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) is 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.] A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. Petrocella, a fair Spanish lady, loves Montferrers, an English sea captain, who is captive to Valladaura, a noble Spaniard.-Valladaura loves the lady; and employs Montferrers to be the messenger of his love to her. PETROCELLA. MONTFERRERS. Pet. What art thou in thy country? Mont. There, a man. Pet. What here? Mont. No better than you see; a slave. Pet. Whose ? Mont. His that hath redeem'd me. Pet. Valladaura's? Mont. Yes, I proclaim 't; I that was once mine own, Am now become his creature. Pet. I perceive, Your coming is to make me think you noble Would you persuade me deem your friend a god? For only such make men. Are you a gentleman ? Mont. Not here; for I am all dejectedness, Captive to fortune, and a slave to want; I cannot call these clothes I wear mine own; This air I breathe is borrow'd; ne'er was man Pet. Tell me that? Come, come, I know you to be no such man. Mont. A mere worm, Trod on by every fate. Pet. Raised by your merit To be a common argument through Spain, Whom soldiers strive to make their precedent, Mont. This your scorn Makes me appear more abject to myself, Had power to asperse upon me; and yet, lady, Pet. Speak 't at once. Mont. And yet Pet. Nay, but we 'll admit no pause. Mont. I know not how my phrase may relish you, Pet. Sir, you do not; I do proclaim you do not. Stay, I charge you; Mont. You charge deeply, And yet now I bethink me Pet. As you are a soldier, And Englishman, have hope to be redeem'd Pet. Ha, ha, ha. Mont. Still it is my misery Thus to be mock'd in all things. Pet. Pretty, faith. Mont. I look'd thus to be laugh'd at; my estate Mont. I do, I do; and maugre fate, And spite of all sinister evil, shall. Of your dear mother, by the joys you hope Pet. How speak you that? Mont. Without demur or pause. Pet. Give me but time To sleep upon 't. Mont. I pardon you no minute; not so much, Pet. You have vanquish'd me, At mine own weapon: noble sir, I love you: And what my heart durst never tell my tongue, Mont. O, my happiness! you. What wilt thou feel me still? art thou not weary Not suffer me to enjoy it; ta'en with this hand, Pet. You are sad, sir; Be so no more: if you have been dejected, Mont. I was born to 't; And it shall out at once. Pet. Sir, you seem passionate; As if my answer pleased not. Mont. Now my death; [kisses him. For mine own tongue must kill me: noble lady, Some one thing I impose her. Pet. She to do it? Mont. Or, if she fail me in my first demand, Pet. I am she, That beg to be employ'd so: name a danger, Mont. And swear to this ? Pet. I vow it by my honour, my best hopes, To show my love's expression. Mont. You shall then Pet. I'll do it, as I am a virgin: Lie it within mortality, I'll do it. Pet. I will: that which appears in you Mont. Then you shall Pet. What, soldier, what? Mont. love noble Valladaura And at his soonest appointment marry him. Pet. Then I am lost. Miracle of Beauty. I remember1, There lived a Spanish princess of our name, I rather think she was Latona's brood, |