PART III.

A CARE AND DILIGENCE IN WRITING RECOMMENDED.

I. [from l. 295 to l. 323] The poet ridicules that false notion, into

which the Romans had fallen, that _poetry_ and _possession_ were nearly

the same thing: that nothing more was required in a poet, than some

extravagant starts and sallies of thought; that coolness and reflexion

were inconsistent with his character, and that poetry was not to be

scanned by the rules of sober sense. This they carried so far, as to

affect the outward port and air of madness, and, upon the strength of

that appearance, to set up for wits and poets. In opposition to this

mistake, which was one great hindrance to critical correctness, he

asserts _wisdom and good sense to be the source and principle of good

writing_: for the attainment of which he prescribes, 1. [from v. 310 to

312] A careful study of the Socratic, that is, moral wisdom: and, 2.

[from v. 312 to 318] A thorough acquaintance with human nature, _that

great exemplar of manners_, as he finely calls it, or, in other words,

a wide extensive view of real, practical life. The joint direction

of these two, as means of acquiring moral knowledge, was perfectly

necessary. For the former, when alone, is apt to grow abstracted and

unaffecting: the latter, uninstructing and superficial. The philosopher

talks without experience, and the man of the world without principles.

United they supply each other’s defects; while the man of the world

borrows so much of the philosopher, as to be able to adjust the several

sentiments with precision and exactness; and the philosopher so much

of the man of the world as to copy the manners of life (which we can

only do by experience) with truth and spirit. Both together furnish a

thorough and complete comprehension of human life; which manifesting

itself in the _just_, and _affecting_, forms that exquisite degree of

perfection in the character of the dramatic poet; the want of which no

warmth of genius can atone for, or excuse. Nay such is the force of

this nice adjustment of _manners_ [from l. 319 to 323] that, where it

has remarkably prevailed, the success of a play hath sometimes been

secured by it, without one single excellence or recommendation besides.

II. He shews [from l. 323 to 333] another cause of their incorrectness

and want of success, in any degree, answering to that of the Greek

writers, to have been the low and illiberal education of the Roman

youth; who, while the Greeks were taught to open all their mind to

glory, were cramped in their genius by the rust of gain, and, by the

early infusion of such sordid principles, became unable to project a

great design, or with any care and mastery to complete it.

III. A third impediment to their success in poetry [from l. 333 to

346] was their inattention to the _entire_ scope and purpose of it,

while they contented themselves with the attainment of one only of

the two great ends, which are proposed by it. For the double design

of poetry being to _instruct_ and _please_, the full aim and glory

of the art cannot be attained without uniting them both: that is,

_instructing_ so as to _please_, and _pleasing_ so as to _instruct_.

Under either head of _instruction_ and _entertainment_ the poet, with

great address, insinuates the main art of each kind of writing, which

consists, 1. in _instructive_ or _didactic poetry_ [from v. 335 to 338]

in the _conciseness of the precept_: and, 2. in works of _fancy_ and

_entertainment_ [l. 338 to 341] in _probability of fiction_. But both

these [l. 341 to 347] must concur in a just piece.

But here the bad poet objects the difficulty of the terms, imposed

upon him, and that, if the critic looked for all these requisites, and

exacted them with rigour, it would be impossible to satisfy him: at

least it was more likely to discourage, than quicken, as he proposed,

the diligence of writers. To this the reply is [from l. 347 to 360]

that he was not so severe, as to exact a faultless and perfect piece:

that some inaccuracies and faults of less moment would escape the most

cautious and guarded writer; and that, as he should contemn a piece,

that was generally bad, notwithstanding a few beauties, he could, on

the contrary, admire a work, that was generally good, notwithstanding a

few faults. Nay, he goes on [from l. 360 to 366] to observe in favour

of writers, against their too rigorous censurers, that what were often

called faults, were really not so: that some parts of a poem ought

to be less _shining_, or less _finished_, than others; according to

the light, they were placed in, or the distance, from which they

were viewed; and that, serving only to connect and lead to others of

greater consequence, it was sufficient if they pleased once, or did not

displease, provided that those others would please on every review. All

this is said agreeably to _nature_, which does not allow every part

of a subject, to be equally susceptible of ornament; and to the _end

of poetry_, which cannot so well be attained, without an inequality.

The allusions to painting, which the poet uses, give this truth the

happiest illustration.

Having thus made all the reasonable allowances, which a writer could

expect, he goes on to inforce the general instruction of this part,

_viz. a diligence in writing_, by shewing [from l. 366 to 379] that

a _mediocrity_, however tolerable, or even commendable, it might be

in other arts, would never be allowed in this: for which he assigns

this very obvious and just reason; that, as the main end of poetry

is to _please_, if it did not reach that point (which it could not

do by stopping ever so little on this side excellence) it was, like

indifferent music, indifferent perfumes, or any other indifferent

thing, which we can do without, and whose end should be to please,

_offensive and disagreeable_, and for want of being very good,

absolutely and insufferably bad. This reflexion leads him with great

advantage [from l. 379 to 391] to the general conclusion in view,

_viz._ that as none but excellent poetry will be allowed, it should

be a warning to writers, how they engage in it without abilities;

or publish without severe and frequent correction. But to stimulate

the poet, who, notwithstanding the allowances already made, might be

something struck with this last reflexion, he flings out [from l. 391

to 408] into a fine encomium, on the dignity and excellence of the art

itself, by recounting its ancient honours. This encomium, besides its

great usefulness in invigorating the mind of the poet, has this further

view, to recommend and revive, together with its honours, the office of

ancient poesy; which was employed about the noblest and most important

subjects; the sacred source, from whence those honours were derived.

From this transient view of the several species of poetry, terminating,

as by a beautiful contrivance it is made to do, in the _Ode_, the

order of his ideas carries him into some reflexions on the power of

genius (which so essentially belongs to the lyric Muse) and to settle

thereby a point of criticism, much controverted among the ancients,

and on which a very considerable stress would apparently be laid. For,

if after all, so much art and care and caution be demanded in poetry,

what becomes of genius, in which alone it had been thought to consist?

would the critic insinuate, that good poems can be the sole effect of

art, and go so far, in opposition to the reigning prejudice, as to

assert nature to be of no force at all? This objection, which would be

apt to occur to the general scope and tenor of the epistle, as having

turned principally on _art_ and _rules_ without insisting much on

natural _energy_, the poet obviates at once [from v. 408 to 419] by

reconciling two things which were held, it seems, incompatible, and

demanding in the poet, besides the fire of real genius, all the labour

and discipline of art. But there is one thing still wanting. The poet

may be excellently formed by nature, and accomplished by art, but will

his own judgment be a sufficient guide, without assistance from others?

will not the partiality of an author for his own works sometimes

prevail over the united force of rules and genius, unless he call in

a fairer and less interested guide? Doubtless it will: and therefore

the poet, with the utmost propriety, adds [from v. 419 to 450] as a

necessary part of this instructive monition to his brother poets, some

directions concerning the choice of a prudent and sincere friend,

whose unbiassed sense might at all times correct the prejudices,

indiscretions, and oversights of the author. And to impress this

necessary care, with greater force, on the poet, he closes the whole

with shewing the dreadful consequences of being imposed upon in so nice

an affair; representing, in all the strength of colouring, the picture

of a bad poet, infatuated, to a degree of madness, by a fond conceit of

his own works, and exposed thereby (so important had been the service

of timely advice) to the contempt and scorn of the public.

