Looking back upon the foregoing observation, I am uncertain whether it will be sufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated subject, I find some difficulty to express myself with perspicuity. I despair not however to place this matter in the clearest light, by adding example to precept. In the front shall be set one or two examples of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; and to them shall be opposed a few others that are descriptive only, and illegitimate. In making this comparison, I shall borrow my instances from Shakespear and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame.
Shakespear shall furnish the first instance, being of sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed passion.
_Lear._----Filial ingratitude! Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t?--But I’ll punish home; No, I will weep no more.---- In such a night, To shut me out!---- Pour on, I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Gonerill, Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all-- O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.----
_Lear._ Pr’ythee, go in thy thyself, seek thine own ease, This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more--but I’ll go in; In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty---- Nay, get thee in; I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep-- Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?---- O I have ta’en Too little care of this! take physic, Pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may’st shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. _King Lear. act 3. sc 5._
To illustrate the foregoing doctrine, one other instance of the same kind may suffice, expressing sentiments arising from remorse and despair.
_Othello._ Lo! I have a weapon: A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier’s thigh. I’ve seen the day, That with this little arm, and this good sword, I’ve made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast! Who can controul his fate? ’tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d; Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, The very sea mark of my outmost sail. Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello’s breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now---- how dost thou look now? Oh ill starr’d wench! Pale as thy smoke! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav’n, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl, Ev’n like thy chastity. O cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heav’nly sight; Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire---- Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh, oh! _Othello, act 5. sc. 9._