CHAP. XXII.

TRagedy differs from the epic more in form than in substance. The ends proposed by each are instruction and amusement; and each of them copy human actions as means to bring about these ends. They differ in the manner only of copying. Epic poetry deals in narration: Tragedy represents its facts as transacted in our sight. In the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian: in the latter he presents his actors and never himself[45].

This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight; but the effects it occasions, are by no means so. What we see, makes a stronger impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.

A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action. A dialogue makes a deeper impression than a narration: because in the former persons express their own sentiments; whereas in the latter sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrowest bounds[46]. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault: the Pharsalia is stuffed with cold and languid reflections; the merit of which the author assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his personages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage[47].

Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex. But it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that hath no tendency beyond moving the passions and exhibiting pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of pathetic. But where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some important lesson of morality, by showing the natural connection betwixt disorderly passions and external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated moral[48]. It indeed conveys moral instruction with a perspicuity that is not exceeded by the most accurate reasoning; and makes a deeper impression than any moral discourse can do. To be satisfied of this, we need but reflect, that a man whose affections are justly balanced, hath a better chance to escape misfortunes, than one who is a slave to every passion. Indeed, nothing is more evident, than the natural connection that vice hath with misery, and virtue with happiness; and such connection may be illustrated, by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths, That discord among the chiefs, renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury. These truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet’s chief aim, to invent proper circumstances, presenting to our view the natural consequences of such discord. These circumstances must seem to arise in the common course of human affairs: no accidental or unaccountable event ought to be indulged; for the necessary or probable connection betwixt vice and misery, is learned from no events but what are governed by the characters and passions of the persons represented. A real event of which we see no cause, may be a lesson to us; because what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be fictitious.

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting emotions that produce good actions, and avert us from those that are vicious or irregular[49]. It likewise, by its frequent pictures of human woes, humanizes the mind, and fortifies us in bearing our own misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects, because by being moral it doth not cease to be pathetic. It enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself: for it not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. For my part, I cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind, has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections. We have at the same time great mental enjoyment, in perceiving every event and every subordinate incident connected with its proper cause. Our curiosity is by turns excited and gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every circumstance down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.

Considering an epic and dramatic poem as the same in substance, and having the same aim or end, it might be thought that they are equally fitted for the same subjects. But considering their difference as to form, there will be found reason to correct that thought, at least in some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form; but the subjects are still more numerous for which one of the forms is better qualified than the other; and there are subjects proper for the one and not for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. These peculiarities tend to confine each within certain limits. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure best in action: tender passions and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. What we feel is the most remarkable in the latter: what we perform is the most remarkable in the former. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry[50].

I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, I must take a narrower view of them; which I do the more willingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.

In the chapter of emotions and passions[51], it is occasionally shown, that the subject best fitted for tragedy is the story of a man who has himself been the cause of his misfortune. But this man must neither be deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes of this kind, call forth the whole force of the social affections, and interest the spectator in the warmest manner. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity. The person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, viz. the anguish of mind occasioned by remorse:

A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason. His remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity: but then our hatred to the criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. For this reason, the happiest of all subjects for tragedy, if such a one could be invented, would be where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an innocent action, but which by some singular means he conceives to be criminal. His remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, rises to its highest pitch. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beside exercising our pity, it raises another passion, selfish indeed, but which deserves to be cherished equally with the social affections. When a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of some such defect in himself, takes the alarm, and considers that he is liable to the same misfortune. This consideration raises in him an emotion of fear or terror; and it is by this emotion, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.

The commentators upon Aristotle and other critics, have been much graveled about the account given of tragedy by this author, “That by means of pity and terror it refines in us all sorts of passion.” But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aristotle’s meaning. Our pity is engaged for the persons represented, and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror I have just now said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really Aristotle’s meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers several propositions agreeable to the doctrine as here explained. These, at the same time, I the rather chuse to mention; because, so far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about the proper subjects for tragedy. His first proposition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of this nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The second proposition is, That we must not represent a wicked person emerging from misery to good fortune. This excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented. Such representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of justice: but it will not move our pity; or any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented. His last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author expresses it[52]. The only objection I find to Aristotle’s account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind. For if terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name, but where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution. Such misfortunes always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only can terror be excited for our improvement.