And now, an unity of design in this epistle, and the pertinent

connection of its several parts being, it is presumed, from this method

of illustration, clearly and indisputably shewn, what must we think

of the celebrated FRENCH interpreter of Horace, who, after a studied

translation of this piece, supported by a long, elaborate commentary,

minutely condescending to scrutinize each part, could yet perceive so

little of its true form and character, as to give it for his summary

judgment, in conclusion; “_Comme il_ [Horace] _ne travailloit pas à

cela de suite et qu’il ne gardoit d’autre ordre que celui des matieres

que le hazard lui donnoit à lire et à examiner, il est arrivé delà qu’_

IL N’ Y A AUCUNE METHODE NI AUCUNE LIAISON DE PARTIES DANS CE TRAITÉ,

_qui même n’a jamais été achevé, Horace n’ ayant pas eu le tems d’y

mettre la derniere main, ou, ce qui est plus vraisemblable, n’ayant

pas voulu s’en donner la peine_.” [M. Dacier’s Introd. remarks to the

art of poetry.] The softest thing that can be said of such a critic,

is, that he well deserves the censure, he so justly applied to the

great Scaliger, S’IL L’AVOIT BIEN ENTENDU, IL LUI AUROIT RENDU PLUS DE

JUSTICE, ET EN AUROIT PARLÉ PLUS MODESTEMENT.

NOTES

ON THE

ART OF POETRY.

The text of this epistle is given from Dr. BENTLEY’S edition, except in

some few places, of which the reader is advertized in the notes. These,

that they might not break in too much on the thread of the Commentary,

are here printed by themselves. For the rest, let me apologize with a

great critic: _Nobis viri docti ignoscent, si hæc fusius: præsertim

si cogitent, veri critici esse, non literulam alibi ejicere, alibi

innocentem syllabam et quæ nunquàm male merita de patria fuerit, per

jocum et ludum trucidare et configere; verùm recte de autoribus et

rebus judicare, quod et solidæ et absolutæ eruditionis est._ HEINSIUS.

* * * * *

1. HUMANO CAPITI, &c.] It is seen, in the comment, with what elegance

this first part [to v. 89] is made preparatory to the main subject,

agreeably to the genius of the Epistle. But elegance, in good hands,

always implies _propriety_; as is the case here. For the critic’s

rules must be taken either, 1. from the _general_ standing laws of

composition; or, 2. from the peculiar ones, appropriated to the _kind_.

Now the direction to be fetched from the former of these sources will

of course _precede_, as well on account of its superior dignity, as

that the mind itself delights to descend from _universals_ to the

consideration of _particulars_. Agreeably to this rule of nature, the

poet, having to correct, in the Roman drama, these three points, 1.

a misconduct in the disposition; 2. an abuse of language; and 3. a

disregard of the peculiar characters and _colorings_ of its different

species, hath chosen to do this on principles of universal nature;

which, while they include the case of the drama, at the same time

extend to poetic composition at large. These prefatory, universal

observations being delivered, he then proceeds, with advantage, to the

_second_ source of his art, viz. the consideration of the laws and

rules peculiar to the _kind_.

* * * * *

9.—ICTORIBUS ATQUE POETIS—QUIDLIBET AUDENDI SEMPER FUIT AEQUA

POTESTAS.] The _modern_ painter and poet will observe that this

aphorism comes from the mouth of an objector.

* * * * *

14. INCEPTIS GRAVIBUS, &c.] These preparatory observations concerning

the laws of poetic composition at large have been thought to glance

more _particularly_ at the epic poetry: Which was not improper: For, 1.

The _drama_, which he was about to criticize, had its rise and origin

from the _epos_. Thus we are told by the great critic, that Homer was

the first who _invented dramatic imitations_, μόνος—ὅτι μιμήσεις

δραματικὰς ἐποίησε. And to the same purpose Plato: ἔοικε μὲν τῶν καλῶν

ἁπάντων τούτων τῶν τραγικῶν πρῶτος διδάσκαλος καὶ ἡγεμὼν γενέσθαι

[Ὅμηρος.] _De Rep._ l. x. Hence, as our noble critic observes, “There

was no more left for tragedy to do after him, than to erect a stage,

and draw his dialogues and characters into scenes; turning in the same

manner upon one principal action or event, with regard to place and

time, which was suitable to a real spectacle.” [_Characterist._ vol. i.

p. 198.] 2. The several censures, here pointed at the epic, would bear

still more directly against the tragic poem; it being more glaringly

inconsistent with the genius of the _drama_ to admit of foreign and

digressive ornaments, than of the extended, episodical _epopœia_. For

both these reasons it was altogether pertinent to the poet’s purpose,

in a criticism on the _drama_, to expose the vicious practice of the

_epic_ models. Though, to preserve the unity of his piece, and for the

reason before given in note on v. 1. he hath artfully done this under

the cover of _general_ criticism.

* * * * *

19. SED NUNC NON ERAT HIS LOCUS.] If one was to apply this observation

to our dramatic writings, I know of none which would afford pleasanter

instances of the absurdity, here exposed, than the famous ORPHAN of

Otway. Which, notwithstanding its real beauties, could hardly have

taken so prodigiously, as it hath done, on our stage, if there were not

somewhere a defect of _good taste_ as well as of _good morals_.

* * * * *

23. DENIQUE SIT QUIDVIS: SIMPLEX DUNTAXAT ET UNUM.] Is not it strange

that he, who delivered this rule in form, and, by his manner of

delivering it, appears to have laid the greatest stress upon it, should

be thought capable of paying no attention to it himself, in the conduct

of this epistle?

* * * * *

25-28. BREVIS ESSE LABORO, OBSCURUS FIO: SECTANTEM LENIA NERVI

DEFICIUNT ANIMIQUE: PROFESSUS GRANDIA TURGET: SERPIT HUMI TUTUS NIMIUM

TIMIDUSQUE PROCELLAE.] If these characters were to be exemplified in

our own poets, of reputation, the _first_, I suppose, might be justly

applied to Donne; the _second_, to Parnell; the _third_, to Thomson;

and the _fourth_, to Addison. As to the two following lines;

_Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam,

Delphinum silvis adpingit, fluctibus aprum_:

they are applicable to so many of our poets, that, to keep the rest

in countenance, I will but just mention Shakespear himself; who, to

enrich his scene with that _variety_, which his exuberant genius so

largely supplied, hath deformed his best plays with these _prodigious_

incongruities.

* * * * *

29. QUI VARIARE CUPIT REM PRODIGIALITER UNAM, &c.] Though I agree with

M. Dacier that _prodigialiter_ is here used in a good sense, yet the

word is so happily chosen by our _curious speaker_ as to carry the

mind to that fictitious monster, under which he had before allusively

shadowed out the idea of absurd and inconsistent composition, in v. 1.

The application, however, differs in this, that, whereas the monster,

there painted, was intended to expose the extravagance of putting

together _incongruous parts_, without any reference to a _whole_, this

_prodigy_ is designed to characterize a _whole_, but deformed by the

ill-judged _position_ of its _parts_. The former is like a monster,

whose several members, as of right belonging to different animals,

could, by no disposition, be made to constitute _one_ consistent

animal. The other, like a landskip, which hath no objects absolutely

_irrelative_, or irreducible to a _whole_, but which a wrong position

of the _parts_ only renders _prodigious_. Send the _boar to the woods_;

and the _dolphin to the waves_; and the painter might shew them both on

the same canvass.

Each is a violation of the law of unity, and a real _monster_: the one,

because it contains an assemblage of naturally _incoherent parts_;

the other, because its parts, though in themselves _coherent_, are

_misplaced_, and disjointed.

