It has been observed by an able and popular writer[2] of the present
day, that the following proposition, though very generally received, is
far from being a true one: “Tragedy improves and exalts the nature of
man, while Comedy has a tendency to lower it.” Now I profess also to
believe rather in the converse of this proposition, and shall endeavour
in this essay to establish that belief in the minds of my readers, by
the same line of argument that originally induced me to adopt it. With
the generality of persons, who are not in the habit of reasoning upon
subjects of this nature, this question would perhaps be decided, and the
preference awarded to either species of the drama, according to the
peculiar organization of each person: I mean, that those who are
naturally grave, would be more gratified by being affected, and by
having an appeal made to their feelings; while on the other hand, those
who are of a freer temperament, and never dream of brooding over
misfortune, would doubtless prefer being amused. If this remark carries
any weight with it, egotism will be so far necessary to my argument,
that I may be excused for saying thus much:--I suspect myself to be
classed, by nature, under the first of these divisions, and am the more
entitled to a fair hearing, because I argue against feeling and natural
inclination.
[2] Lord John Russell.
Perhaps I shall be able to lay more clearly before the reader, my
reasoning on this interesting as well as important subject, by
considering Tragedy and Comedy respectively, under three distinct
heads:--1st. with respect to the particular sphere or province of each;
2ndly, their plot and characters; and 3rdly, the end or design in view.
First, then, as to the province of Tragedy. Tragedy professes to be a
representation of all the high passions that influence the mind, such as
jealousy, hatred, or revenge; it can have nothing to do with vanity or
any other of the petty passions, for a course of action dependent on
them would appear as insignificant in Tragedy as the passions
themselves. Now, what possible advantage, in the way of improvement, can
be derived from witnessing a display of all the odious passions of our
nature? Some benefit might indeed be derived, if a moral were attached
to Tragedy, but it has no moral (at least very rarely) and for this
simple reason: Tragedy professes to be a speaking picture of life,--and
it is a melancholy but true reflection, that as in real life we see the
deserving depressed, and the bad man flourishing in the world, so also
it ought to be in Tragedy. Let us take _Macbeth_ or _Richard the Third_
as examples of this: we see here two men, by a succession of crime,
arriving at the pinnacle of their ambition, and rewarded for giving way
to their passions. There is little or no moral in the death of either,
for every honest soldier in their armies was subjected to the same fate,
and many of course met with it; so far from being disgraceful, falling
in battle is regarded as an honourable end, and it is the death a brave
man might wish to die. Secondly, let us consider the plot in Tragedy,
and the characters it works with: the plot is rarely fictitious, but is
generally built either on fact, or on some event that the antiquated
errors of fable or history have made sacred; not having in this respect
the advantage which Comedy possesses from liberty of invention, and
correcting thereby the inequalities of life; and having also the
additional fault of laying its scenes for the most part in a foreign
country. The characters of Tragedy are always selected from high life;
here is a great defect, for it is by no means a true observation, that
men are inclined greatly to pity the misfortunes of their superiors; on
the contrary, they are secretly rejoiced at seeing them fall from a
situation so much above their own; whereas they sympathize more with
their equals, and take a much greater interest in a course of events
that is likely to occur to themselves. Thirdly, let us look to the end
that Tragedy has in view. The main object in a tragic representation is
to excite pity and terror in the spectators; in this definition I am
amply borne out by authority, for not only Gibbon, Addison, and others,
but Voltaire and even Aristotle, have used these very expressions; now
how can we be benefited by the excitement of these feelings? Pity is at
the best but a feminine virtue, and by giving way to it, the mind, if
not enervated, is at any rate not strengthened; and with regard to
terror, a man under its influence is incapable of any reflection
whatever. When we witness, for instance, the tragedy of _Macbeth_, the
mind, after such a scene of human villany is rather inclined to become
morbid than to feel either dignified or improved.
We will now turn to Comedy, which, in order to compare more
satisfactorily with Tragedy, we will consider under the same view.
First, then, the province of Comedy is with the follies and foibles or
our nature; it is generally, and it ought always to be, a speaking
picture of national faults, and should satirize the people of the
country where it is represented, by which means a much greater scope is
afforded for the improvement of the spectator. It is not so confined in
its sphere as Tragedy is, for it may affect as well as amuse; there
should be a proper mixture of gravity with mirth, and that succession of
ridiculous and pathetic events with which the life of man is variegated.
