sunk in despair, now blown to air with a breath, now raging like a
torrent. The human soul is made the sport of fortune, the prey of
adversity: it is stretched on the wheel of destiny, in restless ecstacy.
The passions are in a state of projection. Years are melted down to
moments, and every instant teems with fate. We know the results, we see
the process. Thus after Iago has been boasting to himself of the effect
of his poisonous suggestions on the mind of Othello, "which, with a
little act upon the blood, will work like mines of sulphur," he adds--

"Look where he comes! not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the East,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst yesterday."--

And he enters at this moment, like the crested serpent, crowned with his
wrongs and raging for revenge! The whole depends upon the turn of a
thought. A word, a look, blows the spark of jealousy into a flame; and
the explosion is immediate and terrible as a volcano. The dialogues in
Lear, in Macbeth, that between Brutus and Cassius, and nearly all those
in Shakspeare, where the interest is wrought up to its highest pitch,
afford examples of this dramatic fluctuation of passion. The interest in
Chaucer is quite different; it is like the course of a river, strong,
and full, and increasing. In Shakspeare, on the contrary, it is like the
sea, agitated this way and that, and loud-lashed by furious storms;
while in the still pauses of the blast, we distinguish only the cries of
despair, or the silence of death! Milton, on the other hand, takes the
imaginative part of passion--that which remains after the event, which
the mind reposes on when all is over, which looks upon circumstances
from the remotest elevation of thought and fancy, and abstracts them
from the world of action to that of contemplation. The objects of