1. REASONS WHY ARISTOPHANES MAY BE REVIEWED, WITH-OUT TRANSLATING HIM

ENTIRELY.

I was in doubt a long time, whether I should meddle at all with the

Greek comedy, both because the pieces which remain are very few, the

licentiousness of Aristophanes, their author, is exorbitant; and it is

very difficult to draw, from the performances of a single poet, a just

idea of Greek comedy. Besides, it seemed that tragedy was sufficient to

employ all my attention, that I might give a complete representation of

that kind of writing, which was most esteemed by the Athenians and the

wiser Greeks[2], particularly by Socrates, who set no value upon comedy

or comick actors. But the very name of that drama, which in polite ages,

and above all others in our own, has been so much advanced, that it has

become equal to tragedy, if not preferable, inclines me to think that I

may be partly reproached with an imperfect work, if, after having gone,

as deep as I could, into the nature of Greek tragedy, I did not at least

sketch a draught of the comedy.

I then considered, that it was not wholly impossible to surmount, at

least in part, the difficulties which had stopped me, and to go somewhat

farther than the learned writers[3], who have published, in French, some

pieces of Aristophanes; not that I pretend to make large translations.

The same reasons, which have hindered with respect to the more noble

parts of the Greek drama, operate with double force upon my present

subject. Though ridicule, which is the business of comedy, be not less

uniform in all times, than the passions which are moved by tragick

compositions; yet, if diversity of manners may sometimes disguise the

passions themselves, how much greater change will be made in

jocularities! The truth is, that they are so much changed by the course

of time, that pleasantry and ridicule become dull and flat much more

easily than the pathetick becomes ridiculous.

That which is commonly known by the term jocular and comick, is nothing

but a turn of expression, an airy phantom, that must be caught at a

particular point. As we lose this point, we lose the jocularity, and

find nothing but dulness in its place. A lucky sally, which has filled a

company with laughter, will have no effect in print, because it is shown

single, and separate from the circumstance which gave it force. Many

satirical jests, found in ancient books, have had the same fate; their

spirit has evaporated by time, and have left nothing to us but

insipidity. None but the most biting passages have preserved their

points unblunted.

But, besides this objection, which extends universally to all

translations of Aristophanes, and many allusions, of which time has

deprived us, there are loose expressions thrown out to the populace, to

raise laughter from corrupt passions, which are unworthy of the

curiosity of decent readers, and which ought to rest eternally in proper

obscurity. Not every thing, in this infancy of comedy, was excellent, at

least, it would not appear excellent at this distance of time, in

comparison of compositions of the same kind which lie before our eyes;

and this is reason enough to save me the trouble of translating, and the

reader that of perusing. As for that small number of writers, who

delight in those delicacies, they give themselves very little trouble

about translations, except it be to find fault with them; and the

majority of people of wit like comedies that may give them pleasure,

without much trouble of attention, and are not much disposed to find

beauties in that which requires long deductions to find it beautiful. If

Helen had not appeared beautiful to the Greeks and Trojans, but by force

of argument, we had never been told of the Trojan war.

On the other side, Aristophanes is an author more considerable than one

would imagine. The history of Greece could not pass over him, when it

comes to touch upon the people of Athens; this, alone, might procure him

respect, even when he was not considered as a comick poet. But, when his

writings are taken into view, we find him the only author from whom may

be drawn a just idea of the comedy of his age; and, farther, we find, in

his pieces, that he often makes attacks upon the tragick writers,

particularly upon the three chief, whose valuable remains we have had

under examination; and, what is yet worse, fell sometimes upon the

state, and upon the gods themselves.

2. THE CHIEF HEADS OF THIS DISCOURSE.

These considerations have determined me to follow, in my representation

of this writer, the same method which I have taken in several tragick

pieces, which is, that of giving an exact analysis, as far as the matter

would allow, from which I deduce four important systems. First, upon the

nature of the comedy of that age, without omitting that of Menander[4].

Secondly, upon the vices and government of the Athenians. Thirdly, upon

the notion we ought to entertain of Aristophanes, with respect to

Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Fourthly, upon the jest which he

makes upon the gods. These things will not be treated in order, as a

regular discourse seems to require, but will arise sometimes separately,

sometimes together, from the view of each particular comedy, and from

the reflections which this free manner of writing will allow. I shall

conclude with a short view of the whole, and so finish my design.

4. HISTORY OF COMEDY.

I shall not repeat here what Madame Dacier, and so many others before

her, have collected of all that can be known relating to the history of

comedy. Its beginnings are as obscure as those of tragedy, and there is

an appearance that we take these two words in a more extensive meaning:

they had both the same original; that is, they began among the festivals

of the vintage, and were not distinguished from one another, but by a

burlesque or serious chorus, which made all the soul, and all the body.

But, if we give these words a stricter sense, according to the notion

which has since been formed, comedy was produced after tragedy, and was,

in many respects, a sequel and imitation of the works of Eschylus. It

is, in reality, nothing more than an action set before the sight, by the

same artifice of representation. Nothing is different but the object,

which is merely ridicule. This original of true comedy will be easily

admitted, if we take the word of Horace, who must have known, better

than us, the true dates of dramatick works. This poet supports the

system, which I have endeavoured to establish in the second

discourse[5], so strongly, as to amount to demonstrative proof.

Horace[6] expresses himself thus: "Thespis is said to have been the

first inventor of a species of tragedy, in which he carried about, in

carts, players smeared with the dregs of wine, of whom some sung and

others declaimed." This was the first attempt, both of tragedy and

comedy; for Thespis made use only of one speaker, without the least

appearance of dialogue. "Eschylus, afterwards, exhibited them with more

dignity. He placed them on a stage, somewhat above the ground, covered

their faces with masks, put buskins on their feet, dressed them in

trailing robes, and made them speak in a more lofty style." Horace omits

invention of dialogue, which we learn from Aristotle[7]. But, however,

it may be well enough inferred from the following words of Horace; this

completion is mentioned while he speaks of Eschylus, and, therefore, to

Eschylus it must be ascribed: "Then first appeared the old comedy, with

great success in its beginning." Thus we see that the Greek comedy

arose after tragedy, and, by consequence, tragedy was its parent. It was

formed in imitation of Eschylus, the inventor of the tragick drama; or,

to go yet higher into antiquity, had its original from Homer, who was

the guide of Eschylus. For, if we credit Aristotle[8], comedy had its

birth from the Margites, a satirical poem of Homer, and tragedy from the

Iliad and Odyssey. Thus the design and artifice of comedy were drawn

from Homer and Eschylus. This will appear less surprising, since the

ideas of the human mind are always gradual, and arts are seldom invented

but by imitation.

The first idea contains the seed of the second; this second, expanding

itself, gives birth to a third; and so on. Such is the progress of the

mind of man; it proceeds in its productions, step by step, in the same

manner as nature multiplies her works by imitating, or repeating her own

act, when she seems most to run into variety. In this manner it was that

comedy had its birth, its increase, its improvement, its perfection, and

its diversity.

But the question is, who was the happy author of that imitation, and

that show, whether only one, like Eschylus of tragedy, or whether they

were several? for neither Horace, nor any before him, explained this[9].

This poet only quotes three writers who had reputation in the old

comedy, Eupolis[10], Cratinus[11], and Aristophanes; of whom he says,

"That they, and others, who wrote in the same way, reprehended the

faults of particular persons with excessive liberty." These are,

probably, the poets of the greatest reputation, though they were not the

first, and we know the names of many others[12]. Among these three we

may be sure that Aristophanes had the greatest character, since not only

the king of Persia[13] expressed a high esteem of him to the Grecian

ambassadours, as of a man extremely useful to his country, and Plato[14]

rated him so high, as to say that the Graces resided in his bosom; but,

likewise, because he is the only writer of whom any comedies have made

their way down to us, through the confusion of times. There are not,

indeed, any proofs that he was the inventor of comedy, properly so

called, especially, since he had not only predecessors who wrote in the

same kind, but it is, at least, a sign that he had contributed more than

any other to bring comedy to the perfection in which he left it. We

shall, therefore, not inquire farther, whether regular comedy was the

work of a single mind, which seems yet to be unsettled, or of several

contemporaries, such as these which Horace quotes. We must distinguish

three forms which comedy wore, in consequence of the genius of the

writers, or of the laws of the magistrates, and the change of the

government of many into that of few.

5. THE OLD, MIDDLE, AND NEW COMEDY.

That comedy[15], which Horace calls the ancient, and which, according to

his account, was after Eschylus, retained something of its original

state, and of the licentiousness which it practised, while it was yet

without regularity, and uttered loose jokes and abuse upon the

passers-by from the cart of Thespis. Though it was now properly modelled,

as might have been worthy of a great theatre, and a numerous audience,

and deserved the name of a regular comedy, it was not yet much nearer to

decency.

It was a representation of real actions, and exhibited the dress, the

motions, and the air, as far as could be done in a mask, of any one who

was thought proper to be sacrificed to publick scorn. In a city so free,

or, to say better, so licentious as Athens was, at that time, nobody was

spared, not even the chief magistrate, nor the very judges, by whose

voice comedies were allowed or prohibited. The insolence of those

performances reached to open impiety, and sport was made equally with

men and gods[16]. These are the features by which the greatest part of

the compositions of Aristophanes will be known. In which, it may be

particularly observed, that not the least appearance of praise will be

found, and, therefore, certainly no trace of flattery or servility.

This licentiousness of the poets, to which, in some sort, Socrates fell

a sacrifice, at last was restrained by a law. For the government, which

was before shared by all the inhabitants, was now confined to a settled

number of citizens. It was ordered that no man's name should be

mentioned on the stage; but poetical malignity was not long in finding

the secret of defeating the purpose of the law, and of making themselves

ample compensation for the restraint laid upon authors, by the necessity

of inventing false names. They set themselves to work upon known and

real characters, so that they had now the advantage of giving a more

exquisite gratification to the vanity of poets, and the malice of

spectators. One had the refined pleasure of setting others to guess, and

the other that of guessing right by naming the masks. When pictures are

so like, that the name is not wanted, nobody inscribes it. The

consequence of the law, therefore, was nothing more than to make that

done with delicacy, which was done grossly before; and the art, which

was expected would be confined within the limits of duty, was only

partly transgressed with more ingenuity. Of this, Aristophanes, who was

comprehended in this law, gives us good examples in some of his poems.

Such was that which was afterwards called the middle comedy.

The new comedy, or that which followed, was again an excellent

refinement, prescribed by the magistrates, who, as they had before

forbid the use of real names, forbade afterwards, real subjects, and the

train of choruses[17] too much given to abuse; so that the poets saw

themselves reduced to the necessity of bringing imaginary names and

subjects upon the stage, which, at once, purified and enriched the

theatre; for comedy, from that time, was no longer a fury armed with

torches, but a pleasing and innocent mirror of human life.

Chacun peint avec art dans ce nouveau miroir

S'y vit avec plaisir, ou crut ne s'y pas voir!

L'avare des premiers rit du tableau fidèle

D'un avare souvent tracé sur son modèle;

Et mille fois un fat finement exprimé

Méconnut le portrait sur lui-même formé.[18]

The comedy of Menander and Terence is, in propriety of speech, the fine

comedy. I do not repeat all this after so many writers, but just to

recall it to memory, and to add to what they have said, something which

they have omitted, a singular effect of publick edicts appearing in the

successive progress of the art. A naked history of poets and of poetry,

such as has been often given, is a mere body without soul, unless it be

enlivened with an account of the birth, progress, and perfection of the

art, and of the causes by which they were produced.

6. THE LATIN COMEDY.

To omit nothing essential which concerns this part, we shall say a word

of the Latin comedy. When the arts passed from Greece to Rome, comedy

took its turn among the rest; but the Romans applied themselves only to

the new species, without chorus or personal abuse; though, perhaps, they

might have played some translations of the old or the middle comedy; for

Pliny gives an account of one which was represented in his own time. But

the Roman comedy, which was modelled upon the last species of the Greek,

hath, nevertheless, its different ages, according as its authors were

rough or polished. The pieces of Livius Andronicus[19], more ancient,

and less refined than those of the writers who learned the art from him,

may be said to compose the first age, or the old Roman comedy and

tragedy. To him you must join Nevius, his contemporary, and Ennius, who

lived some years after him. The second age comprises Pacuvius, Cecilius,

Accius, and Plautus, unless it shall be thought better to reckon Plautus

with Terence, to make the third and highest age of the Latin comedy,

which may properly be called the new comedy, especially with regard to

Terence, who was the friend of Lelius, and the faithful copier of

Menander.

But the Romans, without troubling themselves with this order of

succession, distinguished their comedies by the dresses[20] of the

players. The robe, called praetexta, with large borders of purple, being

the formal dress of magistrates in their dignity, and in the exercise of

their office, the actors, who had this dress, gave its name to the

comedy. This is the same with that called trabeata[21], from trabea, the

dress of the consuls in peace, and the generals in triumph. The second

species introduced the senators, not in great offices, but as private

men; this was called togata, from toga. The last species was named

tabernaria, from the tunick, or the common dress of the people, or

rather from the mean houses which were painted on the scene. There is no

need of mentioning the farces, which took their name and original from

Atella, an ancient town of Campania, in Italy, because they differed

from the low comedy only by greater licentiousness; nor of those which

were called palliates, from the Greek, a cloak, in which the Greek

characters were dressed upon the Roman stage, because that habit only

distinguished the nation, not the dignity or character, like those which

have been mentioned before. To say truth, these are but trifling

distinctions; for, as we shall show in the following pages, comedy may

be more usefully and judiciously distinguished by the general nature of

its subjects. As to the Romans, whether they had, or had not, reason for

these names, they have left us so little upon the subject, which is come

down to us, that we need not trouble ourselves with a distinction which

affords us no solid satisfaction. Plautus and Terence, the only authors

of whom we are in possession, give us a fuller notion of the real nature

of their comedy, with respect, at least, to their own times, than can be

received from names and terms, from which we have no real

exemplification.