* * * * *

34. INFELIX OPERIS SUMMA: QUIA PONERE TOTUM NESCIET.] This observation

is more particularly applicable to _dramatic_ poetry, than to any

other, an unity and integrity of action being of its very essence.—The

poet illustrates his observation very happily in the case of

_statuary_; but it holds of every other art, that hath a _whole_ for

its object. _Nicias_, the painter, used to say[10], “That the _subject_

was to him, what the fable is to the poet.” Which is just the sentiment

of _Horace_, reversed. For by the _subject_ is meant the whole of the

painter’s plan, the _totum_, which it will be impossible for those to

express, who lay out their pains so solicitously in finishing single

parts. Thus, to take an obvious example, the landskip-painter is to

draw together, and form into _one_ entire view, certain beautiful,

or striking objects. This is his main care. It is not even essential

to the merit of his piece, to labour, with extreme exactness, the

_principal_ constituent parts. But for the rest, a _shrub_ or _flower_,

a straggling _goat_ or _sheep_, these may be touched very negligently.

We have a great modern instance. Few painters have obliged us with

_finer_ scenes, or have possessed the art of combining _woods_,

_lakes_, and _rocks_, into more agreeable pictures, than G. POUSSIN:

Yet his _animals_ are observed to be scarce worthy an ordinary artist.

The use of these is _simply_ to decorate the scene; and so their beauty

depends, not on the truth and correctness of the _drawing_, but on

the elegance of their _disposition_ only. For, in a landskip, the eye

carelessly glances over the smaller parts, and regards them only in

reference to the surrounding objects. The painter’s labour therefore

is lost, or rather misemployed, to the prejudice of the _whole_, when

it strives to finish, so minutely, _particular_ objects. If some great

masters have shewn themselves ambitious of this fame, the objects,

they have laboured, have been always such, as are most considerable in

themselves, and have, besides, an _effect_ in illustrating and setting

off the entire scenery. It is chiefly in this view, that Ruisdale’s

_waters_, and Claude Lorain’s _skies_ are so admirable.

* * * * *

40.—CUI LECTA POTENTER ERIT RES.] _Potenter_ i. e. κατὰ δύναμιν,

_Lambin_: which gives a pertinent sense, but without justifying the

expression. The learned editor of Statius proposes to read _pudenter_,

a word used by Horace on other occasions, and which suits the meaning

of the place, as well. A similar passage in the epistle to Augustus

adds some weight to this conjecture;

_nec meus audet_

REM _tentare_ PUDOR, _quam vires ferre recusent_.

* * * * *

45. HOC AMET, HOC SPERNAT, PROMISSI CARMINIS AUCTOR—IN VERBIS ETIAM

TENUIS CAUTUSQUE SERENDIS.] Dr. Bentley hath inverted the order of

these two lines; not merely, as I conceive, without sufficient reason,

but in prejudice also to the scope and tenor of the poet’s sense; in

which case only I allow myself to depart from his text. The whole

precept, on poetical distribution, is delivered, as of importance:

[_Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor_.]

And such indeed it is: for, 1. It respects no less than the

constitution of a _whole_, i. e. the reduction of a subject into one

entire, consistent plan, the most momentous and difficult of all the

offices of _invention_, and which is more immediately addressed, in the

high and sublime sense of the word, to the POET. 2. ’Tis no trivial

_whole_, which the Precept had in view, but, as the context shews, and

as is further apparent from v. 150, where this topic is resumed and

treated more at large, the _epos_ and the _drama_: With what propriety

then is a rule of such dignity inforced by that strong emphatic

conclusion,

_Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor_:

_i. e._ “Be this rule held sacred and inviolate by him, who hath

projected and engaged in a work, deserving the appellation of a poem.”

Were the subject only the choice or invention of _words_, the solemnity

of such an application must be ridiculous.

As for the construction, the commonest reader can find himself at no

loss to defend it against the force of the Doctor’s objections.

* * * * *

46. IN VERBIS ETIAM TENUIS, &c.] I have said, that these preparatory

observations concerning an _unity_ of design, the _abuse of language_,

and the different _colourings_ of the several species of poetry,

whilst they extend to poetic composition at _large_, more particularly

respect the case of the _drama_. The _first_ of these articles has been

illustrated in note on v. 34. The _last_ will be considered in note v.

73. I will here shew the same of the _second_, concerning the _abuse

of words_. For 1. the style of the drama representing real life, and

demanding, on that account, a peculiar ease and familiarity in the

language, the practice of coining _new_ words must be more insufferable

in _this_, than in any other species of poetry. The majesty of the epic

will even sometimes require to be supported by this means, when the

commonest ear would resent it, as downright affectation upon the stage.

Hence the peculiar propriety of this rule to the dramatic writer,

_In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis_.

2. Next, it is necessary to keep the tragic style, though

condescending, in some sort, to the familiar cast of conversation,

from sinking beneath the dignity of the personages, and the solemnity

of the representation. Now no expedient can more happily effect

this, than what the poet prescribes concerning the _position_ and

_derivation_ of words. For thus, the language, without incurring the

odium of absolutely _invented_ terms, sustains itself in a becoming

stateliness and reserve, and, whilst it seems to stoop to the level

of conversation, artfully eludes the meanness of a trite, prosaic

style.—There are wonderful instances of this management in the _Samson

Agonistes_ of Milton; the most artificial and highly finished, though

for that reason, perhaps, the least popular and most neglected, of all

the great poet’s works.

* * * * *

47. DIXERIS EGREGIE, NOTUM SI CALLIDA VERBUM REDDIDERIT JUNCTURA

NOVUM.—] This direction, about _disposing_ of old words in such a

manner as that they shall have the grace of _new_ ones, is among the

finest in the whole poem. And because Shakespear is he, of all our

poets, who has most successfully practised this secret, it may not be

amiss to illustrate the precept before us by examples taken from his

writings.

But first it will be proper to explain the _precept_ itself as given by

Horace.

His critics seem not at all to have apprehended the force of it. Dacier

and Sanadon, the two best of them, confine it merely to the formation

of _compound words_; which, though _one_ way in which this _callida

junctura_ shews itself, is by no means the whole of what the poet

intended by it.

Their mistake arose from interpreting the word _junctura_ too strictly.

They suppose it to mean only the _putting together two words into one_;

this being the most obvious idea we have of the _joining_ of words.

As if the most _literal_ construction of terms, according to their

etymology, were always the most proper.

But Mr. Dacier has a reason of his own for confining the precept to

this meaning. “The question, he says, is _de verbis serendis_; and

therefore this _junctura_ must be explained of _new_ words, properly so

called, as compound epithets are; and not of the grace of novelty which

single words seem to acquire from the art of disposing of them.”

By which we understand, that the learned critic did not perceive the

scope of his author; which was manifestly this. “The invention of new

terms, says he, being a matter of much nicety, I had rather you would

contrive to employ known words in such a way as to give them the effect

of new ones. ’Tis true, new words may sometimes be necessary: And if

so,” &c. Whence we see that the line,

_In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis_

is not given here in form as the _general rule_, and the following

line as the _example_. On the other hand, the rule is just mentioned

carelessly and in passing, while the poet is hastening to another

consideration of more importance, and which he even _opposes_ to the

former. “Instead of making new words, you will do well to confine

yourself merely to old ones.” Whatever then be the meaning of

_junctura_, it is clear we are not to explain it of such words as

exemplify the rule _de verbis serendis_.

But _junctura_ will best be interpreted by the _usage_ of Horace

together with the _context_; 1. The word occurs only once more in this

poet, and that in this very Epistle. It is where he advises a conduct

with regard to the _subject-matter_ of a poem, analogous to this

concerning the _language_ of it.

_Ex noto fictum carmen sequar—

——tantum series juncturaque pollet._ v. 242.

