No disproportion holds with human souls,
But aptly quickens the proportion

'Twixt them and bodies, making bodies fitter
To give up forms to souls, which is their end:
So death, twin-born of sleep, resolving all
Man's body's heavy parts, in lighter nature
Makes a re-union with the sprightly soul
When in a second life their beings given,
Hold their proportions firm in highest heaven.
Athenodorus. Hold you our bodies shall revive, resuming
Our souls again to heaven?

Cato. Past doubt, though others

;

Think heaven a world too high for our low reaches.

Not knowing the sacred sense of him that sings,
"Jove can let down a golden chain from heaven,
Which tied to earth, shall fetch up earth and seas”.
And what's that golden chain, but our pure souls,
That govern'd with his grace, and drawn by him,
Can hoist this earthy body up to him,

The sea, the air, and all the elements
Compress'd in it: not while 'tis thus concrete,
But fin'd by death, and then given heavenly heat.-
We shall, past death,

Retain those forms of knowledge learn'd in life ;
Since, if what here we learn, we there shall lose,
Our immortality were not life, but time.
And that our souls in reason are immortal,
Their natural and proper objects prove;
Which immortality and knowledge are.
For to that object ever is referr'd
The nature of the soul, in which the acts
Of her high faculties are still employ'd.
And that true object must her powers obtain,
To which they are in nature's aim directed
Since 'twere absurd to have her set an object
Which possibly she never can aspire.

;

His last words.

now I am safe,

Come Cæsar, quickly now, or lose your vassal.
Now wing thee, dear soul, and receive her heaven.
The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all
The joys and horrors of their peace and wars,
And now will see the gods' state, and the stars.
Greatness in adversity.

Vulcan from heaven fell, yet on his feet did light,
And stood no less a god than at his height.

[The selections which I have made from this poet are sufficient to give an idea of that "full and heightened style" which Webster makes characteristic of Chapman. Of all the English playwriters, Chapman perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in passages which are less purely dramatic. Dramatic imitation was not his talent. He could not go out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul to embrace all forms. He would have made a great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses re-written. The earnestness and passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a reader of mere modern translations. His almost Greek zeal for the honour of his heroes is only paralleled by that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sat down to paint the acts of Samson against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chapman's translations being read is their unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural and the most violent and forced expressions. He seems to grasp whatever words come first to hand during the impetus of inspiration, as if all other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all in all in poetry) everywhere present, raising the low, dignifying the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved by words or in spite of them, be disgusted and overcome their disgust. I have often thought that the vulgar misconception of Shakspeare, as of a wild irregular genius "in whom great faults are compensated by great beauties," would be really true, applied to Chapman. But there is no scale by which to balance such disproportionate subjects as the faults and beauties of a great

genius. To set off the former with any fairness against the latter, the pain which they give us should be in some proportion to the pleasure which we receive from the other. As these transport us to the highest heaven, those should steep us in agonies infernal.]

THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE:

BY GEORGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY.

The ADMIRAL is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against him, and his faithful servant ALLEGRE is put on the rack to make him discover: his innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor by his royal Master, sinks so deep into him, that he falls into a mortal sickness.

ADMIRAL. ALLEGRE, supported between two. Adm. Welcome my injur'd servant, what a misery Have they made on thee!

Al. Though some change appear

Upon my body, whose severe affliction

Hath brought it thus to be sustained by others,
My heart is still the same in faith to you,
Not broken with their rage.

Adm. Alas, poor man!

Were all my joys essential, and so mighty
As the affected world believes I taste,
This object were enough to unsweeten all.
Though in thy absence I had suffering,
And felt within me a strong sympathy,
While for my sake their cruelty did vex
And fright thy nerves with horror of thy sense,
Yet in this spectacle I apprehend

More grief, than all my imagination

Could let before into me. Didst not curse me
Upon the torture?

Al. Good my lord, let not