which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the
greatest accuracy. This is no easy work, especially where such harmony
is to be supported during the course of a long theatrical
representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is
necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the
personage represented. This requires an uncommon genius. But it is the
only difficulty; for the writer, who, forgetting himself, can thus
personate another, so as to feel truly and distinctly the various
agitations of the passion, need be in no pain about the sentiments:
these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will
frequently be as delightfully new to himself as afterward to his reader.
But if a lively picture even of a single emotion require an effort of
genius; how much greater must the effort be, to compose a passionate
dialogue, in which there are as many different tones of passion as there
are speakers? With what ductility of feeling ought a writer to be
endued who aims at perfection in such a work; when, to execute it
correctly, it is necessary to assume different and even opposite
characters and passions, in the quickest succession? And yet this work,
difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a dialogue in genteel
comedy devoid of passion; where the sentiments must be tuned to the
nicer and more delicate tones of different characters. That the latter
is the more difficult task, appears from considering, that a character
is greatly more complex than a passion, and that passions are more
distinguishable from each other than characters are. Many writers
accordingly who have no genius for characters, make a shift to
represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its plain movements.
But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most difficult, is a
characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject. To interweave
characters with reasoning, by adapting to the peculiar character of each
speaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expression, requires
the perfection of genius, taste, and judgement.
How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reasoning,
from the imperfect compositions of this kind found without number in all
languages. The art of mimicking any singularity in voice or gesture, is
a rare talent, though directed by sight and hearing, the acutest and
most lively of our external senses: how much more rare must the talent
be of imitating characters and internal emotions, tracing all their
different tints, and representing them in a lively manner by natural
sentiments properly expressed? The truth is, such execution is too
delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reason, the bulk of
writers, instead of expressing a passion like one who is under its
power, content themselves with describing it like a spectator. To awake
passion by an internal effort merely, without any external cause,
requires great sensibility; and yet this operation is necessary not less
to the writer than to the actor; because none but they who actually feel
a passion, can represent it to the life. The writer’s part is much more
complicated: he must join composition with action; and, in the quickest
succession, be able to adopt every different character introduced in his
work. But a very humble flight of imagination, may serve to convert a
writer into a spectator, so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an
action as passing in his sight and hearing. In this figured situation,
he is led naturally to describe as a spectator, and at second hand to
entertain his readers with his own observations, with cool description
and florid declamation; instead of making them eye-witnesses, as it
were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion[48].
Thus, in the bulk of plays, a tiresome monotony prevails, a pompous
declamatory style, without entering into different characters or
passions.
This descriptive manner of expressing passion, has a very unhappy
effect. Our sympathy is not raised by description: we must be lulled
first into a dream of reality; and every thing must appear as actually
present and passing in our sight[49]. Unhappy is the player of genius
who acts a capital part in what may be termed a _descriptive tragedy_.
After he has assumed the very passion that is to be represented, how
must he be cramped in his action, when he is forced to utter, not the
sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold description in the
language of a by-stander? It is this imperfection, I am persuaded, in
the bulk of our plays, that confines our stage almost entirely to
Shakespear, his many irregularities notwithstanding. In our latest
English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted
to a plain passion. But it would be fruitless labour, to search in any
of them for a sentiment expressive of character; and, upon that very
account, all our modern performances of the dramatic kind, are
intolerably insipid.
Looking back upon the foregoing observation, I am uncertain whether it
will be sufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated subject, I
find some difficulty to express myself with perspicuity. I despair not
however to place this matter in the clearest light, by adding example to
precept. In the front shall be set one or two examples of sentiments
that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; and to them shall be
opposed a few others that are descriptive only, and illegitimate. In
making this comparison, I shall borrow my instances from Shakespear and
Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the
rolls of fame.
* * * * *
Shakespear shall furnish the first instance, being of sentiments
dictated by a violent and perturbed passion.
_Lear._----Filial ingratitude!
Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to’t?--But I’ll punish home;
No, I will weep no more.---- In such a night,
To shut me out!---- Pour on, I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all--
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.----
_Kent._ Good, my Lord, enter here.
_Lear._ Pr’ythee, go in thy thyself, seek thine own ease,
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more--but I’ll go in;
In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty----
Nay, get thee in; I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep--
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?---- O I have ta’en
Too little care of this! take physic, Pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may’st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.