7. THE GREEK COMEDY IS REDUCED ONLY TO ARISTOPHANES.

Not to go too far out of our way, let us return to Aristophanes, the

only poet, in whom we can now find the Greek comedy. He is the single

writer whom the violence of time has, in some degree, spared, after

having buried in darkness, and almost in forgetfulness, so many great

men, of whom we have nothing but the names and a few fragments, and such

slight memorials, as are scarcely sufficient to defend them against the

enemies of the honour of antiquity; yet these memorials are like the

last glimmer of the setting sun, which scarce affords us a weak and

fading light; yet from this glimmer we must endeavour to collect rays of

sufficient strength to form a picture of the Greek comedy, approaching

as near as possible to the truth.

Of the personal character of Aristophanes little is known; what account

we can give of it must, therefore, be had from his comedies. It can

scarcely be said, with certainty, of what country he was: the invectives

of his enemies so often called in question his qualification as a

citizen, that they have made it doubtful. Some said, he was of Rhodes,

others of Egina, a little island in the neighbourhood, and all agreed

that he was a stranger. As to himself, he said, that he was the son of

Philip, and born in the Cydathenian quarter; but he confessed, that some

of his fortune was in Egina, which was, probably, the original seat of

his family. He was, however, formally declared a citizen of Athens, upon

evidence, whether good or bad, upon a decisive judgment, and this for

having made his judges merry by an application of a saying of

Telemachus[22], of which this is the sense: "I am, as my mother tells

me, the son of Philip: for my own part, I know little of the matter; for

what child knows his own father?" This piece of merriment did him as

much good, as Archias received from the oration of Cicero[23], who said

that that poet was a Roman citizen. An honour which, if he had not

inherited by birth, he deserved for his genius.

Aristophanes[24] flourished in the age of the great men of Greece,

particularly of Socrates and Euripides, both of whom he outlived. He

made a great figure during the whole Peloponnesian war, not merely as a

comick poet, by whom the people were diverted, but as the censor of the

government, as a man kept in pay by the state to reform it, and almost

to act the part of the arbitrator of the publick[25]. A particular

account of his comedies will best let us into his personal character as

a poet, and into the nature of his genius, which is what we are most

interested to know. It will, however, not be amiss to prepossess our

readers a little by the judgments that have been passed upon him by the

criticks of our own time, without forgetting one of the ancients that

deserves great respect.

8. ARISTOPHANES CENSURED AND PRAISED.

"Aristophanes," says father Rapin, "is not exact in the contrivance of

his fables; his fictions are not probable; he brings real characters

upon the stage too coarsely, and too openly. Socrates, whom he ridicules

so much in his plays, had a more delicate turn of burlesque than

himself, and had his merriment without his impudence. It is true, that

Aristophanes wrote amidst the confusion and licentiousness of the old

comedy, and he was well acquainted with the humour of the Athenians, to

whom uncommon merit always gave disgust, and, therefore, he made the

eminent men of his time the subject of his merriment. But the too great

desire which he had to delight the people, by exposing worthy characters

upon the stage, made him, at the same time, an unworthy man; and the

turn of his genius, to ridicule was disfigured and corrupted by the

indelicacy and outrageousness of his manners. After all, his pleasantry

consists chiefly in new-coined puffy language. The dish of twenty-six

syllables, which he gives, in his last scene of his Female Orators,

would please few tastes in our days. His language is sometimes obscure,

perplexed and vulgar; and his frequent play with words, his oppositions

of contradictory terms, his mixture of tragick and comick, of serious

and burlesque, are all flat; and his jocularity, if you examine it to

the bottom, is all false. Menander is diverting in a more elegant

manner; his style is pure, clear, elevated, and natural; he persuades

like an orator, and instructs like a philosopher; and, if we may venture

to judge upon the fragments which remain, it appears that his pictures

of civil life are pleasing, that he makes every one speak according to

his character, that every man may apply his pictures of life to himself,

because he always follows nature, and feels for the personages which he

brings upon the stage. To conclude, Plutarch, in his comparison of these

authors, says, that the muse of Aristophanes is an abandoned prostitute,

and that of Menander a modest woman."

It is evident that this whole character is taken from Plutarch. Let us

now go on with this remark of father Rapin, since we have already spoken

of the Latin comedy, of which he gives us a description.

"With respect, to the two Latin comick poets, Plautus is ingenious in

his designs, happy in his conceptions, and fruitful of invention. He

has, however, according to Horace, some low jocularities; and those

smart sayings, which made the vulgar laugh, made him be pitied by men of

higher taste. It is true, that some of his jests are extremely good, but

others, likewise, are very bad. To this every man is exposed, who is too

much determined to make sallies of merriment; they endeavour to raise

that laughter by hyperboles, which would not arise by a just

representation of things. Plautus is not quite so regular as Terence in

the scheme of his designs, or in the distribution of his acts, but he is

more simple in his plot; for the fables of Terence are commonly complex,

as may be seen in his Andria, which contains two amours. It was imputed,

as a fault to Terence, that, to bring more action upon the stage, he

made one Latin comedy out of two Greek: but then Terence unravels his

plot more naturally than Plautus, which Plautus did more naturally than

Aristophanes; and though Cæsar calls Terence but one half of Menander,

because, though he had softness and delicacy, there was in him some want

of sprightliness and strength; yet he has written in a manner so natural

and so judicious, that, though he was then only a copy, he is now an

original. No author has ever had a more exact sense of pure nature. Of

Cecilius, since we have only a few fragments, I shall say nothing. All

that we know of him is told us by Varrus, that he was happy in the

choice of subjects."

Rapin omits many others for the same reason, that we have not enough of

their works to qualify us for judges. While we are upon this subject, it

will, perhaps, not displease the reader to see what that critick's

opinion is of Lopes de Vega and Molière. It will appear, that with

respect to Lopes de Vega, he is rather too profuse of praise: that, in

speaking of Molière, he is too parsimonious.

This piece will, however, be of use to our design, when we shall examine

to the bottom what it is that ought to make the character of comedy.

"No man has ever had a greater genius for comedy than Lopes de Vega, the

Spaniard. He had a fertility of wit, joined with great beauty of

conception, and a wonderful readiness of composition; for he has written

more than three hundred comedies. His name, alone, gave reputation to

his pieces; for his reputation was so well established, that a work,

which came from his hands, was sure to claim the approbation of the

publick. He had a mind too extensive to be subjected to rules, or

restrained by limits. For that reason he gave himself up to his own

genius, on which he could always depend with confidence. When he wrote,

he consulted no other laws than the taste of his auditors, and regulated

his manner more by the success of his work than by the rules of reason.

Thus he discarded all scruples of unity, and all the superstitions of

probability." (This is certainly not said with a design to praise him,

and must be connected with that which immediately follows.) "But as, for

the most part, he endeavours at too much jocularity, and carries

ridicule to too much refinement; his conceptions are often rather happy

than just, and rather wild than natural; for, by subtilizing merriment

too far, it becomes too nice to be true, and his beauties lose their

power of striking by being too delicate and acute.

"Among us, nobody has carried ridicule in comedy farther than Molière.

Our ancient comick writers brought no characters higher than servants to

make sport upon the theatre; but we are diverted upon the theatre of

Molière by marquises and people of quality. Others have exhibited, in

comedy, no species of life above that of a citizen; but Molière shows us

all Paris, and the court. He is the only man amongst us, who has laid

open those features of nature by which he is exactly marked, and may be

accurately known. The beauties of his pictures are so natural, that they

are felt by persons of the least discernment, and his power of

pleasantry received half its force from his power of copying. His

Misanthrope is, in my opinion, the most complete, and, likewise, the

most singular character that has ever appeared upon the stage: but the

disposition of his comedies is always defective some way or another.

This is all which we can observe, in general, upon comedy."

Such are the thoughts of one of the most refined judges of works of

genius, from which, though they are not all oraculous, some advantages

may be drawn, as they always make some approaches to truth.

Madame Dacier[26], having her mind full of the merit of Aristophanes,

expresses herself in this manner: "No man had ever more discernment than

him, in finding out the ridiculous, nor a more ingenious manner of

showing it to others. His remarks are natural and easy, and, what very

rarely can be found, with great copiousness, he has great delicacy. To

say all at once, the Attick wit, of which the ancients made such boast,

appears more in Aristophanes than in any other that I know of in

antiquity. But what is most of all to be admired in him is, that he is

always so much master of the subject before him, that, without doing any

violence to himself, he finds a way to introduce, naturally, things

which, at first, appeared most distant from his purpose; and even the

most quick and unexpected of his desultory sallies appear the necessary

consequence of the foregoing incidents. This is that art which sets the

dialogues of Plato above imitation, which we must consider as so many

dramatick pieces, which are equally entertaining by the action, and by

the dialogue. The style of Aristophanes is no less pleasing than his

fancy; for, besides its clearness, its vigour and its sweetness, there

is in it a certain harmony, so delightful to the ear, that there is no

pleasure equal to that of reading it. When he applies himself to vulgar

mediocrity of style, he descends without meanness; when he attempts the

sublime, he is elevated without obscurity; and no man has ever had the

art of blending all the different kinds of writing so equally together.

After having studied all that is left us of Grecian learning, if we have

not read Aristophanes, we cannot yet know all the charms and beauties of

that language."

9. PLUTARCH'S SENTIMENTS UPON ARISTOPHANES AND MENANDER.

This is a pompous eulogium; but let us suspend our opinion, and hear

that of Plutarch, who, being an ancient, well deserves our attention, at

least, after we have heard the moderns before him. This is then the sum

of his judgment concerning Aristophanes and Menander. To Menander he

gives the preference, without allowing much competition. He objects to

Aristophanes, that he carries all his thoughts beyond nature; that he

writes rather to the crowd than to men of character; that he affects a

style obscure and licentious; tragical, pompous, and mean, sometimes

serious, and sometimes ludicrous, even to puerility; that he makes none

of his personages speak according to any distinct character, so that in

his scenes the son cannot be known from the father, the citizen from the

boor, the hero from the shopkeeper, or the divine from the serving-man.

Whereas, the diction of Menander, which is always uniform and pure, is

very justly adapted to different characters, rising, when it is

necessary, to vigorous and sprightly comedy, yet without transgressing

the proper limits, or losing sight of nature, in which Menander, says

Plutarch, has attained a perfection to which no other writer has

arrived. For, what man, besides himself, has ever found the art of

making a diction equally suitable to women and children, to old and

young, to divinities and heroes? Now Menander has found this happy

secret, in the equality and flexibility of his diction, which, though

always the same, is, nevertheless, different upon different occasions;

like a current of clear water, (to keep closely to the thoughts of

Plutarch,) which running through banks differently turned, complies with

all their turns backward and forward, without changing any thing of its

nature or its purity. Plutarch mentions it, as a part of the merit of

Menander, that he began very young, and was stopped only by old age, at

a time when he would have produced the greatest wonders, if death had

not prevented him. This, joined to a reflection, which he makes as he

returns to Aristophanes, shows that Aristophanes continued a long time

to display his powers: for his poetry, says Plutarch, is a strumpet that

affects sometimes the airs of a prude, but whose impudence cannot be

forgiven by the people, and whose affected modesty is despised by men of

decency. Menander, on the contrary, always shows himself a man agreeable

and witty, a companion desirable upon the stage, at table, and in gay

assemblies; an extract of all the treasures of Greece, who deserves

always to be read, and always to please. His irresistible power of

persuasion, and the reputation which he has had, of being the best

master of language of Greece, sufficiently shows the delightfulness of

his style. Upon this article of Menander, Plutarch does not know how to

make an end; he says, that he is the delight of philosophers, fatigued

with study; that they use his works as a meadow enamelled with flowers,

where a purer air gratifies the sense; that, notwithstanding the powers

of the other comick poets of Athens, Menander has always been considered

as possessing a salt peculiar to himself, drawn from the same waters

that gave birth to Venus. That, on the contrary, the salt of

Aristophanes is bitter, keen, coarse, and corrosive; that one cannot

tell whether his dexterity, which has been so much boasted, consists not

more in the characters than in the expression, for he is charged with

playing often upon words, with affecting antithetical allusions; that he

has spoiled the copies which he endeavoured to take after nature; that

artifice in his plays is wickedness, and simplicity brutishness; that

his jocularity ought to raise hisses rather than laughter; that his

amours have more impudence than gaiety; and that he has not so much

written for men of understanding, as for minds blackened with envy, and

corrupted with debauchery.

10. THE JUSTIFICATION OF ARISTOPHANES.

After such a character there seems no need of going further; and one

would think, that it would be better to bury, for ever, the memory of so

hateful a writer, that makes us so poor a recompense for the loss of

Menander, who cannot be recalled. But, without showing any mercy to the

indecent or malicious sallies of Aristophanes, any more than to Plautus,

his imitator, or, at least, the inheritor of his genius, may it not be

allowed us to do, with respect to him, what, if I mistake not,

Lucretius[27] did to Ennius, from whose muddy verses he gathered jewels,

"Enni de stercore gemmas?"