Thus Aristotle’s four propositions above mentioned, relate solely to tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not confined within so narrow limits. Subjects fitted for the theatre, are not in such plenty, as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect to subjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful question, whether the conclusion ought not always to be happy. Where a person of integrity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice; for seldom is man so submissive to the course of Providence, as not to revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance: he will be inclined to say, This ought not to be. I give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakespear, where the fatal catastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence’s coming to the monument a minute too late. Such a story we think of with regret: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. This is a temper of mind which ought not to be cherished; and for that reason, I vote for excluding stories of this kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person arising from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will, I am apt to think, be considered in a different light. Chance affords always a gloomy prospect, and in every instance gives an impression of anarchy and misrule. A regular chain, on the other hand, of causes and effects, directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious that submission is our duty[53]. For that reason, we are not dissatisfied with the distresses of Voltaire’s Mariamne, though redoubled on her till the moment of her death, without the least fault or failing on her part. Her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear: the causes of her misfortune, are by no means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, it appears, that a perfect character suffering under misfortunes is qualified for being the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is it altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be introduced as an under-part, supposing the chief place to be filled with an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne just now mentioned; and it is the case of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway’s two tragedies, The Orphan, and Venice preserv’d.

I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, That fable operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality[54]. Hence, in epic and dramatic compositions, it is of importance to employ every means that may promote the delusion, such as the borrowing from history some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the author’s purpose. The principal facts are known to be true; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in chusing a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is invented. In the first place, no circumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true: history may be supplied, but it must not be contradicted. In the next place, a pure fable, entirely new with respect to the persons as well as the incidents, may be supposed an ancient or a modern story. But if the poet build upon truth, the subject he chuses must be distant in time, or at least in place; for he ought by all means to avoid the familiarity of persons and events nearly connected with us. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation. Modern manners make but a poor figure in such a poem[55].

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of erecting an epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an event of this kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy. It was admitted in Greece, and Shakespear has employ’d it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper subject is chosen, there appears to me some delicacy in dividing it into parts. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem, ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by regular pauses: or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act therefore ought to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break off in the very heat of action: against this every one would exclaim. The absurdity still remains, though the action relents, if it be not actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an epic poem; though there a deviation from the rule is less remarkable, because it is in the reader’s power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of the Paradise Lost, ends without any regular close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to make a speech to the convocated host of the fall’n angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Æneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the Æneid. There is no proper pause at end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh.

Hitherto I have carried on together the epic and dramatic compositions. I proceed to handle them separately, and to mention circumstances peculiar to each, beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a monstrous absurdity to introduce upon the stage invisible beings in a visible shape. But it has been much disputed, whether such beings may not be properly introduced in an epic poem. If we rest upon the authority of practice, we must declare for the affirmative; and Boileau[56], among many other critics, is a stout champion for this sort of machinery. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgement, let us draw what light we can from reason. I begin with a preliminary remark, That this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics. It is laid down above, that several passions incite the mind to animate its objects[57]: the moral virtues become so many goddesses, and even darts and arrows are inspired with life and action. But then it must not be overlooked, that such personification, being the work of imagination, is descriptive only, and assumes not even an appearance of truth[58]. This is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in the reasoning. The poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for the sake of description, cannot be controverted, because it is founded on a natural principle. But has the privilege of machinery, if it be a privilege, the same good foundation? Far from it: nothing can be more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our passions[59]. This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may give to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And next, were it possible to disguise the fiction, and to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can hardly be, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that the aim or end of an epic poem can never be accomplished in any perfection where machinery is introduced. Virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endued with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions. And as for moral instruction, it is evident, that we can draw none from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop’s manner is no objection to this reasoning. His lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise: they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable; and he was authorised to take that liberty by the religion of his country; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. I must however observe, that Homer’s deities do no honour to his poems. Fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect: they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. Let me add, that of whatever use such fictions may be to a mean genius, an able writer has much finer materials of Nature’s production for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

Boileau, a strenuous advocate for the Heathen deities, as observed, declares against angels and devils, though supported by the religious creed of his country. One would be apt to imagine, that a critic famed for his good taste, could have no other meaning than to justify the employing Heathen deities for enlivening or elevating the description. But as the Heathen deities make not a better figure in poetical language than angels and devils, Boileau, in pleading for the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that these may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of this glaring absurdity, where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune; and in relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch. This is confounding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general run into this error: wonderful! that they should not be sensible how ridiculous it is.