Does he mean _the joining two subjects together_ and combining them

into _one_, so as that the _compound_ subject shall be a _new_ one? No

such thing; “The subject, says he, shall be a _known_, an old one. Yet

the _order, management, and contrivance_ shall be such as to give it

the air of an original fiction.” Apply now this sense of _junctura_ to

words, and we are only told, that expression may be so _ordered_ as to

appear new, when the words, of which it is made up, are all known and

common.

We have then the authority of the poet himself against the opinion

of the French critic. But we have also the authority of his great

imitator, or rather interpreter, Persius; who speaking of the language

of his satires says, in allusion to this passage of Horace,

“_Verba togæ sequeris_, juncturâ callidus _acri_.

S. v. 14.

i. e. he took up with words of common and familiar use, but contrived

to bring them into his style in such a manner as to give them the

force, spirit, and energy of satiric expression.”

2. Again: the context, as I observed, leads us to this meaning. The

poet in v. 42. had been giving his opinion of the nature and effect

of _method_, or orderly disposition in the conduct of a _fable_.

The course of his ideas carries him to apply the observation to

_words_; which he immediately does, only interposing v. 46. by way of

introduction to it.

On the whole then _junctura_ is a word of large and general import, and

the same in _expression_, as _order or disposition_, in a _subject_.

The poet would say, “Instead of framing new words, I recommend to you

_any_ kind of artful management by which you may be able to give a new

air and cast to old ones.”

Having now got at the true meaning of the precept, let us see how well

it may be exemplified in the practice of Shakespear.

1. The first example of this _artful management_, if it were only

in complaisance to former commentators, shall be that of _compound

epithets_; of which sort are,

_High-sighted Tyranny_ J. C. A. II. S. 2.

_A barren-spirited fellow_ A. IV. S. 1.

_An arm-gaunt steed_ A. C. A. I. S. 6.

_Flower-soft hands_ A. II. S. 3.

_Lazy-pacing clouds_ R. J. A. II. S. 2.

and a thousand instances more in this poet. But this is a small part of

his _craft_, as may be seen by what follows. For this end is attained,

2. _By another form of composition_; by compound _verbs_ as well as

compound _adjectives_.

To _candy_ and _limn_ are known words. The poet would express the

contrary ideas, and he does it happily, by compounding them with our

English negative _dis_,

——“The hearts

That pantler’d me at heels, to whom I gave

Their wishes, do _discandy_, melt their sweets

On blossoming Cæsar—

A. C. A. IV. S. 9.

“That which is now a horse, ev’n with a thought

The rack _dislimns_, and makes it indistinct

As water is in water—

A. C. A. IV. S. 10.

Though here we may observe, that for the readier acceptation of these

compounds, he artfully subjoins the explanation.

3. By a liberty he takes of converting _substantives_ into _verbs_;

A glass that _featur’d_ them.

Cymb. A. I. S. 1.

——Simon’s weeping

Did _scandal_ many a holy tear—

A. III. S. 4.

Great griefs, I see, _medicine_ the less.

A. IV. S. 5.

——that kiss

I carried from thee, Dear; and my true lip

Hath _virgin’d_ it e’er since—

Cor. A. V. S. 3.

Or _verbs_ into _substantives_;

——Then began

A stop i’ th’ chaser, a _Retire_—

Cymb. A. V. S. 2.

——take

No stricter _render_ of me—

A. V. S. 3.

——handkerchief

Still waving, as the fits and _stirs_ of’s mind

Could best express—

Cymb. A. I. S. 5.

——Sextus Pompeius

Hath giv’n the _dare_ to Cæsar—

A. C. A. I. S. 3.

4. By using _active_ verbs neutrally,

——He hath fought to-day

As if a god in hate of mankind had

_Destroy’d_, in such a shape—

A. C. A. IV. S. 6.

It is the bloody business, that _informs_

Thus to mine eyes—

Macb. A. II. S. 2.

And _neutral_ verbs actively,

——never man

Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,

Thou noble thing! more _dances_ my rapt heart

Than when I first my wedded mistress saw

Bestride my threshold—

Cor. A. IV. S. 4.

——like smiling Cupids,

With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem

To _glow_ the delicate cheeks which they did cool—

A. C. A. II. S. 3.

5. By converting _Adjectives_ into Substantives.

——I do not think

So fair an _outward_ and such stuff within

Endows a man but him—

Cymb. A. I. S. 1.

6. By converting _Participles_ into Substantives.

He would have well become this place, and grac’d

The _thankings_ of a King—

Cymb. A. V. S. 5.

The herbs, that have in them cold dew o’ th’ night,

Are _strewings_ fitt’st for Graves—

A. IV. S. 5.

——“Then was I as a tree

Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But, in one night,

A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow _hangings_——

Cymb. A. III. S. 3.

——Comes in my father,

And like the tyrannous _breathing_ of the North

Shakes all our Buds from blowing——

Cymb. A. I. S. 5.

Which last instance I the rather give for the sake of proposing an

emendation, which I think restores this fine passage to its Integrity.

Before the late edition of Shakespear it stood thus,

And like the tyrannous breathing of the North

Shakes all our Buds from _growing_—

But the sagacious Editor saw that this reading was corrupt, and

therefore altered the last word, _growing_, for unanswerable reasons,

into _blowing_. See Mr. W’s note upon the place. This slight change

gives propriety and beauty to the passage, which before had no sort of

meaning. Yet still all is not quite right. For, as the great Critic

himself observes, “_Breathing_ is not a very proper word to express

the rage and bluster of the north wind.” Besides, one does not see how

the _shaking_ of these Buds is properly assign’d as the cause of their

not blowing. The wind might shake off the _blossoms_ of a fruit tree,

i. e. the Buds when they were _full-blown_; but so long as the blossom

lies folded up in the Bud, it seems secure from shaking. At least the

_shaking_ is not the _immediate_ cause of the effect, spoken of; it is

simply the _cold_ of the north-wind that closes the Bud and keeps it

from _blowing_. I am therefore tempted to propose another alteration of

the text, and to read thus,

And like the tyrannous Breathing of the North

_Shuts_ all our Buds from blowing—

If this correction be allowed, every thing is perfectly right. It is

properly the _breathing_, the cold breath of the North, that shuts up

the Buds when they are on the point of blowing. Whence the epithet

_tyrannous_ will be understood not as implying the idea of _blust’ring_

(an idea indeed necessary if we retain the word _shakes_) but simply

of _cruel_, the _tyranny_ of this wind consisting in imprisoning

the flower in its Bud and denying it the liberty of coming out into

_Blossom_. The application too of this comparison, which required the

change of _growing_ into _blowing_, seems also to require the present

alteration of _shakes_. For there was no manner of violence in _the

father’s_ coming in upon the lovers. All the effect was, that his

presence _restrained_ them from that interchange of tender words, which

was going to take place between them.

Thus far I had written in the last edition of these notes, and I,

now, see no cause to doubt the _general_ truth and propriety of

this emendation. Only it occurs to me that, instead of SHUTS, the

poet’s own word might, perhaps, be CHECKS; as not only being more

like in _sound_ to the word _shakes_, but as coming nearer to the

_traces_ of the Letters. Besides, CHECKS gives the precise idea we

should naturally look for, whether we regard the integrity of the

_figure_—_tyrannous_—_checks_—, or the _thing_ illustrated by it,

viz. the abrupt coming in of the father, which was properly a _check_

upon the lovers. Lastly, the expression is mended by this reading; for

though we may be allowed to say _shuts from blowing_, yet _checks from

blowing_, is easier and better English.