Besides, we must not believe that Plutarch, who lived more than four

ages after Menander, and more than five after Aristophanes, has passed

so exact a judgment upon both, but that it may be fit to reexamine it.

Plato, the contemporary of Aristophanes, thought very differently, at

least, of his genius; for, in his piece called the Entertainment, he

gives that poet a distinguished place, and makes him speak, according to

his character, with Socrates himself, from which, by the way, it is

apparent that this dialogue of Plato was composed before the time that

Aristophanes wrote his Clouds, against Socrates. Plato is, likewise,

said to have sent a copy of Aristophanes to Dionysius the tyrant, with

advice to read it diligently, if he would attain a complete judgment of

the state of the Athenian republick[28].

Many other scholars have thought that they might depart somewhat from

the opinion of Plutarch. Frischlinus, for example, one of the

commentators upon Aristophanes, though he justly allows his taste to be

less pure than that of Menander, has yet undertaken his defence against

the outrageous censure of the ancient critick. In the first place, he

condemns, without mercy, his ribaldry and obscenity. But this part, so

worthy of contempt, and written only for the lower people, according to

the remark of Boivin, bad as it is, after all, is not the chief part

which is left of Aristophanes. I will not say, with Frischlinus, that

Plutarch seems in this to contradict himself, and, in reality, commends

the poet when he accuses him of having adapted his language to the

stage; by the stage, in this place, he meant the theatre of farces, on

which low mirth and buffoonery was exhibited. This plea of Frischlinus

is a mere cavil; and though the poet had obtained his end, which was to

divert a corrupted populace, he would not have been less a bad man, nor

less a despicable poet, notwithstanding the excuse of his defender. To

be able, in the highest degree, to divert fools and libertines, will not

make a poet: it is not, therefore, by this defence that we must justify

the character of Aristophanes. The depraved taste of the crowd, who once

drove away Cratinus and his company, because the scenes had not low

buffoonery enough for their taste, will not justify Aristophanes, since

Menander found a way of changing the taste by giving a sort of comedy,

not, indeed, so modest as Plutarch represents it, but less licentious

than before. Nor is Aristophanes better justified, by the reason which

he himself offers, when he says, that he exhibited debauchery upon the

stage, not to corrupt the morals, but to mend them. The sight of gross

faults is rather a poison than a remedy[29].

The apologist has forgot one reason, which appears to me to be essential

to a just account. As far as we can judge by appearance, Plutarch had in

his hands all the plays of Aristophanes, which were at least fifty in

number.

In these he saw more licentiousness than has come to our hands, though,

in the eleven that are still remaining, there is much more than could be

wished.

Plutarch censures him, in the second place, for playing upon words; and

against this charge Frischlinus defends him with less skill. It is

impossible to exemplify this in French. But, after all, this part is so

little, that it deserved not so severe a reprehension, especially since,

amongst those sayings, there are some so mischievously malignant, that

they became proverbial, at least by the sting of their malice, if not by

the delicacy of their wit. One example will be sufficient: speaking of

the tax-gatherers, or the excisemen of Athens, he crushes them at once,

by observing, non quod essent [Greek: tamiai], sed [Greek: lamiai]. The

word _lamiae_ signified, walking spirits, which, according to the vulgar

notion, devoured men; this makes the spirit of the sarcasm against the

tax-gatherers. This cannot be rendered in our language; but if any thing

as good had been said in France, on the like occasion, it would have

lasted too long, and, like many other sayings amongst us, been too well

received. The best is that Plutarch himself confesses that it was

extremely applauded.

The third charge is, a mixture of tragick and comick style. This

accusation is certainly true; Aristophanes often gets into the buskin;

but we must examine upon what occasion. He does not take upon him the

character of a tragick writer; but, having remarked that his trick of

parody was always well received, by a people who liked to laugh at that

for which they had been just weeping, he is eternally using the same

craft; and there is scarcely any tragedy or striking passage known by

memory, by the Athenians, which he does not turn into merriment, by

throwing over it a dress of ridicule and burlesque, which is done

sometimes by changing or transposing the words, and sometimes by an

unexpected application of the whole sentence. These are the shreds of

tragedy, in which he arrays the comick muse, to make her still more

comick. Cratinus had before done the same thing; and we know that he

made a comedy called Ulysses, to burlesque Homer and his Odyssey; which

shows, that the wits and poets are, with respect to one another, much

the same at all times, and that it was at Athens as here. I will prove

this system by facts, particularly with respect to the merriment of

Aristophanes, upon our three celebrated tragedians. This being the case,

the mingled style of Aristophanes will, perhaps, not deserve so much

censure as Plutarch has vented. We have no need of the travesty of

Virgil, nor the parodies of our own time, nor of the Lutrin of Boileau,

to show us, that this medly may have its merit upon particular

occasions.

The same may be said, in general, of his obscurity, his meannesses, and

his high flights, and of all the seeming inequality of style, which puts

Plutarch in a rage. These censures can never be just upon a poet, whose

style has always been allowed to be perfectly attick, and of an atticism

which made him extremely delightful to the lovers of the Athenian taste.

Plutarch, perhaps, rather means to blame the choruses, of which the

language is sometimes elevated, sometimes burlesque, always very

poetical, and, therefore, in appearance, not suitable to comedy. But the

chorus, which had been borrowed from tragedy, was then all the fashion,

particularly for pieces of satire, and Aristophanes admitted them, like

the other poets of the old, and, perhaps, of the middle comedy; whereas

Menander suppressed them, not so much in compliance with his own

judgment, as in obedience to the publick edicts. It is not, therefore,

this mixture of tragick and comick that will place Aristophanes below

Menander.

The fifth charge is, that he kept no distinction of character; that, for

example, he makes women speak like orators, and orators like slaves: but

it appears, by the characters which he ridicules, that this objection

falls of itself. It is sufficient to say, that a poet who painted not

imaginary characters, but real persons, men well known, citizens whom he

called by their names, and showed in dresses like their own, and masks

resembling their faces, whom he branded in the sight of a whole city

extremely haughty and full of derision; it is sufficient to say, that

such a poet could never be supposed to miss his characters. The applause

which his licentiousness produced, is too good a justification; besides,

if he had not succeeded, he exposed himself to the fate of Eupolis, who,

in a comedy called the Drowned Man, having imprudently pulled to pieces

particular persons, more powerful than himself, was laid hold of, and

drowned more effectually than those he had drowned upon the open stage.

The condemnation of the poignancy of Aristophanes, as having too much

acrimony, is better founded. Such was the turn of a species of comedy,

in which all licentiousness was allowed; in a nation which made every

thing a subject of laughter, in its jealousy of immoderate liberty, and

its enmity, to all appearance, of rule and superiority; for the genius

of independency, naturally produces a kind of satire, more keen than

delicate, as may be easily observed in most of the inhabitants of

islands. If we do not say, with Longinus, that a popular government

kindles eloquence, and that a lawful monarchy stifles it; at least it is

easy to discover, by the event, that eloquence in different governments

takes a different appearance. In republicks it is more sprightly and

violent, and in monarchies more insinuating and soft. The same thing may

be said of ridicule; it follows the cast of genius, as genius follows

that of government. Thus the republican raillery, particularly of the

age which we are now considering, must have been rougher than that of

the age which followed it, for the same reason that Horace is more

delicate, and Lucilius more pointed. A dish of satire was always a

delicious treat to human malignity; but that dish was differently

seasoned, as the manners were polished more or less. By polished manners

I mean that good-breeding, that art of reserve and self-restraint, which

is the consequence of dependance. If one was to determine the preference

due to one of those kinds of pleasantry, of which both have their value,

there would not need a moment's hesitation: every voice would join in

favour of the softer, yet without contempt of that which is rough.

Menander will, therefore, be preferred, but Aristophanes will not be

despised, especially since he was the first who quitted that wild

practice of satirizing at liberty right or wrong, and by a comedy of

another cast, made way for the manner of Menander, more agreeable yet,

and less dangerous. There is, yet, another distinction to be made

between the acrimony of the one, and the softness of the other; the

works of the one are acrimonious, and of the other soft, because, the

one exhibited personal, and the other, general characters; which leaves

us still at liberty to examine, if these different designs might not be

executed with equal delicacy.

We shall know this by a view of the particulars; in this place we say

only that the reigning taste, or the love of striking likenesses, might

justify Aristophanes for having turned, as Plutarch says, art into

malignity, simplicity into brutality, merriment into farce, and amour

into impudence; if, in any age, a poet could be excused for painting

publick folly and vice, in their true colours.

There is a motive of interest, at the bottom, which disposed Elian,

Plutarch, and many others, to condemn this poet without appeal.

Socrates, who is said to have been destroyed by a poetical attack, at

the instigation of two wretches[30], has too many friends among good

men, to have pardon granted to so horrid a crime. This has filled them

with an implacable hatred against Aristophanes, which is mingled with

the spirit of philosophy; a spirit, wherever it comes, more dangerous

than any other. A common enemy will confess some good qualities in his

adversary; but a philosopher, made partial by philosophy, is never at

rest till he has totally destroyed him who has hurt the most tender part

of his heart; that is, has disturbed him in his adherence to some

character, which, like that of Socrates, takes possession of the mind.

The mind is the freest part of man, and the most tender of its

liberties; possessions, life, and reputation may be in another's power,

but opinion is always independent. If any man can obtain that gentle

influence, by which he ingratiates himself with the understanding, and

makes a sect in a commonwealth, his followers will sacrifice themselves

for him, and nobody will be pardoned that dares to attack him, justly or

unjustly, because that truth, real or imaginary, which he maintained, is

now become an idol. Time will do nothing for the extinction of this

hatred; it will be propagated from age to age; and there is no hope that

Aristophanes will ever be treated with tenderness by the disciples of

Plato, who made Socrates his hero. Every body else may, perhaps,

confess, that Aristophanes, though in one instance a bad man, may,

nevertheless, be a good poet; but distinctions, like these, will not be

admitted by prejudice and passion, and one or other dictates all

characters, whether good or bad.

As I add my own reasons, such as they are, for or against Aristophanes,

to those of Frischlinus, his defender, I must not omit one thing which

he has forgot, and which, perhaps, without taking in the rest, put

Plutarch out of humour, which is that perpetual farce which goes through

all the comedies of Aristophanes, like the character of harlequin on the

Italian theatre. What kind of personages are clouds, frogs, wasps, and

birds? Plutarch, used to a comick stage of a very different appearance,

must have thought them strange things; and, yet stranger must they

appear to us, who have a newer kind of comedy, with which the Greeks

were unacquainted. This is what our poet may be charged with, and what

may be proved beyond refutation. This charge comprises all the rest, and

against this I shall not pretend to justify him. It would be of no use

to say, that Aristophanes wrote for an age that required shows which

filled the eye, and grotesque paintings in satirical performances; that

the crowds of spectators, which sometimes neglected Cratinus to throng

Aristophanes, obliged him, more and more, to comply with the ruling

taste, lest he should lose the publick favour by pictures more delicate

and less striking; that, in a state, where it was considered as policy

to lay open every thing that had the appearance of ambition,

singularity, or knavery, comedy was become a haranguer, a reformer, and

a publick counsellor, from whom the people learned to take care of their

most valuable interests; and that this comedy, in the attempt to lead,

and to please the people, claimed a right to the strongest touches of

eloquence, and had, likewise, the power of personal painting, peculiar

to herself. All these reasons, and many others, would disappear

immediately, and my mouth would be stopped with a single word, with

which every body would agree: my antagonist would tell me that such an

age was to be pitied, and, passing on from age to age, till he came to

our own, he would conclude flatly, that we are the only possessours of

common sense; a determination with which the French are too much

reproached, and which overthrows all the prejudice in favour of

antiquity. At the sight of so many happy touches, which one cannot help

admiring in Aristophanes, a man might, perhaps, be inclined to lament

that such a genius was thrown into an age of fools; but what age has

been without them? And have not we ourselves reason to fear, lest

posterity should judge of Molière and his age, as we judge of

Aristophanes? Menander altered the taste, and was applauded in Athens,

but it was after Athens was changed. Terence imitated him at Rome, and

obtained the preference over Plautus, though Cæsar called him but a

demi-Menander, because he appears to want that spirit and vivacity which

he calls the vis comica. We are now weary of the manner of Menander and

Terence, and leave them for Molière, who appears like a new star in a

new course. Who can answer, that in such an interval of time as has

passed between these four writers, there will not arise another author,

or another taste, that may bring Molière, in his turn, into neglect?

Without going further, our neighbours, the English, think he wants force

and fire. Whether they are right, or no, is another question; all that I

mean to advance is, that we are to fix it as a conclusion, that comick

authors must grow obsolete with the modes of life, if we admit any one

age, or any one climate, for the sovereign rule of taste. But let us

talk with more exactness, and endeavour, by an exact analysis, to find

out what there is in comedy, whether of Aristophanes and Plautus, of

Menander and Terence, of Molière and his rivals, which is never

obsolete, and must please all ages and all nations.

11. REMARKABLE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE STATE OF COMEDY, AND OTHER WORKS

OF GENIUS, WITH REGARD TO THEIR DURATION.

I now speak particularly of comedy; for we must observe that between

that and other works of literature, especially tragedy, there is an

essential difference, which the enemies of antiquity will not

understand, and which I shall endeavour palpably to show.