_King Lear. act 3. sc 5._
To illustrate the foregoing doctrine, one other instance of the same
kind may suffice, expressing sentiments arising from remorse and
despair.
_Othello._ Lo! I have a weapon:
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier’s thigh. I’ve seen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good sword,
I’ve made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast!
Who can controul his fate? ’tis not so now.
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d;
Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,
The very sea mark of my outmost sail.
Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear.
Man but a rush against Othello’s breast,
And he retires. Where should Othello go?
Now---- how dost thou look now? Oh ill starr’d wench!
Pale as thy smoke! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav’n,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl,
Ev’n like thy chastity. O cursed slave!
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heav’nly sight;
Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire----
Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh, oh!
_Othello, act 5. sc. 9._
The sentiments here display’d flow so naturally from the passions
represented, and are such genuine expressions of these passions, that it
is not possible to conceive any imitation more perfect.
* * * * *
With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknowledge, that
he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of expressing passion
like one who feels it; and also that he is thereby betray’d into the
other faults above mentioned, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous
declamatory style[50]. It is scarce necessary to produce particular
instances; for he never varies from this tone. I shall however take two
passages at a venture, in order to be confronted with those transcribed
above. In the tragedy of _Cinna_, Æmilia, after the conspiracy was
discovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herself and
her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest
circumstances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a happy situation
for representing the passions of surprise and gratitude in their
different stages. These passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch,
are at first too big for utterance; and Æmilia’s feelings must, for some
moments, have been expressed by violent gestures only. So soon as there
is a vent for words, the first expressions are naturally broken and
interrupted. At last we ought to expect a tide of intermingled
sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind betwixt the two
passions. Æmilia is made to behave in a very different manner. With
extreme coolness she describes her own situation, as if she were merely
a spectator; or rather the poet takes the task off her hands.
Et je me rens, Seigneur, à ces hautes bontés,
Je recouvre la vûe auprés de leurs clartés,
Je connois mon forfait qui me sembloit justice,
Et ce que n’avoit pû la terreur du supplice,
Je sens naitre en mon ame un repentir puissant;
Et mon cœur en secret me dit, qu’il y consent.
Le ciel a résolu votre grandeur suprême,
Et pour preuve, Seigneur, je n’en veux que moi-même;
J’ose avec vanité me donner cet éclat,
Puisqu’il change mon cœur, qu’il veut changer l’état.
Ma haine va mourir que j’ai crue immortelle,
Elle est morte, et ce cœur devient sujet fidéle,
Et prenant désormais cette haine en horreur,
L’ardeur de vous servir succede à sa fureur.
_Act 5. sc. 3._
In the tragedy of _Sertorius_, the Queen, surprised with the news that
her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion, degenerates
into a cool spectator, even so much as to instruct the by-standers how a
queen ought to behave on such an occasion.
_Viriate._ Il m’en fait voir ensemble, et l’auteur, et la cause.
Par cet assassinat c’est de moi qu’on dispose,
C’est mon trône, c’est moi qu’on pretend conquerir,
Et c’est mon juste choix qui seul l’a fait perir.
Madame, aprés sa perte, et parmi ces alarmes,
N’attendez point de moi de soupirs, ni de larmes;
Ce sont amusemens que dédaigne aisement
Le prompt et noble orgueil d’un vif ressentiment.
Qui pleure, l’affoiblit, qui soupire, l’exhale,
Il faut plus de fierté dans une ame royale;
Et ma douleur soumise aux soins de le venger, _&c._
_Act 5. sc. 3._
So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. I proceed now
to particular observations. And, first, Passions are seldom uniform for
any considerable time: they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsiding
by turns, often in a quick succession[51]. This fluctuation, in the
case of a real passion, will be expressed externally by proper
sentiments; and ought to be imitated in writing and acting. Accordingly,
a climax shows never better than in expressing a swelling passion. The
following passages shall suffice for an illustration.
_Oroonoko._---- Can you raise the dead?
Pursue and overtake the wings of time?
And bring about again, the hours, the days,
The years, that made me happy?
_Oroonoko, act 2. sc. 2._
_Almeria_.---- How hast thou charm’d
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this?