But to return to other Instances of the Poet’s artifice in the

management of _known_ words. An apparent Novelty is sometimes effected

7. By turning _Participles_ into Adverbs—

——_tremblingly_ she stood

And on the sudden dropt—

A. C. A. V. S. 5.

(One remembers the fine use Mr. Pope has made of this word in,

Or touch, if _tremblingly_ alive all o’er—)

——But his flaw’d heart,

Alack, too weak the conflict to support,

’Twixt two extremes of Passion, joy and grief,

Burst _smilingly_—

Lear, A. V. S. 8.

8. By _figurative terms_; i. e. by such terms as though common in the

_plain_, are unusual in the figurative application.

——This common Body

Like to a vagabond flag, upon the stream,

Goes to, and back, _lacquying_ the varying tide.

A. C. A. I. S. 5.

——When snow the Pasture _sheets_.

ib.

To this head may be referred those innumerable terms in Shakespear

which surprize us by their novelty; and which surprize us generally, on

account of his preferring the _specific_ idea to the _general_ in the

_subjects_ of his Metaphors and the _circumstances_ of his Description;

an excellence in poetical expression which cannot be sufficiently

studied. The examples are too frequent, and the thing itself too well

understood, to make it necessary to enlarge on this article.

9. By _plain words_, i. e. such as are common in the figurative,

uncommon in the literal acceptation.

_Disasters_ vail’d the Sun—

Ham. A. I. S. 1.

See the note on the place.

Th’ _extravagant_ and erring spirit hies

To his confine—

ib.

——Can’t such things be

And _overcome_ us, like a Summer’s cloud,

Without our special wonder?—

Macb. A. III. S. 5.

10. By _transposition of words_—_unauthoriz’d use of terms_—_and

ungrammatical construction_. Instances in all his plays, _passim_.

11. By _foreign idioms_. ’Tis true these are not frequent in

Shakespear. Yet some Latinisms and e’en Grecisms we have. As

_Quenched of hope_—

Cymb. A. V. S. 5.

And the like. But, which is more remarkable and served his purpose

just as well, the writers of that time had so _latiniz’d_ the English

language; that the pure _English_ Idiom, which Shakespear generally

follows, has all the air of _novelty_ which other writers are used to

affect by a foreign phraseology.

The Reader sees, it were easy to extend this list of Shakespear’s arts

in the _Callida junctura_ much farther. But I intended only a specimen

of them; so much as might serve to illustrate the rule of Horace.

It is enough, that we have now a perfect apprehension of what is meant

by CALLIDA JUNCTURA; And that it is, in effect, but another word for

_Licentious Expression_: The use of which is, as Quintilian well

expresses it, “_Ut quotidiani et semper eodem modo formati sermonis

Fastidium levet, et nos à vulgari dicendi genere defendat_.” In short,

the articles, here enumerated, are but so many ways of departing from

the usual and simpler forms of speech, without neglecting too much the

grace of ease and perspicuity; In which well-tempered licence one

of the greatest charms of all poetry, but especially of Shakespear’s

poetry, consists. Not that He was always and every where so happy, as

in the instances given above. His expression sometimes, and by the very

means, here exemplified, becomes _hard_, _obscure_, and _unnatural_.

This is the extreme on the other side. But in general, we may say, that

He hath either followed the direction of Horace very ably, or hath hit

upon his Rule very happily.

We are not perhaps to expect the same ability, or good fortune from

others. _Novelty_ is a charm which nothing can excuse the want of, in

works of entertainment. And the necessity of preventing the tedium

arising from _hacknied expression_ is so instant, that those, who are

neither capable of prescribing to themselves this Rule of the _callida

Junctura_, or of following it when prescribed by others, are yet

inclined to ape it by some spurious contrivance; which being slight

in itself will soon become liable to excess, and ridiculous by its

absurdity. I have a remarkable instance in view, with which the reader

will not be displeased that I conclude this long note.

About the middle of the 17th century one of the most common of these

mimic efforts was the endless multiplication of _Epithets_; which soon

made their poetry at once both stiff and nerveless. When frequent and

excessive use had made this expedient ridiculous as well as cheap, they

tried another, it’s very opposite _the rejection of all Epithets_,

and so of languid poetry, made rigid Prose. This too had it’s day. A

dramatic Poet of that time has exposed these opposite follies with much

humour. A character of sense and pleasantry is made to interrogate a

Poetaster in the following manner.

GOLDSWORTH.

Master CAPERWIT, before you read, pray tell me,

Have your verses any ADJECTIVES?

CAPERWIT.

Adjectives! Would you have a poem without

Adjectives? They are the flow’rs, the grace of all our language;

A well-chosen Epithete doth give new Soule

To fainting Poesie; and makes everye verse

A Bribe. With Adjectives we baite our lines,

When we do fish for Gentlewomen’s loves,

And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear

Of amorous Ladies: With the music of

These ravishing Nouns, we charm the silken tribe,

And make the Gallant melt with apprehension

Of the rare word: I will maintain ’t (against

A bundle of Grammarians) in Poetry

The Substantive itself cannot subsist

Without an Adjective.

GOLDSWORTH.

But for all that,

These words would sound more full, methinks, that are not

So larded; and, if I might counsel you,

You should compose a Sonnet, cleane without them.

A row of stately SUBSTANTIVES would march,

Like Switzers, and bear all the field before them;

Carry their weight, shew fair, like DEEDS enroll’d;

Not WRITS, that are first made, and after fill’d:

Thence first came up the title of BLANK verse.

You know, Sir, what _Blank_ signifies? When the Sense

First fram’d, is tied with Adjectives, like Points,

And could not hold together, without wedges.

Hang ’t, ’tis Pedanticke, vulgar Poetry.

Let children, when they versifye, sticke here

And there these pidling words, for want of matter;

POETS write masculine numbers.

CAPERWIT.

You have given me a pretty hint: ’Tis NEW.

I will bestow these verses on my footman;

They’ll serve a Chambermaid—

SHIRLEY’S _Chances, or Love in a Maze_.

* * * * *

54. CÆCILIO PLAUTOQUE DABIT ROMANUS, ADEMPTUM VIRGILIO VARIOQUE?]

The question is but reasonable. Yet the answer will not be to the

satisfaction of him that puts it. This humour, we may observe, holds

here in England, as it did formerly at Rome; and will, I suppose, hold

every-where, under the same circumstances. Cæcilius and Plautus were

allowed to _coin_, but not Virgil and Varius. The same indulgence our

authors had at the restoration of letters; but it is denied to our

present writers. The reason is plainly this. While arts are refining

or reviving, the greater part are forced, and _all_ are content to be

_Learners_. When they are grown to their usual height, all affect to be

_Teachers_. With this affectation, a certain envy, as the poet observes,

——_cur adquirere pauca,

Si possum_, invideor—

insinuates itself; which is for restraining the privileges of writers,

to all of whom every reader is now become a Rival. Whereas men, under

the first character of _Learners_, are glad to encourage every thing

that makes for their instruction.

But whatever offence may be taken at this practice, good writers, as

they safely may, should _dare_ to venture upon it. A perfect language

is a chimæra. In every state of it there will frequently be occasion,

sometimes a necessity, to hazard a _new_ word. And let not a great

genius be discouraged, by the fastidious delicacy of his age, from a

sober use of this privilege. Let him, as the poet directs,

Command _old_ words, that long have slept, to wake,

Words, that wise BACON, or brave RALEGH spake;

Or bid the _new_ be English ages hence,

For USE will father what’s begot by SENSE.

This too was the constant language of ancient criticism. “Audendum

tamen; namque, ut ait Cicero, etiam quæ primò dura visa sunt, usu

molliuntur,” _Quintil._ l. i. c. v.

