of former compositions. Shakspeare excels all the ancients and moderns in knowledge of human nature, and in unfolding even the most obscure and refined emotions. This is a rare faculty, and of the greatest importance in a dramatic author; and it is that faculty which makes him surpass all other writers in the comic as well as tragic vein,

I return to my subject from a digression I cannot repent of. That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty, no less rare than conspicuous: as to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one or other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different authors collect volumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my quotations to the grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.

And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course without interruption.

In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety of his sentiments; and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged to attack him a second time. Were I to give instances from that author of the fault under consideration, I might transcribe whole tragedies; for he is no less faulty in this particular, than in passing upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would a comparison between him and Shakspeare, upon the present article, redound more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine is here less incorrect than Corneille; and from him therefore I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his Phædra, given by Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus. Theramene is represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent perturbation of mind:

Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage,
Le terre s'en emeut, l'air en est infecté,
Le flot, qui l'apporta, recule epouvanté.

Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of that event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator :

A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézéne,
Il étoit sur son char. Ses gardes affligés
Imitoient son silence, autour de lui rangés.
Il suivoit tout pensif le chemin de Mycénes.
Sa main sur les chevaux laissoit flotter les rênes.
Ses superbs coursiers qu'on voyoit autrefois
Pleins d'une ardeur si noble obéir à sa voix,
L'œil morne maintenant et la tête baissée,
Sembloient se conformer à sa triste pensée, &c,
Act V. Sc. 6.

The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the same author, is a continued discourse; and but a faint representation of the violent passion which forced her to put an end to her own life:

Enfin, c'en est donc fait. Et par mes artifices,
Mes injustes soupçons, mes funestes caprices,
Je suis donc arrivée au doloureux moment,
Où je vois, par mon crime, expirer mon amant.
N'etoit-ce pas assez, cruelle destinée,
Qu'à lui survivre, hélas! je fusse condamnée ?
Et fallot-il encore que, peur comble d'horreurs,
Je ne pusse imputer sa mort qu'à mes fureurs !
Oui, c'est moi, cher amant, qui t'arrache la vie ;
Roxane, ou le Sultan, ne te l'ont ravie.
Moi seule, j'ai tissu le lien malheureux
Dont tu viens d'eprouver les detestables nœuds.
Et je puis, sans mourir, en souffrir la pensée ?
Moi, qui n'ai pû tantôt, de ta mort menacée,
Retentir mes esprits, prompts à m'abandonner!
Ah! n'ai-je eu de l'amour que pour t'assassiner?
Mais c'en est trop. Il faut par un prompt sacrifice,
Que ma fidelle main te venge, et me punisse.
Vous, de qui j'ai troublé la gloire et le repos,
Héros, qui deviez tous revivre en ce héros,
Toi, mere malheureuse, et qui dès notre enfance,
Me confias son cœur dans une autre esperance,

Infortuné Visir, amis déserpérés,

Roxane, venez tous contre moi conjurez,

Tourmenter à la fois une amante eperdue; [Elle se tue.
Et prenez la vengeance enfin qui vois est dûe.

Act V. Sc. last.

Though works, not authors, are the professed subject of this critical undertaking, I am tempted by the present speculation to transgress once again the limits prescribed, and to venture a cursory reflection upon that justly celebrated author, That he is always sensible, generally correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate degree of dignity, without reaching the sublime, paints delicately the tender affections, but is a stranger to the genuine language of enthusiastic or fervid passion.

If, in general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner: language is intended by nature for society; and a man when alone, though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion; and even then by starts and intervals only.* Shakspeare's soliloquies may justly be established as a model; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect of his many incomparable soliloquies, I confine myself to the two following, being different in their manner.

Hamlet. Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature

* Soliloquies accounted for, Chapter XV.

Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two ;-
So excellent a king, that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he permitted not the winds of heav'n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth!
Must I remember why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on; yet, within a month-
Let me not think-Frailty, thy name is Woman!
A little month! or ere those shoes were old,
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears-Why she, ev'n she-
(O heav'n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer-) married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules. Within a month!

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,

She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

It is not, nor it cannot come to good.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 3.

Ford. Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Mr. Ford, awake; awake, Mr. Ford; there's a hole made in your best coat, Mr. Ford! this 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take the leacher; he is at my house; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse, nor into a pepper-box. But lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places, though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame.

Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. last.

These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature in a passionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud; and the strongest feelings only, are expressed; as the speaker warms, he begins to imagine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.