That thus relenting they have giv’n thee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me?
_Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 7._
I would not be the villain that thou think’st
For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp,
And the rich earth to boot.
_Macbeth, act 4. sc. 4._
The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form, of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls;
I’ll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
’Tis life! ’tis warm! ’tis she! ’tis she herself!
It is Almeria! ’tis, it is my wife!
_Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 6._
In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well
as our passions.
If ever I do yield or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another Lord; may then just Heav’n show’r down, _&c._
_Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._
And this leads to a second observation, That the different stages of a
passion, and its different directions, from its birth to its extinction,
ought to be carefully represented in the sentiments, which otherwise
will often be misplaced. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an
atrocious injury, discharges itself first upon the author. Sentiments
therefore of revenge take place of all others, and must in some measure
be exhausted before the person injured think of pitying himself, or of
grieving for his present distress. In the _Cid_ of Corneille, Don Diegue
having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses scarce any sentiment
of revenge, but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situation
to which he was reduced by the affront.
O rage! ô desespoir! ô vieillesse ennemie!
N’ai je donc tant vecu que pour cette infamie?
Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers,
Que pour voir en une jour fletrir tant de lauriers?
Mon bras, qu’avec respect toute l’Espagne admire,
Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauvé cet empire,
Tant de fois affermi le trône de son roi,
Trahit donc ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi!
O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée!
Oeuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée!
Nouvelle dignité fatale à mon bonheur!
Precipice élevé d’ou tombe mon honneur!
Faut-il de votre éclat voir triompher le Comte,
Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte?
Comte, fois de mon Prince à present gouverneur,
Ce haut rang n’admet point un homme sans honneur;
Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne,
Malgré le choix du Roi, m’en a su rendre indigne.
Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument,
Mais d’un corps tout de glace inutile ornement,
Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense
M’as servi de parade, et non pas de defense,
Va quitte desormais le dernier des humains,
Passe pour me vanger en de meilleures mains.
_Le Cid, act 1. sc. 4._
These sentiments are certainly not what occur to the mind in the first
movements of the passion. In the same manner as in resentment, the first
movements of grief are always directed upon its object. Yet with
relation to the hidden and severe distemper that seized Alexander
bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes the first
emotions of the army as directed upon themselves, lamenting that they
were left without a leader far from home, and had scarce any hopes of
returning in safety. Their King’s distress, which must naturally have
been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place
according to that author. In the _Aminta_ of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a
report of her lover’s death, which she believed certain, instead of
bemoaning the loss of a beloved object, turns her thoughts upon
herself, and wonders her heart does not break.
Ohime, ben son di sasso,
Poi che questa novella non m’uccide.
_Act 4. sc. 2._
In the tragedy of _Jane Shore_, Alicia, in the full purpose of
destroying her rival, has the following reflection:
Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness?
See where she comes! Once my heart’s dearest blessing,
Now my chang’d eyes are blasted with her beauty,
Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her.
_Act 3. sc. 1._
These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it has
the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the man who feels
it any sentiment to its own prejudice. Reflections like the foregoing,
occur not to him readily till the passion have spent its vigor.
A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions. The mind
in this case vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in sentiments which
partake of the same vibration. This I give as a third observation:
_Queen._ ‘Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!
Ye’ve angels faces, but Heav’n knows your hearts.
What shall become of me now! wretched lady!
I am the most unhappy woman living.
Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? [_To her women._
Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope! no kindred weep for me!
Almost, no grave allow’d me.
_Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1._
_Othello._ Oh devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with
woman’s tears, Each drop she falls, would prove a crocodile. Out of
my sight.
_Desdemona._ I will not stay t’offend you. [_going._
_Lodovico._ Truly, an obedient lady: I do beseech your Lordship,
call her back.
_Oth._ Mistress----
_Des._ My Lord.
_Oth._ What would you with her, Sir?
_Lod._ Who, I, my Lord?
_Oth._ Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn: Sir, she can
turn and turn, and yet go on; And turn again. And she can weep,
Sir, weep; And she’s obedient: as you say, obedient; Very
obedient--proceed you in your tears--Concerning this, Sir,--oh
well-painted passion!--I am commanded home--get you away, I’ll send
for you anon--Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to
Venice.---- Hence, avaunt! [_Exit Desdemona._
_Othello, act 4. sc. 6._
_Æmilia._ Oh! my good Lord, I would speak a word with you.
