machus painted him after the fit was past, exhausted by his feat of insane heroism, and gloomily meditating his own destruction. And this is in truth the distracted Ajax; not, indeed, in the moment of his phrensy, but with a clear indication of his past excitement and of its extent in the shame and despondency with which the recollection of it overwhelms him. The fury of the storm, though past, is indicated by the fragments it leaves strewed upon the ground.

FOURTH SECTION.

The whole Realm of
He is not obliged to

The Range of the Poet is unlimited. Perfection lies open to his Imitation. concentrate his Subject into one single Moment.-Observations on the Drama, which may be viewed as a speaking Picture. Illustration of the Philoctetes of Sophocles.

On reviewing the reasons by which I have endeavored, in the foregoing chapters, to explain the principle which guided the Sculptor of the Laocoon in moderating the expression of bodily pain, I find that they are entirely drawn from the inherent principles of art, and from the limits and necessities on which it depends. It is consequently evident that there is scarcely one of these reasons which would be applicable to Poetry.

Without stopping to inquire to what extent the poet may succeed in delineating corporeal beauty, this at least is indisputable that, since

the immeasurable realm of perfection lies open to his imitation, the visible appearance which that perfection assumes in beauty can be but one amongst many resources—and those the least powerful—by which he is enabled to interest us in his actors. In fact, he frequently neglects this means altogether, satisfied that, when once his hero has secured our affections, his nobler qualities either so engage us that we think not of his outward form, or so prejudice us in his favour that the imagination spontaneously invests him with a suitable exterior. Least of all will he deem it necessary to employ this resource on any particular trait which is not expressly intended for the sight. When Virgil's Laocoon shrieks, who pauses to reflect that a shriek necessarily produces a wide mouth, and that a wide mouth is a disagreeable object? It is sufficient that his

"Clamores horrendos ad sidera tollit,"

presents a striking effect to the ear, whatever it may do to the eye; and he who seeks for a beautiful image in this passage, has failed to receive the impression the poet intended to convey.

In the next place, it is not at all necessary for the poet to concentrate his picture into a single moment of time. He takes up each action at his will, from its very commencement, and traces it, through all its various changes, to the conclusion. Each of these changes, which would cost the artist a separate work, is given by the poet in a single trait; and though this trait, separately considered, might be offensive to the imagination of his reader, yet its effect will be so modified both by that which precedes, and that which follows it, that it is completely deprived of its individual impression, and, by its combination with the rest, produces the most striking result. Thus,—though it might in reality be unbecoming in a man to shriek from excessive pain,—who would suffer so trifling a fault to prejudice him against one, whose virtues had already secured his esteem ?— Virgil's Laocoon screams; but we cannot in the moment of his agony forget that he is the same individual who has already won our admiration and love, as the prudent patriot and the affectionate father. We impute his screams, not to any

effeminacy inherent in his character, but solely to the insupportable nature of his sufferings. The piteous tale of anguish is all that we hear in his shrieks, and by no other means could the poet have told it. Can we then censure him? Nay, must we not rather acknowledge that, while the sculptor does well in not representing Laocoon screaming, the poet evinces equal judgment in pursuing an opposite mode of treatment?

But Virgil, we shall be reminded, is a narrative poet; is the justification provided for him to be extended also to the dramatic poet? The description of a scream produces a totally different impression from the scream itself. The drama, it may be said, which is destined for what may be called the animated painting of the actor, ought, for this very reason, to conform more closely to the laws which govern material painting. It is not merely in imagination that we now see Philoctetes and hear him shriek ;— we do in reality both hear and see him. The nearer, therefore, the actor approaches to nature, the more sensibly should our eyes and ears be offended; for it is undeniable that such is the