All works show the age in which they are produced; they carry its stamp

upon them; the manners of the times are impressed by indelible marks. If

it be allowed, that the best of past times were rude in comparison with

ours, the cause of the ancients is decided against them; and the want of

politeness, with which their works are charged, in our days, must be

generally confessed. History alone seems to claim exemption from this

accusation. Nobody will dare to say of Herodotus or Thucydides, of

Livius or Tacitus, that which has been said, without scruple, of Homer

and the ancient poets. The reason is, that history takes the nearest way

to its purpose, and gives the characters and practices of nations, be

they what they will; it has no dependance upon its subject, and offers

nothing to examination, but the art of the narrative. An history of

China, well written, would please a Frenchman, as well as one of France.

It is otherwise with mere works of genius, they depend upon their

subjects, and, consequently, upon the characters and practices of the

times in which they were written; this, at least, is the light in which

they are beheld. This rule of judgment is not equitable; for, as I have

said, over and over, all the orators and the poets are painters, and

merely painters. They exhibit nature, as it is before them, influenced

by the accidents of education, which, without changing it entirely, yet

give it, in different ages and climates, a different appearance; but we

make their success depend, in a great degree, upon their subject, that

is, upon circumstances which we measure by the circumstances of our own

days. According to this prejudice, oratory depends more upon its subject

than history, and poetry yet more than oratory. Our times, therefore,

show more regard to Herodotus and Suetonius, than to Demosthenes and

Cicero, and more to all these than to Homer or Virgil. Of this

prejudice, there are regular gradations; and to come back to the point

which we have left, we show, for the same imperceptible reason, less

regard to tragick poets than to others. The reason is, that the subjects

of their paintings are more examined than the art. Thus comparing the

Achilles and Hippolytus of Euripides, with those of Racine, we drive

them off the stage, without considering that Racine's heroes will be

driven off, in a future age, if the same rule of judgment be followed,

and one time be measured by another.

Yet tragedy, having the passions for its object, is not wholly exposed

to the caprice of our taste, which would make our own manners the rule

of human kind; for the passions of Grecian heroes are often dressed in

external modes of appearance that disgust us, yet they break through the

veil when they are strongly marked, as we cannot deny them to be in

Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. The essence then gets the better of

the circumstance. The passions of Greece and France do not so much

differ by the particular characters of particular ages, as they agree by

the participation of that which belongs to the same passion in all ages.

Our three tragick poets will, therefore, get clear by suffering only a

little ridicule, which falls directly upon their times; but these times

and themselves will be well recompensed, by the admiration which their

art will irresistibly enforce.

Comedy is in a more lamentable situation; for, not only its object is

the ridiculous, which, though in reality always the same, is so

dependant on custom, as to change its appearance with time, and with

place; but the art of a comick writer is, to lay hold of that species of

the ridiculous which will catch the spectators of the present hour,

without regard to futurity. But, though comedy has attained its end, and

diverted the pit, for which it was written; if it goes down to

posterity, it is a new world, where it is no longer known; it becomes

there quite a foreigner, because there are no longer the same originals,

nor the same species of the ridiculous, nor the same spectators, but a

set of merciless readers, who complain that they are tired with it,

though it once filled Athens, Rome, or Paris, with merriment. This

position is general, and comprises all poets and all ages. To say all,

at once, comedy is the slave of its subject, and of the reigning taste;

tragedy is not subject to the same degree of slavery, because the ends

of the two species of poetry are different. For this reason, if we

suppose that in all ages there are criticks, who measure every thing by

the same rule, it will follow, that if the comedy of Aristophanes be

become obsolete, that of Menander, likewise, after having delighted

Athens, and revived again at Rome, at last suffered by the force of

time. The muse of Molière has almost made both of them forgotten, and

would still be walking the stage, if the desire of novelty did not in

time make us weary of that which we have too frequently admired.

Those, who have endeavoured to render their judgment independent upon

manners and customs, and of such men there have been always some, have

not judged so severely either of times, or of writers; they have

discovered that a certain resemblance runs through all polished ages,

which are alike in essential things, and differ only in external

manners, which, if we except religion, are things of indifference; that,

wherever there is genius, politeness, liberty, or plenty, there prevails

an exact and delicate taste, which, however hard to be expressed, is

felt by those that were born to feel it; that Athens, the inventress of

all the arts, the mother first of the Roman, and then of general taste,

did not consist of stupid savages; that the Athenian and Augustan ages

having always been considered as times that enjoyed a particular

privilege of excellence, though we may distinguish the good authors from

the bad, as in our own days, yet we ought to suspend the vehemence of

criticism, and proceed with caution and timidity, before we pass

sentence upon times and writers, whose good taste has been universally

applauded. This obvious consideration has disposed them to pause; they

have endeavoured to discover the original of taste, and have found that

there is not only a stable and immutable beauty, as there is a common

understanding in all times and places, which is never obsolete; but

there is another kind of beauty, such as we are now treating, which

depends upon times and places, and is, therefore, changeable. Such is

the imperfection of every thing below, that one mode of beauty is never

found without a mixture of the other, and from these two, blended

together, results what is called the taste of an age. I am now speaking

of an age sprightly and polite, an age which leaves works for a long

time behind it, an age which is imitated or criticised, when revolutions

have thrown it out of sight.

Upon this incontestable principle, which supposes a beauty, universal

and absolute, and a beauty, likewise, relative and particular, which are

mingled through one work in very different proportions, it is easy to

give an account of the contrary judgments passed on Aristophanes. If we

consider him only with respect to the beauties, which, though they do

not please us, delighted the Athenians, we shall condemn him at once,

though even this sort of beauty may, sometimes, have its original in

universal beauty carried to extravagance. Instead of commending him for

being able to give merriment to the most refined nation of those days,

we shall proceed to place that people, with all their atticism, in the

rank of savages, whom we take upon us to degrade, because they have no

other qualifications but innocence, and plain understanding. But have

not we, likewise, amidst our more polished manners, beauties merely

fashionable, which make part of our writings as of the writings of

former times; beauties of which our self-love now makes us fond, but

which, perhaps, will disgust our grandsons? Let us be more equitable;

let us leave this relative beauty to its real value, more or less, in

every age: or, if we must pass judgment upon it, let us say that these

touches in Aristophanes, Menander, and Molière, were well struck off in

their own time; but that, comparing them with true beauty, that part of

Aristophanes was a colouring too strong, that of Menander was too weak,

and that of Molière was a peculiar varnish, formed of one and the other,

which, without being an imitation, is itself inimitable, yet depending

upon time, which will efface it, by degrees, as our notions, which are

every day changing, shall receive a sensible alteration. Much of this

has already happened since the time of Molière, who, if he was now to

come again, must take a new road.

With respect to unalterable beauties, of which comedy admits much fewer

than tragedy, when they are the subject of our consideration, we must

not, too easily, set Aristophanes and Plautus below Menander and

Terence. We may properly hesitate with Boileau, whether we shall prefer

the French comedy to the Greek and Latin. Let us only give, like him,

the great rule for pleasing in all ages, and the key by which all the

difficulties in passing judgment may be opened. This rule and this key

are nothing else but the ultimate design of the comedy.

Etudiez la cour, et connoissez la ville:

L'une et l'autre est toujours en modèles fertile.

C'est par-là que Molière illustrant ses écrits

Peut-être de son art eût remporté le prix,

Si, moins ami du peuple en ses doctes peintures,

Il n'eut point fait souvent grimacer ses figures,

Quitté pour le bouffon l'agréable et le fin,

Et sans honte à Térence allié Tabarin[31].

In truth, Aristophanes and Plautus united buffoonery and delicacy, in a

greater degree than Molière; and for this they may be blamed. That which

then pleased at Athens, and at Rome, was a transitory beauty, which had

not sufficient foundation in truth, and, therefore, the taste changed.

But, if we condemn those ages for this, what age shall we spare? Let us

refer every thing to permanent and universal taste, and we shall find in

Aristophanes at least as much to commend as censure.

12. TRAGEDY MORE UNIFORM THAN COMEDY.

But before we go on to his works, it may be allowed to make some

reflections upon tragedy and comedy. Tragedy, though different,

according to the difference of times and writers, is uniform in its

nature, being founded upon the passions, which never change. With comedy

it is otherwise. Whatever difference there is between Eschylus,

Sophocles, and Euripides; between Corneille and Racine; between the

French and the Greeks; it will not be found sufficient to constitute

more than one species of tragedy.

The works of those great masters are, in some respects, like the

seanymphs, of whom Ovid says, "That their faces were not the same, yet

so much alike, that they might be known to be sisters;"

--facies non omnibus una,

Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum.

The reason is, that the same passions give action and animation to them

all. With respect to the comedies of Aristophanes and Plautus, Menander

and Terence, Molière and his imitators, if we compare them one with

another, we shall find something of a family likeness, but much less

strongly marked, on account of the different appearance which ridicule

and pleasantry take from the different manners of every age. They will

not pass for sisters, but for very distant relations. The Muse of

Aristophanes and Plautus, to speak of her with justice, is a bacchanal

at least, whose malignant tongue is dipped in gall, or in poison

dangerous as that of the aspick or viper; but whose bursts of malice,

and sallies of wit, often give a blow where it is not expected. The Muse

of Terence, and, consequently, of Menander, is an artless and unpainted

beauty, of easy gaiety, whose features are rather delicate than

striking, rather soft than strong, rather plain and modest than great

and haughty, but always perfectly natural:

Ce n'est pas un portrait, une image semblable:

C'est un fils, un amant, un père véritable.

The Muse of Molière is not always plainly dressed, but takes airs of

quality, and rises above her original condition, so as to attire herself

gracefully in magnificent apparel. In her manners she mingles elegance

with foolery, force with delicacy and grandeur, or even haughtiness with

plainness and modesty. If, sometimes, to please the people, she gives a

loose to farce, it is only the gay folly of a moment, from which she

immediately returns, and which lasts no longer than a slight

intoxication. The first might be painted encircled with little satyrs,

some grossly foolish, the others delicate, but all extremely licentious

and malignant; monkeys always ready to laugh in your face, and to point

out to indiscriminate ridicule, the good and the bad. The second may be

shown encircled with geniuses full of softness and of candour, taught to

please by nature alone, and whose honeyed dialect is so much the more

insinuating, as there is no temptation to distrust it. The last must be

accompanied with the delicate laughter of the court, and that of the

city somewhat more coarse, and neither the one nor the other can be

separated from her. The Muse of Aristophanes and of Plautus can never be

denied the honour of sprightliness, animation, and invention; nor that

of Menander and Terence the praise of nature and of delicacy; to that of

Molière must be allowed the happy secret of uniting all the piquancy of

the former, with a peculiar art which they did not know. Of these three

sorts of merit, let us show to each the justice that is due, let us, in

each, separate the pure and the true, from the false gold, without

approving or condemning either the one or the other, in the gross. If we

must pronounce, in general, upon the taste of their writings, we must

indisputably allow that Menander, Terence and Molière, will give most

pleasure to a decent audience, and, consequently, that they approach

nearer to the true beauty, and have less mixture of beauties purely

relative, than Plautus and Aristophanes.

If we distinguish comedy by its subjects, we shall find three sorts

among the Greeks, and as many among the Latins, all differently dressed;

if we distinguish it by ages and authors, we shall again find three

sorts; and we shall find three sorts, a third time, if we regard more

closely the subject. As the ultimate and general rules of all these

sorts of comedy are the same, it will, perhaps, be agreeable to our

purpose to sketch them out, before we give a full display of the last

class. I can do nothing better, on this occasion, than transcribe the

twenty-fifth reflection of Rapin upon poetry in particular.

13. GENERAL RULES OF COMEDY.

"Comedy," says he[32], "is a representation of common life: its end is

to show the faults of particular characters on the stage, to correct the

disorder of the people by the fear of ridicule. Thus ridicule is the

essential part of a comedy. Ridicule may be in words, or in things; it

may be decent, or grotesque. To find what is ridiculous in every thing,

is the gift merely of nature; for all the actions of life have their

bright, and their dark sides; something serious, and something merry.

