to another, like the same soul successively animating different bodies.
By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his imagination out
of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed from the mouth of the
person in whose name it is given. His plays alone are properly
expressions of the passions, not descriptions of them. His characters
are real beings of flesh and blood; they speak like men, not like
authors. One might suppose that he had stood by at the time, and
overheard what passed. As in our dreams we hold conversations with
ourselves, make remarks, or communicate intelligence, and have no idea
of the answer which we shall receive, and which we ourselves make, till
we hear it: so the dialogues in Shakspeare are carried on without any
consciousness of what is to follow, without any appearance of
preparation or premeditation. The gusts of passion come and go like
sounds of music borne on the wind. Nothing is made out by formal
inference and analogy, by climax and antithesis: all comes, or seems to
come, immediately from nature. Each object and circumstance exists in
his mind, as it would have existed in reality: each several train of
thought and feeling goes on of itself, without confusion or effort. In
the world of his imagination, every thing has a life, a place, and being
of its own!

Chaucer's characters are sufficiently distinct from one another, but
they are too little varied in themselves, too much like identical
propositions. They are consistent, but uniform; we get no new idea of
them from first to last; they are not placed in different lights, nor
are their subordinate _traits_ brought out in new situations; they are
like portraits or physiognomical studies, with the distinguishing
features marked with inconceivable truth and precision, but that
preserve the same unaltered air and attitude. Shakspeare's are
historical figures, equally true and correct, but put into action, where