That this is a capital error in the Gierusalleme liberata, Tasso’s greatest admirers must acknowledge. A situation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, observes judiciously, “That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan’s subject, deprived him of all liberty of poetical fiction.” Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superior beings, introduces them into the action. In the sixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are chased away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. This singly is sufficient to make the Henriade a short-liv’d poem, were it otherwise possessed of every beauty. I have tried serious reasoning upon this subject; but ridicule, I suppose, will be found a more successful weapon, which Addison has applied in an elegant manner: “Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend to shew their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phœbus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that I shall not allow the destinies to have had an hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in the late war; being of opinion that all such deaths may be very well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man’s life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of the rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he be not permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written.” Spectator, Nº 523.

The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less moderation: an over-watched pilot cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: the two lovers, Æneas and Dido, cannot take the same bed, without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even through the thickest vail of gravity and solemnity.

Angels and devils serve equally with the Heathen deities, as materials for figurative language, perhaps better among Christians, because we believe in them, and not in the Heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems. The reason I take to be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above mankind, actuated by the same passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with mankind in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that with no propriety can they appear with us upon the same stage. Man is a creature so much inferior, that he loses all dignity when set in opposition.

There seems to be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner. It amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, converted into active beings; and it is delightful to trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere; and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the catastrophe. This would have a still worse effect, than the introduction of invisible powers; and I am ready to assign the reason. An historical fable affords entertainment chiefly by making us conceive its personages to be really existing and acting in our presence: in an allegory, this agreeable delusion is denied; for we must not imagine an allegorical personage to be a real being, but the figure only of some virtue or vice; otherwise the allegory is lost. The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can be more effectual to destroy the impression of reality, than to introduce allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-episode in the Henriade[60], is insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life. This episode is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the Gierusalemme liberata, which hath no merit to intitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as fame in the Æneid, and the temple of love in the Henriade, may find place in a description: but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble of discordant materials, viz. truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost, is, I presume, not generally relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what I have been condemning. The Paradise Lost is not confined to the history of our first parents; and in a work comprehending the achievements of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions.

What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from what is really a part of the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be a part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, “An incident connected with the principal action, but which contributes not either to advance or retard it.” The descent of Æneas into hell doth not advance or retard the catastrophe; and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature: by Hector’s retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians got liberty to breathe, and even to press upon the Trojans. It being thus the nature of an episode to break the unity of action, it ought never to be indulged unless to refresh and unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long narration. This purpose of an episode demands the following properties. It ought to be well connected with the principal action: it ought to be short: and it ought to be lively and interesting.

Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I shall mention is a double plot; being naturally led to it by what is said immediately above. One of these double plots must be of the nature of an episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of entertaining him, if he were forc’d to attend, at the same time, to two capital plots equally interesting. An under-plot in a tragedy has seldom a good effect; because a passionate piece cannot be too simple. The sympathetic emotions once roused, cling to their objects, and cannot bear interruption: when a subject fills the mind, it leaves no room for any separate concern[61]. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even here, to make a double plot agreeable, a good deal of art is requisite. The under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from that which is principal: passions may be varied, but discordant passions are unpleasant when jumbled together. This is a solid objection to tragi-comedy. For this reason, I blame the Provok’d Husband: all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, agree very ill with the sharpness and severity of the principal subject, exhibiting the discord betwixt Lord Townly and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband: the different subjects are sweetly connected; and have only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. The under plot ought to be connected with the principal action, so as to employ the same persons: the intervals or pauses of the principal action ought to be filled with the under-plot; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

Violent action ought to be excluded from the stage. While the dialogue runs on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture. The spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from a pleasing dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and sounds it upon the reason given:

The French critics, as it appears to me, misapprehend the reason of this rule. Shedding blood upon the stage, say they, is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. This no doubt is an additional reason for excluding bloodshed from the French stage, supposing the French to be in reality so delicate. But this evidently is not the reason that weighed with the Greeks: that polite people had no notion of such delicacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles. Her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stabb’d, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. According to the foregoing reasoning of the French critics, there is nothing to exclude from the stage a duel occasioned by an affair of honour, because in it there is nothing barbarous or shocking to a polite audience: yet a scene of this nature is excluded from the French stage; which shows, without more argument, that these critics have misapprehended the rule laid down by Horace. If Corneille, in representing the affair betwixt Horatius and his sister, upon which murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view than to remove from the spectators a scene of horror, he certainly was in a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more horrible even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed on the stage by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. I heartily agree with Addison[62], that no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with all the alleviating circumstances possible in favour of the hero. This is the only method to avoid the difficulties that unqualify this incident for representation, a deliberate murder on the one hand, and on the other a violent action performed on the stage, which must rouse the spectator from his dream of reality.

I shall finish with a few words upon the dialogue; which ought to be so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here of the sentiments, nor of the language; for these come under different heads. I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this view, the whole speeches, from first to last, represent so many links, all connected together in one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakespear. Dryden, in this particular, may justly be placed as his opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own sentiments separately, without regarding what is said by the rest. I give for an example the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking. Of this notable sort of dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob. It puts one in mind of a pastoral, where two shepherds are introduced reciting couplets alternately, each in praise of his own mistress, as if they were contending for a prize.

The bandying sentiments in this manner, beside an unnatural air, has another bad effect. It stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve’s comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more particularly in the chapter immediately following.

CHAP. XXIII.

THe first chapter unfolds the pleasure we have in a chain of connected facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a people, this pleasure is but faint; because the connections are slight or obscure. We find more entertainment in biography, where the incidents are connected by their relation to one person, who makes a figure and commands our attention. But the greatest entertainment of the kind, is afforded by the history of a single event, supposing it to be interesting. The history of one event produceth a more entire connection among the parts, than the history of one person. In the latter, the circumstances are not otherwise connected than by their relation to that person: in the former, the circumstances are connected by the strongest of all relations, that of cause and effect. Thus, the circumstances of a single event, having a mutual connection extremely intimate, form a delightful train: we survey with peculiar pleasure a number of facts that give birth to each other; and we pass with ease and satisfaction from the first to the last.

But this subject merits a more particular discussion. When we consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a train of incidents in succession, without beginning, middle, or end. Every thing that happens is both a cause and an effect: it is the effect of something that goes before, and the cause of one or many things that follow. One incident may affect us more, another less; but all of them, great and small, are so many links in the universal chain. The mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any close.

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice; he acts with a view to some end, glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country in general; and he proposes means and lays schemes to attain the end proposed. Here is recognised a capital end or event, connected with subordinate events or incidents by the relation of causation. In running over a series of subordinate events, we cannot rest upon any one; because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end. But we rest with satisfaction upon the ultimate event; because there, the purpose, the plan, the aim, of the chief person or persons, is completed and brought to a final conclusion. This indicates a beginning, a middle, and an end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action[63]. The story naturally begins with describing those circumstances which move the distinguished person to form a plan, in order to compass some desired event. The prosecution of that plan, and the obstructions, carry the reader into the heat of action. The middle is properly where the action is the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about, and the design accomplished.

A design or plan thus happily perfected, after many obstructions, affords wonderful delight to the reader. And to produce this delight, a principle mentioned above[64] mainly contributes; a principle that disposes the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to carry every thing to its ultimate conclusion.

I have given the foregoing example of a plan laid down and completed, because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which consists unity of action: and indeed stricter unity cannot be imagined than in this case. But an action may have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts. The catastrophe may be different from what is intended or desired; which is frequently the case in our best tragedies. The Æneid is an instance of means employ’d to produce a certain event, and these means crowned with success. The Iliad is formed upon a different model. It begins with the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon: it goes on to describe the several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end: it must however be acknowledged, that the Æneid is more happy in point of connection. The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of history: it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the incidents or under-parts are connected together by their relation to the event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we have in the Æneid. But it is not altogether so pleasant, as in the Iliad, to connect effects by their common cause; for such connection forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking backward is like walking backward.

