verted the ſon into a brother. Poetical juſtice is carefully diſtributed; Phædra and Lycon are juſtly made the ſufferers, while Hippolitus and Iſmena eſcape the vengeance of Theſeus. The play is not deſtitute of the pathetic, tho’ much more regard is paid to the purity and elegance of the language, than a poet more acquainted with the workings of the heart would have done. We ſhall give an example to illuſtrate this obſervation. When Theſeus reproaches Hippolitus for his love to Iſmena, and at the ſame time dooms him as the victim of his revenge and jealouſy, he uſes theſe words,
Canſt thou be only clear’d by diſobedience,
And juſtified by crimes?—What! love my foe!
Love one deſcended from a race of tyrants,
Whoſe blood yet reeks on my avenging ſword!
I’m curſt each moment I delay thy fate:
Haſte to the ſhades, and tell the happy Pallas,
Iſmena’s flames, and let him taſte ſuch joys
As thou giv’ſt me; go tell applauding Minos,
The pious love you bore his daughter Phædra;
Tell it the chatt’ring ghoſts, and hiſſing furies,
Tell it the grinning fiends, till Hell found nothing
To thy pleas’d ears, but Phædra and Iſmena.
We cannot ſuppoſe that a man wrought up to fury, by the flame of jealouſy, and a ſenſe of afronted dignity, could be ſo particular in giving his ſon directions how to behave in hell, and to whom he ſhould relate the ſtory of his fate. When any paſſion violently overwhelms the ſoul, the perſon who feels it, always ſpeaks ſententiouſly, avoids repetitions, and is not capable of much recollection, at leaſt of making a minute detail of circumſtances. In how few words, and with greater force would Shakeſpear have conduced this ſpeech of Theſeus. An example will prove it: when Othello is informed that Caſſio is ſlain, he replies,
