from the length and extent of the action. The former is
necessary to render the drama a just representation of a world in
which the laughers and weepers are perpetually jostling each
other,--in which every event has its serious and ludicrous side.
The latter enables us to form an intimate acquaintance with
characters with which we could not possibly become familiar
during the few hours to which the unities restrict the poet. In
this respect, the works of Shakspeare, in particular, are
miracles of art. In a piece, which may be read aloud in three
hours, we see a character gradually unfold all its recesses to
us. We see it change with the change of circumstances. The
petulant youth rises into the politic and warlike sovereign. The
profuse and courteous philanthropist sours into a hater and
scorner of his kind. The tyrant is altered, by the chastening of
affliction, into a pensive moralist. The veteran general,
distinguished by coolness, sagacity, and self-command, sinks
under a conflict between love strong as death, and jealousy cruel
as the grave. The brave and loyal subject passes, step by step,
to the extremities of human depravity. We trace his progress,
from the first dawnings of unlawful ambition to the cynical
melancholy of his impenitent remorse. Yet, in these pieces,
there are no unnatural transitions. Nothing is omitted: nothing
is crowded. Great as are the changes, narrow as is the compass
within which they are exhibited, they shock us as little as the
gradual alterations of those familiar faces which we see every
evening and every morning. The magical skill of the poet
resembles that of the Dervise in the Spectator, who condensed all
the events of seven years into the single moment during which the
king held his head under the water.