But Homer’s plan is still more imperfect, for another reason, That the events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of Achilles as their cause. His wrath did not exert itself in action; and the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his assistance.

If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human affairs, a double action must be a capital defect, by carrying on together two trains of unconnected objects. For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that contributes to the principal event. But two unconnected events are a great deformity; and it lessens the deformity but a very little, to engage the same actors in both. Ariosto is quite licentious in this particular: he carries on at the same time a plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for every thing in the Orlando Furioso is wild and extravagant.

To state facts according to the order of time, is the most natural and the most simple method: a method however not so essential, in an historical fable especially, as not to yield to some conspicuous beauties[65]. If a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of action, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if it shall be thought necessary. This method, at the same time, being dramatic, hath a peculiar beauty, which narration cannot reach[66]. Romance-writers, who give little attention to nature, deviate in this particular, among many, from a just standard. They make no difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons engaged in some adventure equally unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who afterward are discovered to be the heroes of the story, start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat[67].

A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding it. If no incident be produced, such a scene, which may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action. A barren scene can never be intitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the Old Bachelor, the 3d scene of act 2. and all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, without any consequence. The 10th and 11th scenes, act 3. Double Dealer, the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1. Love for Love, are of the same kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to display characters. It were better, like Dryden, in his dramatis personæ, to describe characters beforehand, which would not interrupt the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such artifice: he can display the characters of his personages much more to the life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by Shakespear! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren scene.

Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable, ought to have a mutual connection by their common relation to the grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unity of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic compositions.

How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a question of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Grecian and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and English critics as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory, these unities are also acknowledged by our best poets, though their practice is seldom correspondent: they are often forc’d to take liberties, which they pretend not to justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in the course of this inquiry it will be made evident, that the example of the ancients ought, upon this point, to have no weight with us, and that our critics are guilty of a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.

Suffer me only to premise, that the unities of place and time, are not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such a composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow limits either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history, or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility. We never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection betwixt the place of action and that which we occupy.

I am sensible, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to admit different rules. It will be observed, “That an historical fable, which affords entertainment by reading solely, is under no limitation of time or of place, more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly represented.” This argument, I acknowledge, has at least a plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds[68].

A view of the Grecian drama, and a comparison betwixt it and our own, may perhaps help to relieve us from this dilemma. If they be differently constructed, as shall by and by be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may not be applicable with equal force to both. This is an article, that, with relation to the present subject, has not, so far as I know, been examined by any writer.

All authors agree, that the first notion of tragedy in Greece, was derived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the singers, and for the sake of variety, introduced one actor; who gave a narrative of the subject, and sometimes represented one or other personage. Eschylus, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic: and the actors were multiplied when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essential part of its constitution. In the first scene, generally, are unfolded the preliminary circumstances that lead to the grand event. This scene is by Aristotle termed the prologue. In the second scene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the stage during the whole performance. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces it becomes necessary to remove the chorus. But this is seldom done; and when done, matters are so ordered as that their absence is but momentary. The chorus often mix in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, is employ’d in singing. Nor does the removal of the chorus, when that unusual step is risked, interrupt the representation. They never leave the stage of their own accord, but at the command of some principal personage who constantly waits their return.

Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without any interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued representation without a pause, affords not opportunity to vary the place of action; and has withal a very short duration. To a representation so confined in place and time, the foregoing reasoning is strictly applicable. A real or feigned action that is brought to a conclusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent change of place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits of no latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time, were, or ought to have been, strictly observed in the Grecian tragedies. This is made necessary by the very constitution of their drama; for it is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly represented.

Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place and of time, so much vaunted, were in Greece, as we see, a matter of necessity, not of choice. I am now ready to show, that if we submit to these fetters, it must be from choice not necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the construction of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less perfect, is a separate question, which shall be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, an opportunity is afforded to split our drama into parts or acts, which in the representation are distinguished by intervals of time; and during these intervals, the stage is totally evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This construction qualifies our drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place. The time supposed to pass during the suspension of the representation, is not measured by the time of the suspension; nor is any connection formed, betwixt the box we sit in and the place where things are supposed to be transacted in our absence: and by that means, many subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, for which there was no place in those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures: let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays. There must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed betwixt the subjects exhibited in two different pictures, though the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the other. We have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great. In this matter, there is truly no difference betwixt five acts of a modern play and five such pictures. Where the representation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of time or any change of place. The spectator, it is true, may be conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are employ’d in the representation, even including the intervals. But this is a work of reflection; and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is not King Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, during an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult for a spectator to imagine himself carried from place to place, and from one period of time to another, than at once, when the scene first opens, to be carried from London to Rome, or from the present time two thousand years back. And indeed, it must appear ridiculous, that a critic, who makes no difficulty of supposing candle-light to be sun-shine, and some painted canvasses a palace or a prison, should affect so much difficulty in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the story, beyond what is necessary in the representation.

There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latitude in time that ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre. Nothing can be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full grown person who appears a child at the beginning. The mind rejects as contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so remarkable. The greatest change from place to place hath not altogether the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs place is not material; and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances. These may be varied at will, because they scarce make any impression.

But though I have thus taken arms to rescue modern poets from the slavish fetters of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to place and time, is faulty for a reason that seems to have been overlooked: it never fails to break in upon the unity of action. In the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are fit to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and generally employ no great extent of time. We accordingly seldom find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. I must say farther, that a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is so far the more perfect: because the confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action; and also prevents that labour, however slight, which the mind must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But still I must insist, that the limitation of place and time which was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties more substantial. And I may add, that it is extremely difficult, I was about to say impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.

It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them all equally essential, have not attended to the nature and construction of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, with which no writer finds fault, it is plainly absurd to condemn the greatest advantage it procures us, that of representing many interesting subjects excluded from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation, why not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? There is certainly no medium: for to admit an interruption without relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the same time to with-hold from us its advantages.

And therefore the only proper question is, whether our model be or be not a real improvement. This indeed may justly be called in question; and in order to a fair comparative trial, some particulars must be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to enter into the scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place. We know that the play is a representation only: and the imagination, with facility, accommodates itself to every circumstance. Our situation is very different after we are engaged. It is the perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose upon the spectator, and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event[69]. Any interruption annihilates this impression: he is roused out of his waking dream, and unhappily restored to his senses. So difficult it is to support this impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval betwixt two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm. In the 5th act of the Mourning Bride, the three first scenes are in a room of state; the fourth in a prison. This change is operated by shifting the scene, which is done in a trice. But however quick the transition may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators so far as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace to the prison. They immediately reflect, that the palace and prison are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.

From these premisses one will be naturally led, at first view, to declare against the frequent interruptions in the modern drama. It will occur, “That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore that in the modern drama sufficient time is not afforded for the fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is afforded in the Grecian drama, where there is no interruption.” This reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance: but we must not turn faint-hearted upon the first repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.

Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended not less frequently than in the modern drama. There are five acts in each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is suspended, as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that the Grecian continuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong the impression of reality. To banish this impression, a suspension of the action while the chorus is employ’d in singing, is not less operative than a total suspension both of the representation and action.

But to open a larger view, I am ready to show, that a continued representation, without a single pause even in the principal action, so far from an advantage, would be really an imperfection; and that a representation with proper pauses, is better calculated for moving the audience, and making the strongest impressions. Representation cannot very long support an impression of reality: when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and by the agitation of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Now supposing an act to employ as much time as can easily be given with strict attention to any incident, a supposition that cannot be far from the truth; it follows, that the impression of reality would not be prolonged beyond the space of an act, even supposing a continued representation. Hence it appears, that a continued representation without any pause, would be a bad contrivance: it would break the attention by overstraining it, and produce a total absence of mind. In this respect, the four pauses have a fine effect. By affording to the audience a seasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue; and consequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very time possibly of the most interesting scenes.