But Aristotle, who has given rules for drawing tears, has given none for

raising laughter; for this is merely the work of nature, and must

proceed from genius, with very little help from art or matter. The

Spaniards have a turn to find the ridicule in things, much more than we;

and the Italians, who are natural comedians, have a better turn for

expressing it; their language is more proper for it than ours, by an air

of drollery which it can put on, and of which ours may become capable,

when it shall be brought nearer to perfection. In short, that agreeable

turn, that gaiety, which yet maintains the delicacy of its character,

without falling into dulness or into buffoonery; that elegant raillery,

which is the flower of fine wit, is the qualification which comedy

requires. We must, however, remember that the true artificial ridicule,

which is required on the theatre, must be only a transcript of the

ridicule which nature affords. Comedy is naturally written, when, being

on the theatre, a man can fancy himself in a private family, or a

particular part of the town, and meets with nothing but what he really

meets with in the world; for it is no real comedy in which a man does

not see his own picture, and find his own manners, and those of the

people among whom he lives. Menander succeeded only by this art among

the Greeks: and the Romans, when they sat at Terence's comedies,

imagined themselves in a private party; for they found nothing there

which they had not been used to find in common company. The great art of

comedy is to adhere to nature, without deviation; to have general

sentiments and expressions, which all the world can understand; for the

writer must keep it always in his mind, that the coarsest touches after

nature will please more, than the most delicate, with which nature is

inconsistent. However, low and mean words should never be allowed upon

the stage, if they are not supported with some kind of wit. Proverbs and

vulgar smartnesses can never be suffered, unless they have something in

them of nature and pleasantry. This is the universal principle of

comedy; whatever is represented, in this manner must please, and nothing

can ever please without it. It is by application to the study of nature

alone, that we arrive at probability, which is the only infallible guide

to theatrical success: without this probability, every thing is

defective, and that which has it, is beautiful; he that follows this,

can never go wrong; and the most common faults of comedy proceed from

the neglect of propriety, and the precipitation of incidents. Care must,

likewise, be taken, that the hints, made use of to introduce the

incidents, are not too strong, that the spectator may enjoy the pleasure

of finding out their meaning; but commonly the weak place in our comedy

is the untying of the plot, in which we almost always fail, on account

of the difficulty which there is in disentangling of what has been

perplexed. To perplex an intrigue is easy; the imagination does it by

itself; but it must be disentangled merely by the judgment, and is,

therefore, seldom done happily; and he that reflects a very little, will

find, that most comedies are faulty by an unnatural catastrophe. It

remains to be examined, whether comedy will allow pictures larger than

the life, that this strength of the strokes may make a deeper impression

upon the mind of the spectators; that is, if a poet may make a covetous

man more covetous, and a peevish man more impertinent, and more

troublesome than he really is. To which I answer, that this was the

practice of Plautus, whose aim was to please the people, but that

Terence, who wrote for gentlemen, confined himself within the compass of

nature, and represented vice without addition or aggravation. However,

these extravagant characters, such as the Citizen turned gentleman, and

the Hypochrondriac patient of Molière, have lately succeeded at court,

where delicacy is carried so far; but every thing, even to provincial

interludes, is well received, if it has but merriment, for we had rather

laugh than admire. These are the most important rules of comedy.

14. THREE SORTS OF COMEDY.

These rules, indeed, are common to the three kinds which I have in my

mind; but it is necessary to distinguish each from the rest, which may

be done by diversity of matter, which always makes some diversity of

management. The old and middle comedy simply represented real

adventures: in the same way some passages of history and of fable might

form a class of comedies, which should resemble it without having its

faults; such is the Amphitryon. How many moral tales, how many

adventures, ancient and modern; how many little fables of Aesop, of

Phaedrus, of Fontaine, or some other ancient poet, would make pretty

exhibitions, if they were all made use of as materials by skilful hands?

And have we not seen some like Timon the man hater, that have been

successful in this way? This sort chiefly regards the Italians. The

ancient exhibition, called a satire, because the satyrs played their

part in it, of which we have no other instance than the Cyclops of

Euripides, has, without doubt, given occasion to the pastoral comedies,

for which we are chiefly indebted to Italy, and which are there more

cultivated than in France. It is, however, a kind of exhibition that

would have its charms, if it was touched with elegance and without

meanness: it is the pastoral put into action. To conclude, the new

comedy, invented by Menander, has produced the comedy, properly so

called in our times. This is that which has for its subject general

pictures of common life, and feigned names and adventures, whether of

the court or of the city. This third kind is incontestably the most

noble, and has received the strongest sanction from custom. It is,

likewise, the most difficult to perform, because it is merely the work

of invention, in which the poet has no help from real passages or

persons, which the tragick poet always makes use of. Who knows but, by

deep thinking, another kind of comedy may be invented, wholly different

from the three which I have mentioned? such is the fruitfulness of

comedy. But its course is already too wide for the discovery of new

fields to be wished; and on ground where we are already so apt to

stumble, nothing is so dangerous as novelty imperfectly understood. This

is the rock on which men have often split, in every kind of pursuit; to

go no further, in that of grammar and language, it is better to

endeavour after novelty, in the manner of expressing common things, than

to hunt for ideas out of the way, in which many a man loses himself. The

ill success of that odd composition, tragick comedy, a monster wholly

unknown to antiquity,[33] sufficiently shows the danger of novelty in

attempts like these.

15. WHETHER TRAGEDY OR COMEDY BE THE HARDER TO WRITE[34].

To finish the parallel of the two dramas, a question may be revived

equally common and important, which has been oftener proposed than well

decided: it is, whether comedy or tragedy be most easy or difficult to

be well executed. I shall not have the temerity to determine,

positively, a question which so many great geniuses have been afraid to

decide; but, if it be allowed to every literary man to give his reason

for and against a mere work of genius, considered without respect to its

good or bad tendency, I shall, in a few words, give my opinion, drawn

from the nature of the two works, and the qualifications they demand.

Horace[35] proposes a question nearly of the same kind: "It has been

inquired, whether a good poem be the work of art or nature? for my part,

I do not see much to be done by art without genius, nor by genius

without knowledge. The one is necessary to the other, and the success

depends upon their cooperation." If we should endeavour to accommodate

matters in imitation of this decision of Horace, it were easy to say, at

once, that supposing two geniuses equal, one tragick and the other

comick, supposing the art, likewise, equal in each, one would be as easy

or difficult as the other; but this, though satisfactory in the simple

question put by Horace, will not be sufficient here. Nobody can doubt

but genius and industry contribute their part to every thing valuable,

and particularly to good poetry. But if genius and study were to be

weighed one against the other, in order to discover which must

contribute most to a good work, the question would become more curious,

and, perhaps, very difficult of solution. Indeed, though nature must

have a great part of the expanse of poetry, yet no poetry lasts long

that is not very correct: the balance, therefore, seems to incline in

favour of correction. For is it not known that Virgil, with less genius

than Ovid, is yet valued more by men of exquisite judgment; or, without

going so far, Boileau, the Horace of our time, who composed with so much

labour, and asked Molière where he found his rhyme so easily, has said;

"If I write four words, I shall blot out three:" has not Boileau, by his

polished lines, retouched and retouched a thousand times, gained the

preference above the works of the same Molière, which are so natural,

and produced, by so fruitful a genius! Horace was of that opinion, for

when he is teaching the writers of his age the art of poetry, he tells

them, in plain terms, that Rome would excel in writing as in arms, if

the poets were not afraid of the labour, patience, and time required to

polish their pieces. He thought every poem was bad that had not been

brought ten times back to the anvil, and required that a work should be

kept nine years, as a child is nine months in the womb of its mother, to

restrain that natural impatience which combines with sloth and self-love

to disguise faults: so certain is it that correction is the touchstone

of writing.

The question proposed comes back to the comparison which I have been

making between genius and correction, since we are now engaged in

inquiring, whether there is more or less difficulty in writing tragedy

or comedy: for, as we must compare nature and study one with another,

since they must both concur, more or less, to make a poet; so if we will

compare the labours of two different minds in different kinds of

writing, we must, with regard to the authors, compare the force of

genius, and, with respect to the composition, the difficulties of the

task.

The genius of the tragick and comick writer will be easily allowed to be

remote from each other. Every performance, be what it will, requires a

turn of mind which a man cannot confer upon himself; it is purely the

gift of nature, which determines those who have it to pursue, almost in

spite of themselves, the taste which predominates in their minds. Pascal

found in his childhood, that he was a mathematician; and Vandyke, that

he was born a painter. Sometimes this internal direction of the mind

does not make such evident discoveries of itself; but it is rare to find

Corneilles, who have lived long without knowing that they were poets.

Corneille, having once got some notion of his powers, tried a long time,

on all sides, to know what particular direction he should take. He had

first made an attempt in comedy, in an age when it was yet so gross in

France, that it could give no pleasure to polite persons. Melite was so

well received, when he dressed her out, that she gave rise to a new

species of comedy and comedians.

This success, which encouraged Corneille to pursue that sort of comedy,

of which he was the first inventor, left him no reason to imagine, that

he was one day to produce those masterpieces of tragedy, which his muse

displayed afterwards with so much splendour; and yet less did he

imagine, that his comick pieces, which, for want of any that were

preferable, were then very much in fashion, would be eclipsed by another

genius[36] formed upon the Greeks and Romans, and who would add to their

excellencies improvements of his own, and that this modish comedy, to

which Corneille, as to his idol, dedicated his labours, would quickly be

forgot. He wrote first Medea, and afterwards the Cid; and, by that

prodigious flight of his genius, he discovered, though late, that nature

had formed him to run in no other course but that of Sophocles. Happy

genius! that, without rule or imitation, could at once take so high a

flight: having once, as I may say, made himself an eagle, he never

afterwards quitted the path which he had worked out for himself, over

the heads of the writers of his time; yet he retained some traces of the

false taste which infected the whole nation; but even in this, he

deserves our admiration, since, in time, he changed it completely by the

reflections he made, and those he occasioned. In short, Corneille was

born for tragedy, as Molière for comedy. Molière, indeed, knew his own

genius sooner, and was not less happy in procuring applause, though it

often happened to him as to Corneille,

"L'ignorance et l'erreur à ses naissantes pièces,

En habit de marquis, en robes de comtesses,

Vinssent pour diffamer son chef-d'oeuvre nouveau,

Et secouer la têle à l'endroit le plus beau."

But, without taking any farther notice of the time at which either came

to the knowledge of his own genius, let us suppose that the powers of

tragedy and comedy were as equally shared between Molière and Corneille,

as they are different in their own nature, and then nothing more will

remain, than to compare the several difficulties of each composition,

and to rate those difficulties together which are common to both.

It appears, first, that the tragick poet has, in his subject, an

advantage over the comick, for he takes it from history; and his rival,

at least in the more elevated and splendid comedy, is obliged to form it

by his own invention. Now, it is not so easy, as it might seem, to find

comick subjects capable of a new and pleasing form; but history is a

source, if not inexhaustible, yet certainly so copious as never to leave

the genius aground. It is true, that invention seems to have a wider

field than history: real facts are limited in their number, but the

facts which may be feigned have no end; but though, in this respect,

invention may be allowed to have the advantage, is the difficulty of

inventing to be accounted as nothing? To make a tragedy, is to get

materials together, and to make use of them like a skilful architect;

but to make a comedy, is to build like Aesop in the air. It is in vain

to boast that the compass of invention is as wide as the extent of

desire; every thing is limited, and the mind of man like every thing

else. Besides, invention must be in conformity to nature; but distinct

and remarkable characters are very rare in nature herself. Molière has

got hold on the principal touches of ridicule. If any man should bring

characters less strong, he will be in danger of dulness. Where comedy is

to be kept up by subordinate personages, it is in great danger. All the

force of a picture must arise from the principal persons, and not from

the multitude clustered up together. In the same manner, a comedy, to be

good, must be supported by a single striking character, and not by

under-parts.

But, on the contrary, tragick characters are without number, though of

them the general outlines are limited; but dissimulation, jealousy,

policy, ambition, desire of dominion, and other interests and passions,

are various without end, and take a thousand different forms in

different situations of history; so that, as long as there is tragedy,

there may be always novelty. Thus the jealous and dissembling

Mithridates, so happily painted by Racine, will not stand in the way of

a poet, who shall attempt a jealous and dissembling Tiberius. The stormy

violence of an Achilles will always leave room for the stormy violence

of Alexander.

But the case is very different with avarice, trifling vanity, hypocrisy,

and other vices, considered as ridiculous. It would be safer to double

and treble all the tragedies of our greatest poets, and use all their

subjects over and over, as has been done with Oedipus and Sophonisba,

than to bring again upon the stage, in five acts, a Miser, a Citizen

turned gentleman, a Tartuffe, and other subjects sufficiently known. Not

that these popular vices are less capable of diversification, or are

less varied by different circumstances, than the vices and passions of

heroes; but that if they were to be brought over again in comedies, they

would be less distinct, less exact, less forcible, and, consequently,

less applauded. Pleasantry and ridicule must be more strongly marked

than heroism and pathos, which support themselves by their own force.

Besides, though these two things, of so different natures, could support

themselves equally in equal variety, which is very far from being the

case, yet comedy, as it now stands, consists not in incidents, but in

characters. Now it is by incidents only that characters are diversified,

as well upon the stage of comedy, as upon the stage of life. Comedy, as

Molière has left it, resembles the pictures of manners drawn by the

celebrated La Bruyère. Would any man, after him, venture to draw them

over again, he would expose himself to the fate of those who have

ventured to continue them. For instance, what could we add to his

character of the absent man? Shall we put him in other circumstances?

The principal strokes of absence of mind will always be the same; and

there are only those striking touches which are fit for a comedy, of

which, the end is painting after nature, but with strength and

sprightliness, like the designs of Callot. If comedy were among us what

it is in Spain, a kind of romance, consisting of many circumstances and

intrigues, perplexed and disentangled, so as to surprise; if it was

nearly the same with that which Corneille practised in his time; if,

like that of Terence, it went no farther than to draw the common

portraits of simple nature, and show us fathers, sons, and rivals;

notwithstanding the uniformity, which would always prevail, as in the

plays of Terence, and, probably, in those of Menander, whom he imitated

in his four first pieces, there would always be a resource found, either

in variety of incidents, like those of the Spaniards, or in the

repetition of the same characters, in the way of Terence; but the case

is now very different, the publick calls for new characters, and nothing

else. Multiplicity of accidents, and the laborious contrivance of an

intrigue, are not now allowed to shelter a weak genius, that would find

great conveniencies in that way of writing. Nor does it suit the taste

of comedy, which requires an air less constrained, and such freedom and

ease of manners as admits nothing of the romantick. She leaves all the

pomp of sudden events to the novels, or little romances, which were the

diversion of the last age. She allows nothing but a succession of

characters resembling nature, and falling in, without any apparent

contrivance. Racine has, likewise, taught us to give to tragedy the same

simplicity of air and action; he has endeavoured to disentangle it from

that great number of incidents, which made it rather a study than

diversion to the audience, and which show the poet not so much to abound

in invention, as to be deficient in taste. But, notwithstanding all that

he has done, or that we can do, to make it simple, it will always have

the advantage over comedy in the number of its subjects, because it

admits more variety of situations and events, which give variety and

novelty to the characters. A miser, copied after nature, will always be

the miser of Plautus or Molière; but a Nero, or a prince like Nero, will

not always be the hero of Racine. Comedy admits of so little intrigue,

that the miser cannot be shown in any such position as will make his

picture new; but the great events of tragedy may put Nero in such

circumstances, as to make him wholly another character.