* * * * *

70. MULTA RENASCENTUR, QUAE JAM CECIDERE.] This _revival_ of _old_

words is one of those _niceties_ in composition, not to be attempted

by any but great masters. It may be done two ways, 1. by restoring

such terms, as are grown entirely obsolete; or, 2. by selecting out

of those, which have still a currency, and are not quite laid aside,

such as are most forcible and expressive. For so I understand a passage

in Cicero, who urges this double use of old words, as an argument,

to his orator, for the diligent study of the old Latin writers. His

words are these: _Loquendi elegantia, quamquam expolitur scientiâ

literarum, tamen augetur legendis oratoribus [veteribus] et poetis:

sunt enim illi veteres, qui ornare nondum poterant ea, quae dicebant,

omnes prope præclare locuti—Neque tamen erit utendum verbis iis, quibus

jam consuetudo nostra non utitur, nisi quando ornandi causâ, parcè,

quod ostendam; sed usitatis ita poterit uti, lectissimis ut utatur

is, qui in veteribus erit scriptis studiosè et multum volutatus._ [De

Orat. l. iii. c. x.] These _choice_ words amongst such as are still

in _use_, I take to be those which are employed by the old writers in

some peculiarly strong and energetic sense, yet so as with advantage

to be copied by the moderns, without appearing barbarous or affected.

[See HOR. lib. ii. ep. ii. v. 115.] And the reason, by the way, of

our finding such words in the old writers of every language, may be

this. When ideas are new to us, they strike us most forcibly; and we

endeavour to express, not our _sense_ only, but our _sensations_,

in the terms we use to explain them. The passion of wonder, which

Philosophy would cure us of, is of singular use in raising the

conception, and strengthening the expression of poets. And such is

always the condition of old writers, when the arts are reviving, or

but beginning to refine. The other use of old terms, _i. e._ when

become _obsolete_, he says, must be made _parcè_, more sparingly. The

contrary would, in oratory, be insufferable affectation. The rule holds

in poetry, but with greater latitude; for, as he observes in another

place, and the reason of the thing speaks, _hæc sunt Poetarum licentiæ

liberiora_. [De Or. iii. 38.] But the elegance of the style, we are

told, is increased both ways. The reason is, according to Quinctilian

(who was perfectly of Cicero’s mind in this matter. See l. x. c. i.)

_Verba à vetustate repetita afferunt orationi majestatem aliquam non

sine delectatione; nam et auctoritatem antiquitatis habent; et, quia

intermissa sunt, gratiam novitati similem parant._ [Lib. i. c. vi.

sub fin.] But this is not all: The riches of a language are actually

increased by retaining its old words; and besides, they have often

a greater real weight and dignity, than those of a more fashionable

cast, which succeed to them. This needs no proof to such as are versed

in the earlier writings in _any_ language. A very capable judge hath

observed it in regard of the most admired _modern_ one: _Nous avons

tellement laissé ce qui étoit au viel françois, que nous avons

laissé quant et quant la plus part de ce qu’il avoit de bon._ [Trait.

préparatif à l’ Apol. pour Herod. l. i. c. xxviii.] Or, if the reader

requires a more decisive testimony, let him take it in the words of

that curious speaker, Fenelon. _Nôtre langue manque d’un grand nombre

de mots et de phrases. Il me semble même qu’on l’a genée et appauvrie

depuis environ cent ans en voulant la purifier. Il est vrai qu’elle

étoit encore un peu informe et trop verbeuse. Mais le vieux language

se fait regretter, quand nous le retrouvons dans_ MAROT, _dans_ AMIOT,

_dans le Cardinal d’_OSSAT, _dans les ouvrages les plus enjoues, et

dans les plus serieux. Il y avoit je ne scai quoi de court, de näif,

de vif et de passioné._ [Reflex. sur la Rhetorique, Amst. 1733. p. 4.]

From these testimonies we learn the extreme value, which these masters

of composition set upon their old writers; and as the reason of the

thing justifies their opinions, we may further see the important use of

some late attempts to restore a better knowledge of our _own_. Which I

observe with pleasure, as the growing prevalency of a very different

humour, first catched, as it should seem, from our commerce with the

French models, and countenanced by the too scrupulous delicacy of

some good writers amongst ourselves, had gone far towards unnerving

the noblest modern language, and effeminating the public taste. This

was not a little forwarded by, what generally makes its appearance at

the same time, a kind of feminine curiosity in the choice of words;

cautiously avoiding and reprobating all such (which were not seldom

the most expressive) as had been prophaned by a too vulgar use, or

had suffered the touch of some other accidental taint. This ran us

into periphrases and general expression; the peculiar bane of every

polished language. Whereas the rhetorician’s judgment here again

should direct us: _Omnia verba (exceptis paucis parum verecundis) sunt

alicubi optima; nam et humilibus interim et vulgaribus est opus, et quæ

cultiore in parte videntur sordida, ubi res poscit, propriè dicuntur_.

Which seems borrowed from Dionysius of Halicarnassus [περ. συνθεσ. §

xii.] οὐδὲν οὕτω ταπεινὸν, ἢ ῥυπαρὸν, ἢ μιαρὸν, ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δυσχέρειαν

ἔχον ἔσεσθαί φημι λόγου μόριον, ᾧ σημαίνεταί τι σῶμα ἢ πρᾶγμα, ὃ

μηδεμίαν ἕξει χῶραν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐν λόγοις. However those two causes,

“The rejection of old words, as barbarous, and of many modern ones, as

unpolite,” had so exhausted the strength and stores of our language,

that, as I observed, it was high time for some master-hand to interpose

and send us for supplies to our old poets; which, there is the highest

authority for saying, no one ever despised, but for a reason, not very

consistent with his credit to avow: _rudem enim esse omnino in nostris

poëtis aut inertissimæ segnitiæ est aut fastidii delicatissimi_. [Cic.

de fin. l. i. c. ii.]

* * * * *

72.—SI VOLET USUS, &c.] _Consuetudo certissima loquendi magistra;

utendumque planè sermone, ut nummo, qui publica forma est._ [Quinctil.

l. i. c. vi.] imitated from Horace. In _Lucian_ too, we find it one of

the charges brought against the Pedant, _Lexiphanes_, that _he clipped

the standard_ COIN _of the Greek language_—σπουδὴν ποιούμενος ὡς δή τι

μέγα ὂν, εἴτι ξενίζοι καὶ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ τῆς φωνῆς παρακόπτοι

(c. 20.)

* * * * *

73. RES GESTAE, etc.] The purport of these lines [from v. 73 to 86] and

their connexion with what follows, hath not been fully seen. They would

express this general proposition, “That the several kinds of poetry

essentially differ from each other, as may be gathered, not solely from

their different subjects, but their different measures; which good

sense, and an attention to the peculiar natures of each, instructed

the great inventors and masters of them to employ.” The use made of

this proposition is to infer, “that therefore the like attention should

be had to the different species of the _same kind_ of poetry [v. 89,

&c.] as in the case of tragedy and comedy (to which the application is

made) whose peculiar differences and correspondencies, as resulting

from the natures of each, should, in agreement to the universal law of

_decorum_, be exactly known and diligently observed by the poet.”

_Singula quæque locum teneant sortita decentem._

v. 92.

But, there is a further propriety in this enumeration of the several

kinds of poetry, as addressed to the dramatic writer. He is not only to

study, for the purposes here explained, the characteristic differences

of either species of the drama: He must further be knowing in the other

_kinds_ of poetry, so as to be able, as the nature of his work shall

demand, to adopt the genius of each, in its turn, and to transfer

the graces of universal poetry into the drama. Thus, to follow the

division here laid down, there will sometimes be occasion for the pomp

and high _coloring_ of the EPIC narration; sometimes for the plaintive

softness and passionate inconnexion of the ELEGY: and the chorus, if

characterized in the ancient manner, must catch the fiery, inraptured

spirit of the ODE.

