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 copy whole tragedies; for he is not 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 betwixt him and Shakespear upon the present point, redound more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine here is less incorrect than Corneille, though many degrees inferior to the English author. From Racine 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, and an eye-witness to the disaster. 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,
La terre s’en émeut, l’air en est infecté,
Le flot, qui l’apporta, recule epouvanté.
Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of this event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator.
A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézene, &c.
Act 5. 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 forc’d her to put an end to her own life.
Enfin, c’en est donc fait, &c.
Act 5. 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 this 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 passions, but is a stranger to the true 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[69]. Shakespear’s soliloquies may be justly 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 cannon ’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
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 follow’d 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 1. sc. 3.