But the main superiority of Comedy consists in its having what Tragedy
wants, a moral. It is true that the enlightened portion of the audience
do not require this moral; no farther interested in the scene they
witness than as being spectators of it, they sit by in silence, void of
all passion, and learn in silence a lesson that speaks for itself, and
will have its certain effect on their future lives; but the greater part
of the audience, not being capable either of accurate reasoning or deep
reflection, require to be told what is right, and to have its
distinction from wrong pointed out to them; as in a fable, its point
would be useless to most men without its concomitant moral. Secondly,
the plot of Comedy (as I have said before) is for the most part
fictitious, and refers to national manners, the advantages of both which
peculiarities I have already had occasion to refer to; the characters
also being selected from private as well as public life, from low as
well as polite company, afford Comedy a far wider field to range in than
Tragedy can boast. Comedy introduces us to the cottage as well as the
palace, and displays the economy of one as well as the splendour of the
other; and it can amuse us with the intrigues of a citizen’s wife, as
well as interest us with the passion of a princess. We see also in
Comedy, as well as in the world itself, the despicable character of the
rake, and the disgusting vanity of the coquette; we learn to distinguish
between the different traits of character, and we soon find that those
whose language is that of men of honour, often act like knaves. It is
all this diversity that makes Comedy so pleasing as well as so
instructive. Thirdly, the end that Comedy has in view, is to bring about
improvement by exciting contempt and ridicule: by thus mixing ridicule
with vice, we feel a positive enjoyment in seeing it exposed, and it is
by this powerful engine that the manners of a people may be insensibly
improved. A satirical exhibition will at all times explode vice better
than serious argument; and it was from a conviction of this that the
Lacedemonians intoxicated their unhappy slaves in order that the
children of the state, by seeing the despicable state to which
drunkenness reduced a man, might learn a lesson that wanted no
explanation. In short, I think a theatrical representation may cure our
faults, but it can hardly subdue our more powerful vices; it may give a
check to our follies, but it will never succeed in curbing our passions.
When a man is under the sway of any particular passion, it is too firmly
rooted in his disposition to be eradicated by sitting a few hours in the
pit of a theatre; but with our petty foibles it is very different;
ridicule can, and often does, cure them, when it can be brought into
play against them; which, however, is not very often in real life, for a
man is more inclined to resent an attack upon his faults than his vices,
and would rather be thought the slave of his passions than be known to
have given way to a single weakness.
There is another great difference between Tragedy and Comedy, and that
is, with regard to diction: the language made use of by Comedy is
natural and proper, while that of Tragedy is laboured and elevated; we
meet not unfrequently with long declamation and sentences highly
polished, whereas passion never speculates in this manner; the feelings
of nature dictate the simplest language, and generally find a vent in
broken sentences, as we find them in the Greek tragedians.
The unities of the drama are rules which are the result of good sense,
and serve greatly to heighten the entertainment of the stage; they
undoubtedly tend to keep up the necessary illusion that we are
witnessing scenes in real life, and the more they are acted up to, the
greater is the merit of the piece, and the more perfect the effect
produced. Now, Comedy rarely breaks through these rules; for, from its
nature, the events recorded are frequently comprised within the space of
a day; and there is the same regard paid (as far as it is possible) to
unity of place as well as time. Tragedy, at least modern Tragedy, (with
the exception of _Cato_ and one or two more) entirely disregards these
rules, and we sometimes find the hero of the piece has grown ten years
older within the short space between the acts, or else that he has
travelled from one country to another in the same period of time. Thus,
in _Julius Caesar_, Brutus, in one act is at Rome, and another in
Thessaly. Again, in _Coriolanus_, now we find him expelled by the
Romans, afterwards residing amongst the Volscians, and eventually
marching an immense army to the gates of Rome; all within the space of
two or three hours: this is a sad blow to any scenic illusion, and tends
to weaken, if it does not entirely break, the thread of the imagination.
There is one point in which I consider both Tragedy and Comedy, in
modern days, to be at fault, and that is in the constant introduction of
love on our stage. We cannot frequent the theatre without being sickened
by the repetition of some nauseous courtship and love-making, the
particulars of which, even in real life, can be agreeable to none but
the parties themselves. This blemish is said to have arisen during the
earlier periods of the drama, from the vanity of the female sex; who,
however much they were kept under control, and their opinions
disregarded in ancient days, have amply made up for that restriction
now, by taking matters of taste entirely under their direction. It is
said, that when modern play-writing first came in fashion, the ladies
refused to honour the theatre with their presence, unless their
inclinations were more attended to, and love was made the burthen of the
song. Accordingly, we find even the pure taste of Addison giving in to
this demand, and the otherwise beautiful tragedy of _Cato_ (for even the
unities are preserved in it) is spoiled by two stupid love plots, that
not only disfigure it, but throw a complete weariness over the whole.
With the ancients it was very different, and amongst all those splendid
Greek compositions which are regarded as models for the drama, we find
none of them, with the exception of Hippolitus, in which there is any of
this trifling with love affairs.
Before I close these observations, let me add, that in looking at this
question, we must consent to throw off our national prejudices; and in
drawing the comparison, not to regard English plays, whether tragic or
comic, as the standards of perfection. English Comedy is not only
considered inferior to that of most nations, but it is in many respects
bad in its tendency, and may almost be looked upon as a school for
vanity. To conclude, instead of regarding the drama as it is, I have
rather endeavoured to consider it as it should be.