ting of these 'fell incensed opposites' that the tragedy
consists. In _Le Cid_, Chimene's passion for Rodrigue struggles in a
death-grapple with the destiny that makes Rodrigue the slayer of her
father. In _Polyeucte_ it is the same passion struggling with the
dictates of religion. In _Les Horaces_, patriotism, family love and
personal passion are all pitted against Fate. In _Cinna_, the conflict
passes within the mind of Auguste, between the promptings of a noble
magnanimity and the desire for revenge. In all these plays the central
characters display a superhuman courage and constancy and self-control.
They are ideal figures, speaking with a force and an elevation unknown
in actual experience; they never blench, they never waver, but move
adamantine to their doom. They are for ever asserting the strength of
their own individuality.

Je suis maitre de moi comme de l'univers,
Je le suis, je veux l'etre,

declares Auguste; and Medee, at the climax of her misfortunes, uses the
same language--

'Dans un si grand revers que vous reste-t-il?'--'Moi!
Moi, dis-je, et c'est assez!'

The word 'moi' dominates these tragedies; and their heroes, bursting
with this extraordinary egoism, assume even more towering proportions in
their self-abnegation than in their pride. Then the thrilling
clarion-notes of their defiances give way to the deep grand music of
stern sublimity and stoic resignation. The gigantic spirit recoils upon
itself, crushes itself, and reaches its last triumph.

Drama of this kind must, it is clear, lack many of the qualities which
are usually associated with the dramatic art; there is no room in it for
variety of character-drawing, for delicacy of feeling, or for the
realistic presentation of the experiences of life. Corneille hardly
attempted to produce such effects as these; and during his early years
his great gifts of passion and rhetoric easily made up for the
deficiency. As he grew older, however, his inspiration weakened; his
command of his material left him; and he was no longer able to fill the
figures of his creation with the old intellectual sublimity. His heroes
and his heroines became mere mouthing puppets, pouring out an endless
stream of elaborate, high-flown sentiments, wrapped up in a complicated
jargon of argumentative verse. His later plays are miserable failures.
Not only do they illustrate the inherent weaknesses of Corneille's
dramatic method, but they are also full of t