they were deluded by the apparent ease with which Racine accomplished
this difficult task. Having inherited his manner, they were content;
they forgot that there was something else which they had not
inherited--his genius.

Closely connected with this difficulty there was another over which
Racine triumphed no less completely, and which proved equally fatal to
his successors. Hitherto we have been discussing the purely dramatic
aspect of classical tragedy; we must not forget that this drama was also
literary. The problem that Racine had to solve was complicated by the
fact that he was working, not only with a restricted dramatic system,
but with a restricted language. His vocabulary was an incredibly small
one--the smallest, beyond a doubt, that ever a great poet had to deal
with. But that was not all: the machinery of his verse was hampered by
a thousand traditional restraints; artificial rules of every kind hedged
round his inspiration; if he were to soar at all, he must soar in
shackles. Yet, even here, Racine succeeded: he _did_ soar--though it is
difficult at first for the English reader to believe it. And here
precisely similar considerations apply, as in the case of Racine's
dramatic method. In both instances the English reader is looking for
variety, surprise, elaboration; and when he is given, instead,
simplicity, clarity, ease, he is apt to see nothing but insipidity and
flatness. Racine's poetry differs as much from Shakespeare's as some
calm-flowing river of the plain from a turbulent mountain torrent. To
the dwellers in the mountain the smooth river may seem at first
unimpressive. But still waters run deep; and the proverb applies with
peculiar truth to the poetry of Racine. Those ordinary words, that
simple construction--what can there be there to deserve our admiration?
On the surface, very little no doubt; but if we plunge below the surface
we shall find a great profundity and a singular strength. Racine is in