f his verse was hampered by
a thousand traditional restraints; artificial rules of every kind hedged
round his inspiration; if he were to soar at all, he must soar in
shackles. Yet, even here, Racine succeeded: he _did_ soar--though it is
difficult at first for the English reader to believe it. And here
precisely similar considerations apply, as in the case of Racine's
dramatic method. In both instances the English reader is looking for
variety, surprise, elaboration; and when he is given, instead,
simplicity, clarity, ease, he is apt to see nothing but insipidity and
flatness. Racine's poetry differs as much from Shakespeare's as some
calm-flowing river of the plain from a turbulent mountain torrent. To
the dwellers in the mountain the smooth river may seem at first
unimpressive. But still waters run deep; and the proverb applies with
peculiar truth to the poetry of Racine. Those ordinary words, that
simple construction--what can there be there to deserve our admiration?
On the surface, very little no doubt; but if we plunge below the surface
we shall find a great profundity and a singular strength. Racine is in
reality a writer of extreme force--but it is a force of absolute
directness that he wields. He uses the commonest words, and phrases
which are almost colloquial; but every word, every phrase, goes straight
to its mark, and the impression produced is ineffaceable. In English
literature there is very little of such writing. When an English poet
wishes to be forceful he almost invariably flies to the gigantic, the
unexpected, and the out-of-the-way; he searches for strange metaphors
and extraordinary constructions; he surprises us with curious mysteries
and imaginations we have never dreamed of before. Now and then, however,
even in English literature, instances arise of the opposite--the
Racinesque--method. In these lines of Wordsworth, for example--

The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills--

there is no violent appeal, nothing surprising, nothing odd--only a
direct and inevitable beauty; and such is the kind of effect which
Racine is constantly producing. If he wishes to suggest the emptiness,
the darkness, and the ominous hush of a night by the seashore, he does
so not by strange similes or the accumulation of complicated details,
but in a few ordinary, almost insignificant words--

Mais tout dort, et l'armee, et les vents, et Neptune.

If he wishes to br