But, in the second place, over and above the subjects, may we not say

something concerning the final purpose of comedy and tragedy? The

purpose of the one is to divert, and the other to move; and, of these

two, which is the easier? To go to the bottom of those purposes; to move

is to strike those strings of the heart which are most natural, terrour

and pity; to divert is to make one laugh, a thing which, indeed, is

natural enough, but more delicate. The gentleman and the rustick have

both sensibility and tenderness of heart, perhaps, in greater or less

degree; but as they are men alike, the heart is moved by the same

touches. They both love, likewise, to send their thoughts abroad, and to

expand themselves in merriment; but the springs which must be touched

for this purpose are not the same in the gentleman as in the rustick.

The passions depend on nature, and merriment upon education. The clown

will laugh at a waggery, and the gentleman only at a stroke of delicate

conceit. The spectators of a tragedy, if they have but a little

knowledge, are almost all on a level; but with respect to comedy we have

three classes, if not more, the people, the learned, and the court. If

there are certain cases in which all may be comprehended in the term

people, this is not one of those cases. Whatever father Rapin may say

about it, we are more willing even to admire than to laugh. Every man,

that has any power of distinction, laughs as rarely as the philosopher

admires; for we are not to reckon those fits of laughter which are not

incited by nature, and which are given merely to complaisance, to

respect, flattery, and good-humour; such as break out at sayings which

pretend to smartness in assemblies. The laughter of the theatre is of

another stamp. Every reader and spectator judges of wit by his own

standard, and measures it by his capacity, or by his condition: the

different capacities and conditions of men make them diverted on very

different occasions. If, therefore, we consider the end of the tragick

and comick poet, the comedian must be involved in much more

difficulties, without taking in the obstructions to be encountered

equally by both, in an art which consists in raising the passions, or

the mirth of a great multitude. The tragedian has little to do but to

reflect upon his own thought, and draw from his heart those sentiments

which will certainly make their way to the hearts of others, if he found

them in his own. The other must take many forms, and change himself

almost into as many persons, as he undertakes to satisfy and divert.

It may be said, that, if genius be supposed equal, and success supposed

to depend upon genius, the business will be equally easy and difficult

to one author and to the other. This objection is of no weight; for the

same question still recurs, which is, whether of these two kinds of

genius is more valuable, or more rare? If we proceed by example, and not

by reasoning, we shall decide, I think, in favour of comedy.

It may be said, that, if merely art be considered, it will require

deeper thoughts to form a plan just and simple; to produce happy

surprises, without apparent contrivance; to carry a passion skilfully

through its gradations to its height; to arrive happily to the end by

always moving from it, as Ithaca seemed to fly Ulysses; to unite the

acts and scenes; and to raise, by insensible degrees, a striking

edifice, of which the least merit shall be exactness of proportion. It

may be added, that in comedy this art is infinitely less, for there the

characters come upon the stage with very little artifice or plot; the

whole scheme is so connected that we see it at once, and the plan and

disposition of the parts make a small part of its excellence, in

comparison of a gloss of pleasantry diffused over each scene, which is

more the happy effect of a lucky moment, than of long consideration.

These objections, and many others, which so fruitful a subject might

easily suggest, it is not difficult to refute; and, if we were to judge

by the impression made on the mind by tragedies and comedies of equal

excellence, perhaps, when we examine those impressions, it will be found

that a sally of pleasantry, which diverts all the world, required more

thought than a passage which gave the highest pleasure in tragedy; and,

to this determination we shall be more inclined, when a closer

examination shall show us, that a happy vein of tragedy is opened and

effused at less expense, than a well-placed witticism in comedy has

required, merely to assign its place.

It would be too much to dwell long upon such a digression; and, as I

have no business to decide the question, I leave both that and my

arguments to the taste of each particular reader, who will find what is

to be said for or against it. My purpose was only to say of comedy,

considered as a work of genius, all that a man of letters can be

supposed to deliver without departing from his character, and, without

palliating, in any degree, the corrupt use which has been almost always

made of an exhibition, which, in its nature, might be innocent; but has

been vicious from the time that it has been infected with the wickedness

of men. It is not for publick exhibitions that I am now writing, but for

literary inquiries. The stage is too much frequented, and books too much

neglected: yet it is to the literature of Greece and Rome that we are

indebted for that valuable taste, which will be insensibly lost, by the

affected negligence, which now prevails, of having recourse to

originals. If reason has been a considerable gainer, it must be

confessed that taste has been somewhat a loser.

To return to Aristophanes. So many great men of antiquity, through a

long succession of ages, down to our times, have set a value upon his

works, that we cannot, naturally, suppose them contemptible,

notwithstanding the essential faults with which he may be justly

reproached. It is sufficient to say, that he was esteemed by Plato and

Cicero; and, to conclude, by that which does him most honour, but,

still, falls short of justification, the strong and sprightly eloquence

of St. Chrysostom drew its support from the masculine and vigorous

atticism of this sarcastick comedian, to whom the father paid the same

regard as Alexander to Homer, that of putting his works under his

pillow, that he might read them, at night, before he slept, and, in the

morning, as soon as he awaked.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Published by Mrs. Lennox in 4to. 1759. To the third volume of this

work the following advertisement is prefixed: "In this volume, the

Discourse on the Greek Comedy, and the General Conclusion, are

translated by the celebrated author of the Rambler. The Comedy of

the Birds, and that of Peace, by a young Gentleman. The Comedy of

the Frogs, by the learned and ingenious Dr. Gregory Sharpe. The

Discourse upon the Cyclops, by John Bourrya, esq. The Cyclops, by

Dr. Grainger, author of the translation of Tibullus."

[2] There was a law which forbade any judge of the Areopagus to write

comedy.

[3] Madame Dacier, M. Boivin.

[4] Menander, an Athenian, son of Diopethes and Hegestrates, was,

apparently, the most eminent of the writers of the new comedy. He

had been a scholar of Theophrastus: his passion for the women

brought infamy upon him: he was squinteyed, and very lively. Of the

one hundred and eighty comedies, or, according to Suidas, the eighty

which he composed, and which are all said to be translated by

Terence, we have now only a few fragments remaining. He flourished

about the 115th Olympiad, 318 years before the Christian æra. He was

drowned as he was bathing in the port of Piræus. I have told, in

another place, what is said of one Philemon, his antagonist, not so

good a poet as himself, but one who often gained the prize. This

Philemon was older than him, and was much in fashion in the time of

Alexander the great. He expressed all his wishes in two lines: "To

have health, and fortune, and pleasure, and never to be in debt, is

all I desire." He was very covetous, and was pictured with his

fingers hooked, so that he set his comedies at a high price. He

lived about a hundred years, some say a hundred and one. Many tales

are told of his death. Valerius Maximus says, that he died with

laughing at a little incident: seeing an ass eating his figs, he

ordered his servant to drive her away; the man made no great haste,

and the ass eat them all: "Well done," says Philemon, "now give her

some wine."--Apuleius and Quintilian placed this writer much below

Menander, but give him the second place.

[5] Greek Theatre, part i. vol. i.

[6] Hor. Ar. Poet. v. 275.

[7] Poet. ch. 4.

[8] Ibid.

[9] "The alterations, which have been made in tragedy, were perceptible,

and the authors of them known; but comedy has lain in obscurity,

being not cultivated, like tragedy, from the time of its original;

for it was long before the magistrates began to give comick

choruses. It was first exhibited by actors, who played voluntarily,

without orders of the magistrates. From the time that it began to

take some settled form, we know its authors, but are not informed

who first used masks, added prologues, increased the numbers of the

actors, and joined all the other things which now belong to it. The

first that thought of forming comick fables were Epicharmus and

Phormys, and, consequently, this manner came from Sicily. Crates was

the first Athenian that adopted it, and forsook the practice of

gross raillery that prevailed before." Aristot. ch. 5. Crates

flourished in the 82nd Olympiad, 450 years before our aera, twelve

or thirteen years before Aristophanes.

[10] Eupolis was an Athenian; his death, which we shall mention

presently, is represented differently by authors, who almost all

agree that he was drowned. Elian adds an incident which deserves to

be mentioned: he says (book x. Of Animals,) that one Augeas of

Eleusis, made Eupolis a present of a fine mastiff, who was so

faithful to his master as to worry to death a slave, who was

carrying away some of his comedies. He adds, that, when the poet

died at Egina, his dog staid by his tomb till he perished by grief

and hunger.

[11] Cratinus of Athens, who was son of Callimedes, died at the age of

ninety-seven. He composed twenty comedies, of which nine had the

prize: he was a daring writer, but a cowardly warriour.

[12] Hertelius has collected the sentences of fifty Greek poets of the

different ages of comedy.

[13] Interlude of the second act of the comedy entitled the Acharnians.

[14] Epigram attributed to Plato.

[15] This history of the three ages of comedy, and their different

characters, is taken in part from the valuable fragments of

Platonius.

[16] It will be shown, how, and in what sense, this was allowed.

[17] Perhaps the chorus was forbid in the middle age of the comedy.

Platonius seems to say so.

[18] Despréaux Art Poét. chant. 8.

[19] The year of Rome 514, the first year of the 135th Olympiad.

[20] Praetextae, Togatae, Tabernariae.

[21] Suet. de Claris Grammat. says, that C. Melissus, librarian to

Augustus, was the author of it.

[22] Homer, Odyssey.

[23] Orat. pro Archia Poeta.

[24] In the year of the 85th Olympiad; 437 before our aera, and 317 of

the foundation of Rome.

[25] The Greek comedies have been regarded, by many, in the light of

political journals, the Athenian newspapers of the day, where,

amidst the distortions of caricature, the lineaments of the times

were strongly drawn. See Madame de Staël de la Litérature, c. iii.

--Ed.

[26] Preface to Plautus. Paris, 1684.

[27] Brumoy has mistaken Lucretius for Virgil.

[28] "Morum hujus temporis picturam, velut in speculo, suis in comoediis

repraesentavit Aristophanes." Valckenaer, Oratio de publicis

Atheniensium moribus.--Ed.

[29]

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,

As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

Pope's Essay on Man, ii. 217.

[30] It is not certain, that Aristophanes did procure the death of

Socrates; but, however, he is certainly criminal for having, in the

Clouds, accused him, publickly, of impiety. B.--Many ingenious

arguments have been advanced, since the time of Brumoy and Johnson,

in vindication of Aristophanes, with regard to Socrates. It has

been urged, that a man, of the established character of Socrates,

could not be injured by the dramatic imputation of faults and

follies, from which every individual in the theatre believed him to

be exempt; while the vices of the sophists and rhetors, whom

Aristophanes was really attacking, were placed in a more ludicrous,

or more odious light, by a mental juxta-position with the pure and

stern virtue of the master of Plato. This is very plausible; but it

may still be doubted, whether the greater part of an Athenian

audience, with all their native acuteness and practical criticism,

would, at the moment, detect this subtile irony. If, indeed, it was

irony, for still, with deference to great names be it spoken, it

remains to be disproved, that the Clouds was the introductory step

to a state-impeachment. Irony is, at best, a dangerous weapon, and

has, too frequently, been wielded by vulgar hands, to purposes

widely different from those which its authors designed. The

Tartuffe exposed to the indignation of France, a character, which

every good man detests. But, was the cause of religious sincerity

benefited, by Molière's representation of a sullen, sly, and

sensual hypocrite? Did the French populace discriminate between

such, and the sincere professor of christianity? The facts of the

revolution give an awful answer to the question. Cervantes

ridiculed the fooleries and affectation ingrafted upon knight

errantry. Did he intend to banish honour, humanity and virtue,

loyalty, courtesy and gentlemanly feeling from Spain? The people

understood not irony, and Don Quixote combined with other causes,

to degrade to its present abasement, a land, so long renowned for

her high and honourable chivalry, for "ladye-love, and feats of

knightly worth." See likewise note on Adventurer, 84, and the

references there made; and preface to the Idler.--Ed.

[31] Boileau, Art. Poèt. chant, 3.

[32] Réflexions sur la poét. p. 154. Paris, 1684.

[Transcriber's note: Although opening quotes are present (..."is a

representation...) closing quotes appear to be missing. It is

therefore unclear where this quotation ends.]

[33] [Transcriber's note: "See note to preface to Shakespeare in this

volume, page 103" in original. Page 103 is the first page of the

chapter; the only note on this page reads, "Dr. Johnson's Preface

first appeared in 1765. Malone's Shakespeare, i. 108. and Boswell's

Life of Johnson, i."]

[34] See this subject treated with reference to Shakespeare in preface

to Shakespeare, and notes.

[35] Ar. Poet. v. 407.

[36] Molière.