_Othello._ Yes, ’tis Æmilia--by and by--she’s dead. ’Tis like, she
comes to speak of Cassio’s death; The noise was high.--Ha, no more
moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were’t good? I think
she stirs again--No--what’s the best? If she come in, she’ll, sure,
speak to my wife; My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. Oh
insupportable! oh heavy hour!
_Othello, act 5. sc. 7._
A fourth observation is, that nature, which gave us passions, and made
them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended undoubtedly that they
should be subjected to the government of reason and conscience[52]. It
is therefore against the order of nature, that passion in any case
should take the lead in contradiction to reason and conscience. Such a
state of mind is a sort of anarchy, which every one is ashamed of, and
endeavours to hide or dissemble. Even love, however laudable, is
attended with a conscious shame when it becomes immoderate: it is
covered from the world, and disclosed only to the beloved object:
Et que l’amour souvent de remors combattu
Paroisse une foiblesse, et non une vertu.
_Boileau, L’art poet. chant. 3. l. 101._
O, they love least that let men know their love.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 1. sc. 3._
Hence a capital rule in the representation of strong passions, that
their genuine sentiments ought to be hid or dissembled as much as
possible. And this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal
passions. One never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms.
Guilt must not appear in its native colours, even in thought: the
proposal must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some
favourable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion,
Shakespear, in the _Tempest_, has given us a beautiful example. The
subject is a proposal made by the usurping Duke of Milan to Sebastian,
to murder his brother the King of Naples.
_Antonio._---- What might
Worthy Sebastian--O, what might--no more.
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face,
What thou should’st be: th’occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
_Act 2. sc. 1._
There cannot be a finer picture of this sort, than that of King John
soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince Arthur.
_K. John._ Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love.
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say----
But I will fit it with some better time.
By Heaven, Hubert, I’m almost asham’d
To say what good respect I have of thee.
_Hubert._ I am much bounden to your Majesty.
_K. John._ Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet----
But thou shalt have--and creep time ne’er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say--but, let it go:
The sun is in the heav’n, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience. If the midnight-bell
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Sound one into the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy-thick,
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot Laughter keep men’s eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
(A passion hateful to my purposes);
Or if that thou could’st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sounds of words;
Then, in despight of broad-ey’d watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
But ah, I will not--Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov’st me well.
_Hubert._ So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By Heav’n, I’d do’t.
_K. John._ Do not I know, thou would’st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I’ll tell thee what, my friend;
He is a very serpent in my way.
And, wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.
_King John, act 3. sc. 5._
As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed to collect
from classical authors, sentiments that appear faulty. The first class
shall consist of sentiments that accord not with the passion; or, in
other words, sentiments that the passion represented does not naturally
suggest. In the second class, shall be ranged sentiments that may belong
to an ordinary passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular
character. Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather
descriptions, make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion
represented, but are faulty as being introduced too early or too late,
make a fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their native dress, instead
of being concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class,
shall be collected sentiments suited to no character or passion, and
therefore unnatural.
* * * * *
The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, which I
shall endeavour to distinguish from each other. And first sentiments
that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion.
_Othello._---- O my soul’s joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death:
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven!
_Othello, act 2. sc. 6._
This sentiment is too strong to be suggested by so slight a joy as that
of meeting after a storm at sea.
_Philaster._ Place me, some god, upon a pyramid
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence
I may discourse to all the under-world
The worth that dwells in him.
_Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher, act 4._
Secondly, Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy, by putting
Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of Cæsar, was in the
utmost dread of being dethroned. In this agitating situation, Corneille
makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, that is in no degree
expressive of the passion.
Ah! si je t’avois crû, je n’aurois pas de maître,
Je serois dans le trône où le Ciel m’a fait naître;
Mais c’est une imprudence assez commune aux rois,
D’ecouter trop d’avis, et se tromper au choix.
Le Destin les aveugle au bord du précipice,
Ou si quelque lumiere en leur ame se glisse,
Cette fausse clarté dont il les eblouit,
Le plonge dans une gouffre, et puis s’evanouit.
_La mort de Pompée, act 4. sc. 1._