GENERAL CONCLUSION

TO BRUMOY'S GREEK THEATRE.

1. SUMMARY OF THE FOUR ARTICLES TREATED OF IN THIS DISCOURSE.

Thus I have given a faithful extract of the remains of Aristophanes.

That I have not shown them in their true form, I am not afraid that any

body will complain. I have given an account of every thing, as far as it

was consistent with moral decency. No pen, however cynical or

heathenish, would venture to produce, in open day, the horrid passages

which I have put out of sight; and, instead of regretting any part that

I have suppressed, the very suppression will easily show to what degree

the Athenians were infected with licentiousness of imagination, and

corruption of principles. If the taste of antiquity allows us to

preserve what time and barbarity have hitherto spared, religion and

virtue at least oblige us not to spread it before the eyes of mankind.

To end this work in an useful manner, let us examine, in a few words,

the four particulars which are most striking in the eleven pieces of

Aristophanes.

2. CHARACTER OF ANCIENT COMEDY.

The first is the character of the ancient comedy, which has no likeness

to any thing in nature. Its genius is so wild and strange, that it

scarce admits a definition. In what class of comedy must we place it? It

appears, to me, to be a species of writing by itself. If we had

Phrynicus, Plato, Eupolis, Cratinus, Ameipsias, and so many other

celebrated rivals of Aristophanes, of whom all that we can find are a

few fragments scattered in Plutarch, Athenaeus, and Suidas, we might

compare them with our poet, settle the general scheme, observe the

minuter differences, and form a complete notion of their comick stage.

But, for want of all this, we can fix only on Aristophanes; and it is

true that he may be, in some measure, sufficient to furnish a tolerable

judgment of the old comedy; for, if we believe him, and who can be

better credited? he was the most daring of all his brethren, the poets,

who practised the same kind of writing. Upon this supposition we may

conclude, that the comedy of those days consisted in an allegory drawn

out and continued; an allegory never very regular, but often ingenious,

and almost always carried beyond strict propriety; of satire keen and

biting, but diversified, sprightly, and unexpected; so that the wound

was given before it was perceived. Their points of satire were

thunderbolts, and their wild figures, with their variety and quickness,

had the effect of lightning. Their imitation was carried even to

resemblance of persons, and their common entertainments were a parody of

rival poets joined, if I may so express it, with a parody of manners and

habits.

But it would be tedious to draw out to the reader that which he will

already have perceived better than myself. I have no design to

anticipate his reflections; and, therefore, shall only sketch the

picture, which he must finish by himself: he will pursue the subject

farther, and form to himself a view of the common and domestick life of

the Athenians, of which this kind of comedy was a picture, with some

aggravation of the features: he will bring within his view all the

customs, manners, and vices, and the whole character of the people of

Athens. By bringing all these together he will fix in his mind an

indelible idea of a people, in whom so many contrarieties were united,

and who, in a manner that can scarce be expressed, connected nobility

with the cast of Athens, wisdom with madness, rage for novelty with a

bigotry for antiquity, the politeness of a monarchy with the roughness

of a republick, refinement with coarseness, independence with slavery,

haughtiness with servile compliance, severity of manners with

debauchery, a kind of irreligion with piety. We shall do this in

reading; as, in travelling through different nations, we make ourselves

masters of their characters by combining their different appearances,

and reflecting upon what we see.

3. THE GOVERNMENT OF THE ATHENIANS.

The government of Athens makes a fine part of the ancient comedy. In

most states the mystery of government is confined within the walls of

the cabinets; even in commonwealths it does not pass but through five or

six heads, who rule those that think themselves the rulers. Oratory

dares not touch it, and comedy still less. Cicero himself did not speak

freely upon so nice a subject as the Roman commonwealth; but the

Athenian eloquence was informed of the whole secret, and searches the

recesses of the human mind, to fetch it out and expose it to the people.

Demosthenes, and his contemporaries, speak with a freedom at which we

are astonished, notwithstanding the notion we have of a popular

government; yet, at what time but this did comedy adventure to claim the

same rights with civil eloquence? The Italian comedy of the last age,

all daring as it was, could, for its boldness, come into no competition

with the ancient. It was limited to general satire, which was sometimes

carried so far, that the malignity was overlooked in an attention to the

wild exaggeration, the unexpected strokes, the pungent wit, and the

malignity concealed under such wild flights as became the character of

harlequin. But though it so far resembled Aristophanes, our age is yet

at a great distance from his, and the Italian comedy from his scenes.

But with respect to the liberty of censuring the government, there can

be no comparison made of one age or comedy with another. Aristophanes is

the only writer of his kind, and is, for that reason, of the highest

value. A powerful state, set at the head of Greece, is the subject of

his merriment, and that merriment is allowed by the state itself. This

appears to us an inconsistency; but it is true that it was the interest

of the state to allow it, though not always without inconveniency. It

was a restraint upon the ambition and tyranny of single men, a matter of

great importance to a people so very jealous of their liberty. Cleon,

Alcibiades, Lamachus, and many other generals and magistrates were kept

under by fear of the comick strokes of a poet so little cautious as

Aristophanes. He was once, indeed, in danger of paying dear for his wit.

He professed, as he tells us himself, to be of great use by his writings

to the state; and rated his merit so high as to complain that he was not

rewarded. But, under pretence of this publick spirit, he spared no part

of the publick conduct; neither was government, councils, revenues,

popular assemblies, secret proceedings in judicature, choice of

ministers, the government of the nobles, or that of the people, spared.

The Acharnians, the Peace, and the Birds, are eternal monuments of the

boldness of the poet, who was not afraid of censuring the government for

the obstinate continuance of a ruinous war, for undertaking new ones,

and feeding itself with wild imaginations, and running to destruction,

as it did, for an idle point of honour.

Nothing can be more reproachful to the Athenians than his play of the

Knights, where he represents, under an allegory, that may be easily seen

through, the nation of the Athenians, as an old doting fellow tricked by

a new man, such as Cleon and his companions, who were of the same stamp.

A single glance upon Lysistrata, and the Female Orators, must raise

astonishment, when the Athenian policy is set below the schemes of

women, whom the author makes ridiculous, for no other reason than, to

bring contempt upon their husbands, who held the helm of government.

The Wasps is written to expose the madness of the people for lawsuits

and litigations; and a multitude of iniquities are laid open.

It may easily be gathered, that, notwithstanding the wise laws of Solon,

which they still professed to follow, the government was falling into

decay, for we are not to understand the jest of Aristophanes in the

literal sense. It is plain that the corruption, though we should suppose

it but half as much as we are told, was very great, for it ended in the

destruction of Athens, which could scarce raise its head again, after it

had been taken by Lysander. Though we consider Aristophanes, as a comick

writer who deals in exaggeration, and bring down his stories to their

true standard, we still find that the fundamentals of their government

fail in almost all the essential points. That the people were inveigled

by men of ambition; that all councils and decrees had their original in

factious combinations; that avarice and private interest animated all

their policy to the hurt of the publick; that their revenues were ill

managed, their allies improperly treated; that their good citizens were

sacrificed, and the bad put in places; that a mad eagerness for judicial

litigation took up all their attention within, and that war was made

without, not so much with wisdom and precaution, as with temerity and

good-luck; that the love of novelty and fashion, in the manner of

managing the publick affairs, was a madness universally prevalent; and

that, as Melanthius says in Plutarch, the republick of Athens was

continued only by the perpetual discord of those that managed its

affairs. This remedied the dishonour by preserving the equilibrium, and

was kept always in action by eloquence and comedy.

This is what, in general, may be drawn from the reading Aristophanes.

The sagacity of the readers will go farther; they will compare the

different forms of government, by which that tumultuous people

endeavoured to regulate or increase the democracy, which forms were all

fatal to the state, because they were not built upon lasting

foundations, and had all in them the principles of destruction. A

strange contrivance it was to perpetuate a state, by changing the just

proportion which Solon had wisely settled between the nobles and the

people, and by opening a gate to the skilful ambition of those who had

art or courage enough to force themselves into the government by means

of the people, whom they flattered with protections, that they might

more certainly crush them.

4. THE TRAGICK POETS RALLIED.

Another part of the works of Aristophanes, are his pleasant reflections

upon the most celebrated poets. The shafts which he lets fly at the

three heroes of tragedy, and particularly at Euripides, might incline

the reader to believe that he had little esteem for those great men, and

that, probably, the spectators that applauded him were of his opinion.

This conclusion would not be just, as I have already shown by arguments,

which, if I had not offered them, the reader might have discovered

better than I. But, that I may leave no room for objections, and prevent

any shadow of captiousness, I shall venture to observe, that posterity

will not consider Racine as less a master of the French stage, because

his plays were ridiculed by parodies. Parody always fixes upon the best

pieces, and was more to the taste of the Greeks than to ours. At

present, the high theatres give it up to stages of inferiour rank; but

in Athens the comick theatre considered parody as its principal

ornament, for a reason which is worth examining. The ancient comedy was

not, like ours, a remote and delicate imitation; it was the art of gross

mimickry, and would have been supposed to have missed its aim, had it

not copied the mien, the walk, the dress, the motions of the face of

those whom it exhibited. Now parody is an imitation of this kind; it is

a change of serious to burlesque, by a slight variation of words,

inflection of voice, or an imperceptible art of mimickry. Parody is to

poetry, as a masque to a face. As the tragedies of Eschylus, of

Sophocles, and of Euripides were much in fashion, and were known by

memory to the people, the parodies upon them would naturally strike and

please, when they were accompanied by the grimaces of a good comedian,

who mimicked with archness a serious character. Such is the malignity of

human nature; we love to laugh at those whom we esteem most, and by this

make ourselves some recompense for the unwilling homage which we pay to

merit. The parodies upon these poets, made by Aristophanes, ought to be

considered rather as encomiums than satires. They give us occasion to

examine whether the criticisms are just or not in themselves; but, what

is more important, they afford no proof that Euripides, or his

predecessors, wanted the esteem of Aristophanes or his age. The statues

raised to their honour, the respect paid by the Athenians to their

writings, and the careful preservation of those writings themselves, are

immortal testimonies in their favour, and make it unnecessary for me to

stop any longer upon so plausible a solution of so frivolous an

objection.

5. FREQUENT RIDICULE OF THE GODS.

The most troublesome difficulty, and that which, so far as I know, has

not yet been cleared to satisfaction, is the contemptuous manner in

which Aristophanes treats the gods. Though I am persuaded, in my own

mind, that I have found the true solution of this question, I am not

sure that it will make more impression than that of M. Boivin, who

contents himself with saying, that every thing was allowed to the comick

poets; and that even atheism was permitted to the licentiousness of the

stage; that the Athenians applauded all that made them laugh; and

believed that Jupiter himself laughed with them at the smart sayings of

a poet. Mr. Collier[1], an Englishman, in his remarks upon their stage,

attempts to prove that Aristophanes was an open atheist. For my part, I

am not satisfied with the account either of one or the other, and think

it better to venture a new system, of which I have already dropped some

hints in this work. The truth is, that the Athenians professed to be

great laughers, always ready for merriment on whatever subject. But it

cannot be conceived that Aristophanes should, without punishment,

publish himself an atheist, unless we suppose that atheism was the

opinion, likewise, of the spectators, and of the judges commissioned to

examine the plays; and yet this cannot be suspected of those who boasted

themselves the most religious nation, and, naturally, the most

superstitious of all Greece. How can we suppose those to be atheists who

passed sentence upon Diagoras, Socrates, and Alcibiades for impiety!

These are glaring inconsistencies. To say, like M. Boivin, for sake of

getting clear of the difficulty, that Alcibiades, Socrates, and Diagoras

attacked religion seriously, and were, therefore, not allowed, but that

Aristophanes did it in jest, or was authorized by custom, would be to

trifle with the difficulty, and not to clear it. Though the Athenians

loved merriment, it is not likely that, if Aristophanes had professed

atheism, they would have spared him more than Socrates, who had as much

life and pleasantry in his discourses, as the poet in his comedies. The

pungent raillery of Aristophanes, and the fondness of the Athenians for

it, are, therefore, not the true reason why the poet was spared, when

Socrates was condemned. I shall now solve the question with great

brevity.

The true answer to this question is given by Plutarch in his treatise of

reading of the poets. Plutarch attempts to prove, that youth is not to

be prohibited the reading of the poets, but to be cautioned against such

parts as may have bad effects. They are first to be prepossessed with

this leading principle, that poetry is false and fabulous. He then

enumerates, at length, the fables which Homer and other poets have

invented about their deities, and concludes thus: "When, therefore,

there is found in poetical compositions any thing strange and shocking,

with respect to gods or demi-gods, or concerning the virtue of any

excellent and renowned characters, he that should receive these fictions

as truth, would be corrupted by an erroneous opinion; but he that always

keeps in his mind the fables and allusions, which it is the business of

poetry to contrive, will not be injured by these stories, nor receive

any ill impressions upon his thoughts, but will be ready to censure

himself, if, at any time, he happens to be afraid, lest Neptune, in his

rage, should split the earth, and lay open the infernal regions." Some

pages afterwards, he tells us, "that religion is a thing difficult of

comprehension, and above the understanding of poets; which it is," says

he, "necessary to have in mind when we read their fables."

The pagans, therefore, had their fables, which they distinguished from

their religion; for no one can be persuaded that Ovid intended his

Metamorphoses, as a true representation of the religion of the Romans.

The poets were allowed their imaginations about their gods, as things

which have no regard to the publick worship. Upon this principle, I say,

as I said before, there was, amongst the pagans, two sorts of religion;

one a poetical, and the other a real religion; one practical, the other

theatrical; a mythology for the poets, a theology for use. They had

fables, and a worship, which, though founded upon fable, was yet very

different.

Diagoras, Socrates, Plato, and the philosophers of Athens, with Cicero,

their admirer, and the other pretended wise men of Rome are men by

themselves. These were the atheists with respect to the ancients. We

must not, therefore, look into Plato, or into Cicero, for the real

religion of the pagans, as distinct from the fabulous. These two authors

involve themselves in the clouds, that their opinions may not be

discovered. They durst not openly attack the real religion; but

destroyed it by attacking fable. To distinguish here, with exactness,

the agreement or difference between fable and religion, is not, at

present, my intention. It is not easy[2] to show, with exactness, what

was the Athenian notion of the nature of the gods whom they worshipped.

Plutarch himself tells us, that this was a thing very difficult for the

philosophers. It is sufficient for me that the mythology and theology of

the ancients were different at the bottom; that the names of the gods

continued the same; and that long custom gave up one to the caprices of

the poets, without supposing the other affected by them. This being once

settled upon the authority of the ancients themselves, I am no longer

surprised to see Jupiter, Minerva, Neptune, Bacchus, appear upon the

stage in the comedy of Aristophanes, and, at the same time, receiving

incense in the temples of Athens. This is, in my opinion, the most

reasonable account of a thing so obscure; and I am ready to give up my

system to any other, by which the Athenians shall be made more

consistent with themselves; those Athenians who sat laughing at the gods

of Aristophanes, while they condemned Socrates for having appeared to

despise the gods of his country.

6. THE MIMI AND PANTOMIMES.

A word is now to be spoken of the _mimi_, which had some relation to

comedy. This appellation was, by the Greeks and Romans, given to certain

dramatick performances, and to the actors that played them. The

denomination sufficiently shows, that their art consisted in imitation

and buffoonery. Of their works, nothing, or very little, is remaining;

so that they can only be considered, by the help of some passages in

authors, from which little is to be learned that deserves consideration.

I shall extract the substance, as I did with respect to the chorus,

without losing time, by defining all the different species, or producing

all the quotations, which would give the reader more trouble than

instruction. He that desires fuller instructions may read Vossius,

Valois, Saumaises, and Gataker, of whose compilations, however learned,

I should think it shame to be the author.

The mimi had their original from comedy, of which, at its first

appearance, they made a part; for their mimick actors always played and

exhibited grotesque dances in the comedies. The jealousy of rivalship

afterwards broke them off from the comick actors, and made them a

company by themselves. But to secure their reception, they borrowed from

comedy all its drollery, wildness, grossness, and licentiousness. This

amusement they added to their dances, and they produced what are now

called farces, or burlettas. These farces had not the regularity or

delicacy of comedies; they were only a succession of single scenes,

contrived to raise laughter, formed or unravelled without order, and

without connexion. They had no other end but to make the people laugh.

Now and then there might be good sentences, like the sentences of P.

Syrus, that are yet left us, but the groundwork was low comedy, and any

thing of greater dignity drops in by chance. We must, however, imagine,

that this odd species of the drama rose, at length, to somewhat a higher

character, since we are told that Plato, the philosopher, laid the mimi

of Sophron under his pillow, and they were found there after his death.

But in general we may say, with truth, that it always discovered the

meanness of its original, like a false pretension to nobility, in which

the cheat is always discovered, through the concealment of fictitious

splendour.

These mimi were of two sorts, of which the length was different, but the

purposes the same. The mimi of one species were short; those of the

other long, and not quite so grotesque. These two kinds were subdivided

into many species, distinguished by the dresses and characters, such as

show drunkards, physicians, men, and women.

Thus far of the Greeks. The Romans, having borrowed of them the more

noble shows of tragedy and comedy, were not content till they had their

rhapsodies. They had their _planipedes_, who played with flat soles,

that they might have the more agility; and their _sannions_, whose head

was shaved, that they might box the better. There is no need of naming

here all who had a name for these diversions among the Greeks and

Romans. I have said enough, and, perhaps, too much of this abortion of

comedy, which drew upon itself the contempt of good men, the censures of

the magistrates, and the indignation of the fathers of the church[3].

Another set of players were called pantomimes: these were, at least, so

far preferable to the former, that they gave no offence to the ears.

They spoke only to the eyes; but with such art of expression, that,

without the utterance of a single word, they represented, as we are

told, a complete tragedy or comedy, in the same manner as dumb harlequin

is exhibited on our theatres. These pantomimes, among the Greeks, first

mingled singing with their dances; afterwards, about the time of Livius

Andronicus, the songs were performed by one part, and the dances by

another. Afterwards, in the time of Augustus, when they were sent for to

Rome, for the diversions of the people, whom he had enslaved, they

played comedies without songs or vocal utterance, but by the

sprightliness, activity, and efficacy of their gestures; or, as Sidonius

Apollinaris expresses it, "clausis faucibus, et loquente gestu." They

not only exhibited things and passions, but even the most delicate

distinctions of passions, and the slightest circumstances of facts. We

must not, however, imagine, at least, in my opinion, that the pantomimes

did literally represent regular tragedies or comedies by the mere

motions of their bodies. We may justly determine, notwithstanding all

their agility, their representations would, at last, be very incomplete:

yet we may suppose, with good reason, that their action was very lively,

and that the art of imitation went great lengths, since it raised the

admiration of the wisest men, and made the people mad with eagerness.

Yet, when we read that one Hylas, the pupil of one Pylades, in the time

of Augustus, divided the applauses of the people with his master, when

they represented Oedipus; or when Juvenal tells us, that Bathillus

played Leda, and other things of the same kind, it is not easy to

believe that a single man, without speaking a word, could exhibit

tragedies or comedies, and make starts and bounds supply the place of

vocal articulation. Notwithstanding the obscurity of this whole matter,

one may know what to admit as certain, or how far a representation could

be carried by dance, posture and grimace. Among these artificial dances,

of which we know nothing but the names, there was, as early as the time

of Aristophanes, some extremely indecent. These were continued in Italy

from the time of Augustus, long after the emperours. It was a publick

mischief, which contributed, in some measure, to the decay and ruin of

the Roman empire. To have a due detestation of those licentious

entertainments, there is no need of any recourse to the fathers; the

wiser pagans tell us, very plainly, what they thought of them. I have

made this mention of the mimi and pantomimes, only to show how the most

noble of publick spectacles were corrupted and abused, and to conduct

the reader to the end through every road, and through all the by-paths

of human wit, from Homer and Eschylus to our own time.

7. WANDERINGS OF THE HUMAN MIND IN THE BIRTH, AND PROGRESS OF THEATRICAL

REPRESENTATIONS.

That we may conclude this work by applying the principles laid down at

the beginning, and extended through the whole, I desire the reader to

recur to that point, where I have represented the human mind as

beginning the course of the drama. The chorus was first a hymn to

Bacchus, produced by accident; art brought it to perfection, and delight

made it a publick diversion. Thespis made a single actor play before the

people; this was the beginning of theatrical shows. Eschylus, taking the

idea of the Iliad and Odyssey, animates, if I may so express it, the

epick poem, and gives a dialogue in place of simple recitation; puts the

whole into action, and sets it before the eyes, as if it was a present

and real transaction; he gives the chorus[4] an interest in the scenes;

contrives habits of dignity and theatrical decorations: in a word, he

gives both to Tragedy; or, more properly, draws it from the bosom of the

epick poem. She made her appearance, sparkling with graces, and

displayed such majesty, as gained every heart at the first view.

Sophocles considers her more nearly, with the eyes of a critick, and

finds that she has something still about her rough and swelling; he

divests her of her false ornaments; teaches her a more regular walk, and

more familiar dignity. Euripides was of opinion, that she ought to

receive still more softness and tenderness; he teaches her the new art

of pleasing by simplicity, and gives her the charms of graceful

negligence; so that he makes her stand in suspense, whether she appears

most to advantage in the dress of Sophocles, sparkling with gems, or in

that of Euripides, which is more simple and modest. Both, indeed, are

elegant; but the elegance is of different kinds, between which no

judgment, as yet, has decided the prize of superiority.

We can now trace it no farther; its progress amongst the Greeks is out

of sight. We must pass at once to the time of Augustus, when Apollo and

the Muses quitted their ancient residence in Greece, to fix their abode

in Italy. But it is vain to ask questions of Melpomene; she is

obstinately silent, and we only know, from strangers, her power amongst

the Romans. Seneca endeavours to make her speak; but the gaudy show,

with which he rather loads than adorns her, makes us think, that he took

some phantom of Melpomene for the Muse herself.

Another flight, equally rapid with that to Rome, must carry us through

thousands of years, from Rome to France. There, in the time of Lewis the

fourteenth, we see the mind of man giving birth to tragedy a second

time, as if the Greek tragedy had been utterly forgot. In the place of

Eschylus, we have our Rotrou; in Corneille, we have another Sophocles;

and in Racine, a second Euripides. Thus is Tragedy raised from her

ashes, carried to the utmost point of greatness, and so dazzling, that

she prefers herself to herself. Surprised to see herself produced again

in France, in so short a time, and nearly in the same manner as before

in Greece, she is disposed to believe that her fate is to make a short

transition from her birth to her perfection, like the goddess that

issued from the brain of Jupiter.

If we look back on the other side, to the rise of Comedy, we shall see

her hatched from the Margites, or from the Odyssey of Homer, the

imitation of her eldest sister; but we see her, under the conduct of

Aristophanes, become licentious and petulant, taking airs to herself,

which the magistrates were obliged to crush. Menander reduced her to

bounds, taught her, at once, gaiety and politeness, and enabled her to

correct vice, without shocking the offenders. Plautus, among the Romans,

to whom we must now pass, united the earlier and the later comedy, and

joined buffoonery with delicacy. Terence, who was better instructed,

received comedy from Menander, and surpassed his original, as he

endeavoured to copy it. And lastly, Molière produced a new species of

comedy, which must be placed in a class by itself, in opposition to that

of Aristophanes, whose manner is, likewise, peculiar to himself.

But such is the weakness of the human mind, that, when we review the

successions of the drama a third time, we find genius falling from its

height, forgetting itself, and led astray by the love of novelty, and

the desire of striking out new paths. Tragedy degenerated, in Greece,

from the time of Aristotle, and, in Rome, after Augustus. At Rome and

Athens, comedy produced mimi, pantomimes, burlettas, tricks, and farces,

for the sake of variety; such is the character, and such the madness of

the mind of man. It is satisfied with having made great conquests, and

gives them up to attempt others which are far from answering its

expectation, and only enable it to discover its own folly, weakness and

deviations. But, why should we be tired with standing still at the true

point of perfection, when it is attained? If eloquence be wearied, and

forgets herself awhile, yet she soon returns to her former point: so

will it happen to our theatres, if the French Muses will keep the Greek

models in their view, and not look, with disdain, upon a stage, whose

mother is nature, whose soul is passion, and whose art is simplicity: a

stage, which, to speak the truth, does not, perhaps, equal ours in

splendour and elevation, but which excels it in simplicity and

propriety, and equals it, at least, in the conduct and direction of

those passions, which may properly affect an honest man and a christian.

For my part, I shall think myself well recompensed for my labour, and

shall attain the end which I had in view, if I shall, in some little

measure, revive in the minds of those, who purpose to run the round of

polite literature, not an immoderate and blind reverence, but a true

taste of antiquity: such a taste, as both feeds and polishes the mind,

and enriches it, by enabling it to appropriate the wealth of foreigners,

and to exert its natural fertility in exquisite productions; such a

taste as gave the Racines, the Molières, the Boileaus, the Fontaines,

the Patrus, the Pelissons, and many other great geniuses of the last

age, all that they were, and all that they will always be; such a taste,

as puts the seal of immortality to those works in which it is

discovered; a taste, so necessary, that, without it, we may be certain,

that the greatest powers of nature will long continue in a state below

themselves; for no man ought to allow himself to be flattered or

seduced, by the example of some men of genius, who have rather appeared

to despise this taste, than to despise it in reality. It is true, that

excellent originals have given occasion, without any fault of their own,

to very bad copies. No man ought severely to ape either the ancients or

the moderns; but, if it was necessary, to run into an extreme of one

side or the other, which is never done by a judicious and well-directed

mind, it would be better for a wit, as for a painter, to enrich himself

by what he can take from the ancients, than to grow poor by taking all

from his own stock; or openly to affect an imitation of those moderns,

whose more fertile genius has produced beauties, peculiar to themselves,

and which themselves only can display with grace: beauties of that

peculiar kind, that they are not fit to be imitated by others; though,

in those who first invented them, they may be justly esteemed, and in

them only[5].

FOOTNOTES:

[1] View of the immorality and profaneness of the English stage, by

Jeremy Collier. 1698.--Ed.

[2] See St. Paul, upon the subject of the Ignoto Deo.

[3] It is the licentiousness of the mimi and pantomimes, against which

the censure of the holy fathers particularly breaks out, as against

a thing irregular and indecent, without supposing it much connected

with the cause of religion.

[4] Eschylus, in my opinion, as well as the other poets, his

contemporaries, retained the chorus, not merely because it was the

fashion, but because, examining tragedy to the bottom, they found it

not rational to conceive, that an action, great and splendid, like

the revolution of a state, could pass without witnesses.