_Descriptas servare vices operumque colores,

Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque_, POETA _salutor?_

Hence is seen the truth of that remark, which there hath been more

than once occasion to make, “That, however general these prefatory

instructions may appear, they more especially respect the case of the

_drama_.”

* * * * *

90. INDIGNATUR ITEM, etc.—COENA THYESTAE.] _Il met le souper de

Thyeste pour toutes sortes de tragedies_, says M. Dacier; but why this

subject was singled out, as the representative of the rest, is not

explained by him. We may be sure, it was not taken up at random. The

reason was, that the Thyestes of Ennius was peculiarly chargeable with

the fault, here censured: as is plain from a curious passage in the

_Orator_; where Cicero, speaking of the loose numbers of certain poets,

observes this, in particular, of the tragedy of Thyestes, _Similia sunt

quædam apud nostros: velut in Thyeste_,

_Quemnam te esse dicam? qui tardâ in senectute._

_et quæ sequuntur: quæ nisi cùm tibicen accesserit_, ORATIONI SUNT

SOLUTÆ SIMILLIMA: which character exactly agrees to _this_ of Horace,

wherein the language of that play is censured, as flat and prosaic,

and hardly rising above the level of ordinary conversation in comedy.

This allusion to a particular play, written by one of their best poets,

and frequently exhibited on the Roman stage, gives great force and

spirit to the precept, at the same time that it exemplifies it in the

happiest manner. It seems further probable to me, that the poet also

designed an indirect compliment to _Varius_, whose Thyestes, we are

told, [_Quinctil._ l. x. c. i.] _was not inferior to any tragedy of the

Greeks_. This double intention of these lines well suited the poet’s

general aim, which is seen through all his critical works, of beating

down the excessive admiration of the old poets, and of asserting the

just honours of the modern. It may further be observed that the critics

have not felt the force of the words _exponi_ and _narrari_ in this

precept. They are admirably chosen to express the two faults condemned:

the first implying a kind of pomp and ostentation in the language,

which is therefore improper for the low subjects of comedy: and the

latter, as I have hinted, a flat, prosaic expression, not above the

cast of a common _narrative_, and therefore equally unfit for tragedy.

Nothing can be more rambling than the comment of Heinsius and Dacier on

this last word.

* * * * *

94. IRATUSQUE CHREMES TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE: ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE

DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] It may not be amiss to open a little more

particularly the grounds of this criticism: which may best be done by a

commentary on the following lines of the poet:

_Format enim natura priùs nos intùs ad omnem

Fortunarum habitum; juvat aut impellit ad iram;

Aut ad humum mærore gravi deducit et angit:

Pòst effert animi motus interprete linguâ_:

To _draw_ after the life, in any given conjuncture, the poet must

recollect (which may easily be done by consulting with his own

conscious experience) that _peculiar disposition_ of mind, into which

the speaker is, of necessity, carried by the circumstances of his

situation. And the _sentiments_, which give the image of this peculiar

disposition, are the genuine lineaments of the character intended.

But the _truth_ of sentiment may be hurt or effaced by incongruous

language, just as the exactest lineaments of a portrait are often

disguised or lost under a vicious coloring. To _paint_ then as well

as draw after the truth, it is requisite that a further regard be

had to the _expression_. Which again is no great difficulty for the

artist, the same common nature holding the torch to him, as before.

For in entering into ourselves we find, that as the mind, in any

supposed situation, gives birth to a _certain_ set of conceptions and

sentiments, correspondent to its true state, and expressive of it: so

by attending to the _language_, in which those sentiments ordinarily

manifest themselves, we easily perceive they take _one_ style or

manner of expression preferably to every other. For _expression_,

where false art is not employed to distort it, gives the just image of

our _sentiments_; just as _these_, when nature is not suppressed or

counteracted, are ever the faithful representatives of the _manners_.

They result, like the famous _Simulacra_ of Epicurus, as by a secret

destination, from their _original forms_; and are, _each_, the perfect

copies of _other_. All which will be clearly understood by applying

these general observations to the instances in view.

The passion of ANGER rouses all the native fire and energy of the soul.

In this disorder, and, as it were, insurrection of the mental powers,

our sentiments are strong and vigorous; nature prompting us to liberal

and lofty conceptions of ourselves, and a superior disdainful regard

of others. This again determines the _genius_ of our language, which,

to conform to such sentiments, must be bold and animated; breaking

out into forcible imagery, and swelling in all the pomp of sounding

epithets and violent figures. And this even amidst the humbler

concerns of private and inferior fortunes:

_Iratusque Chremes_ TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.

In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the reverse of this takes

place. For the mind, oppressed and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks

into a weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to submit, almost

without resistance, to the incumbent affliction; or if we struggle

at all with it, it is only to ease the labouring heart by putting

forth some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings. Thus we find

it represented by those perfect masters of simple nature, the Greek

tragedians. So far are their sorrowing personages from entertaining any

vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they constantly languish

into sad repinings at their present, and trembling apprehensions of

future, misery.

When these sentiments come to express themselves in _words_, what

can they be but the plainest and simplest which the language of

the complainant furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such

dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up with terms as

humble as his fortune. His feeble conception is not only unapt or

unable to look out for fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance

throw them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings of another

condition, and which serves only to upbraid his present wretchedness.

The pomp of numbers and pride of _poetic_ expression are so little

his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to observe the

ordinary exactness of _mere prose_[11]. And this even where the height

of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more

state and dignity.

_Et tragicus plerumque_ DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.

Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself by entering into his

own _consciousness_, and observing the sure dictates of experience. For

what concerns the successful application of this rule in _practice_,

every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.] must depend on the

constitution of his own mind; which yet may be much assisted by the

diligent study of those writers, who excel most in this way: in which

class all agree to give the palm to EURIPIDES.

But here it may not be improper to obviate a common mistake that seems

to have arisen from the too strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule.

_Tragic characters_, he says, _will generally express their sorrows in

a prosaic language_. From this just observation, hastily considered

and compared with the absurd practice of some writers, it hath been

concluded, That what we call _pure Poetry_, the essence of which

consists in bold figures and a lively imagery, hath no place on the

Stage. It may not be sufficient to oppose to this notion the _practice_

of the best poets, ancient and modern; for the question recurrs,

how far that practice is to be justified on the principles of good

criticism and common sense. To come then, _to the Reason of the thing_.

The capital rule in this matter is,

_Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique_.

But to do this, the _Situation_ of the persons, and the various

_passions_ resulting from such situation, must be well considered. Each

of these has a _character_ or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But

_all_ agree in this property, that they occupy the whole attention of

the speaker, and are perpetually offering to his mind a set of pictures

or images, suitable to his state, and expressive of it. In these the

tragic character of every denomination loves to indulge; as we may see

by looking no farther than on what passes before us in common life,

where persons, under the influence of any passion, are more eloquent

and have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery, than at other

times. So that to take from the speaker this privilege of representing

such pictures or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is,

in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest lessons.

’Tis true, if _one_ character is busied in running after the

Images which Nature throws in the way only of some _other_; or if,

in representing such images as are proper to the character, the

Imagination is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and amusing

itself with circumstances that have no relation to the case in hand:

then indeed the censure of these critics is well applied. It may be

_fine poetry_, if you will, but very bad _dramatic writing_. But let

the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if it be such only as the

governing passion loves to conceive and paint, and if it be no further

dilated on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity, than the

natural working of the passion demands, the Drama is so far from

rejecting such Poetry that it glories in it, as what is most essential

to its true end and design.

_Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur

Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,

Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,

Ut magus_——

An office, which the dramatic poet hath no means of sustaining but by

that strong painting and forcible imagery, above described.

What seems to have given a colour to the opposite opinion, is the

faulty practice which good critics have observed in the _French_

tragedies, and in some of our own that have been formed upon their

model. But the case is mistaken. It is not the _Poetry_ of the

French or English drama that deserves their censure, but its prolix

and languid _Declamation_, neglecting passion for _sentiment_, or

expressing _passion_ in a calm circuit of words and without spirit.

Even Mr. Addison’s CATO, which from being immoderately extolled has

had the usual fate of being as immoderately undervalued, is not to be

censured for its abundance of poetry, but for its application of it in

a way that hurts the _passion_. General sentiments, uncharacteristic

imagery, and both drawn out in a spiritless, or, which comes to the

same thing, a too curious expression, are the proper faults of this

drama. What the critic of just taste demands in this fine tragedy, is

even more poetry, but better applied and touched with more spirit.

Still, perhaps, we are but on the surface of this matter. The true

ground of this mistaken Criticism, is, The Notion, that when the Hero

is at the crisis of his fate, he is not at liberty to use Poetical,

that is, highly figurative expression: but that the proper season for

these things is when he has nothing else to do. Whereas the truth is

just the contrary. The figures, when he is greatly agitated, come of

themselves; and, suiting the grandeur and dignity of his situation,

are perfectly natural. To use them in his cool and quiet moments, when

he has no great interests to prosecute or extricate himself from, is

directly against _Nature_. For, in this state of things, he must _seek_

them, if he will have them. And when he has got them and made his best

use of them, what do they produce? Not sublimity, but Bombast. For it

is not the _figures_, but the suitableness to the _occasion_, that

produces either. Not that I am ignorant that there are vices in the

_formation_ of figures, as well as in their application. But these

vices go under various other names. The _pure simple Bombast_ (if I

may be indulged so bold a catachresis) arises from putting figurative

expression to an improper use. To give an instance of what I mean.

TACITUS writes under one continued resentment at the degeneracy of his

times, and speaking of some sumptuary Laws proposed by the Senate, in 2

_Ann._ c. 33, he says they decreed, _Ne Vestis Serica viros_ FOEDARET.

This became the dignity of his historic character and genius. But had

his Contemporary, Suetonius, who wrote Chronicles in the spirit of

our STOW and HOLINSHED, used the same language, it would have set his

readers a laughing.

Not but figurative expression, even when _suitable_ to the character,

genius, and general subject of a writer, may still be _misplaced_.

Thus, had Tacitus, speaking of the honours decreed to Tiberius on a

certain occasion, said with his translator Gordon—_which of these

he meant to accept or which to reject, the approaching issue of his

days has_ BURIED _in oblivion_—the _figure_, the reader sees, would

have been miserably out of place; the conceit of the _burial_ of his

intentions, on the mention of his death, being even ridiculous. But

the ridicule, we may be sure, falls on the translator only, and not

on his great original, who expresses himself on this occasion, not

only with propriety, but with the greatest simplicity—_quos omiserit

receperitve_ IN INCERTO _fuit ob propinquum vitæ finem_. Ann. l. vi. c.

45.

I have brought these instances to shew that _figurative expression_ is

not improper even in a fervent animated historian, on a _fit subject_,

and in _due place_: much less should the tragic poet, when his

characters are to be shewn in the conflict of the stronger passions, be

debarred the use of it.

The short of the matter is, in one word, this. Civil Society first of

all _tames us to humanity_, as Cicero expresses it; and, in the course

of its discipline, brings us down to one dead level. Its effect is to

make us all the same pliant, mimic, obsequious things; not unlike, in

a word, (if our pride could overlook the levity of the comparison)

what we see of trained Apes. But when the violent passions arise (as

in the case of these Apes when the apples were thrown before them)

this artificial discipline is all shaken off, and we return again to

the free and ferocious state of Nature. And what is the expression of

that state? It is (as we understand by experience) a free and fiery

expression, all made up of bold metaphors and daring figures of Speech.

The conclusion is, that Poetry, _pure Poetry_, is the proper language

of _Passion_, whether we chuse to consider it as ennobling, or debasing

the human character.

There is, as I have said, an obvious distinction to be made (and to

that the poet’s rule, as explained in this note, refers) between the

soft and tender, and the more vigorous passions. When the former

prevail, the mind is in a weak languid state; and though all allusion

and imagery be not improper here, yet as that fire and energy of the

soul is wanting, which gives a facility of ranging over our ideas

and of seizing such as may be turned to any resemblance of our own

condition, it will for that reason be less _frequent_ in this state of

the mind than any other. Such imagery, too, will for the same reason be

less _striking_, because the same languid affections lead to, and make

us acquiesce in a simpler and plainer expression. But universally in

the stronger passions the _poetical character_ prevails, and rises only

in proportion to the force and activity of those passions.

To draw the whole then of what has been said on this subject into a

standing RULE for the observance of the dramatic Poet.

“MAN is so formed that whether he be in joy, or grief; in confidence or

despair; in pleasure or pain; in prosperity or distress; in security

or danger; or torn and distracted by all the various modifications of

Love, Hate, and Fear: The Imagination is incessantly presenting to the

mind an infinite variety of images or pictures, conformable to his

Situation: And these Pictures receive their various coloring from the

habits, which his birth and condition, his education, profession and

pursuits have induced. The _representation_ of these is the POETRY,

and a _just_ representation, in a great measure, the ART, of dramatic

writing.”

* * * * *

95. ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] Dr. Bentley connects

this with the following line:

[_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri

Telephus aut Peleus_

for the sake, as he says, of _preserving the opposition_. _In

comædiâ iratus Chremes tumido, in tragædiâ Telephus pauper humili

sermone utitur._ This is specious; but, if the reader attends, he

will perceive, that the opposition is better preserved without his

connection. For it will stand thus: The poet first asserts of comedy at

large, _that it sometimes raises its voice_,

_Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit_.

Next, he confirms this general remark, by appealing to a particular

instance,

_Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore_.

Exactness of _opposition_ will require the same method to be observed

in speaking of _tragedy_; which accordingly is the case, if we follow

the vulgar reading. For, first, it is said of _tragedy_, that, when

grief is to be expressed, it generally condescends to an humbler strain,

_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri_.

And then the general truth, as before, is illustrated by a particular

instance,

_Telephus aut Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,

Projicit ampullas, &c._

There is no absurdity, as the Doctor pretends, in taking _tragicus_ for

_tragædiarum scriptor_. For the poet, by a common figure, is made to do

that, which he represents his persons, as doing.

But this is not the whole, that will deserve the reader’s regard in

this place. A strict attention to the scope and turn of the passage

[from v. 96 to 114] will lead him to conclude, 1. “That some real

tragedy of Telephus and Peleus was intended in v. 96, in which the

characters were duly preserved and set forth in proper language.” This

the opposition to the _Chremes_ of Terence absolutely demands. Let us

inquire what this might be. _Euripides_, we know, composed tragedies

under these names; but it is unlikely, the poet should contrast the

instance of a _Greek_ tragedy to a _Latin_ comedy. Nor need it be

supposed. The subject was familiar to the Roman poets. For we find a

_Telephus_ ascribed to no less than three of them, _Ennius_, _Accius_,

and _Nævius_[12]. One of these then I doubt not, is here intended. But

the Roman, in those times, were little more than translations of the

Greek plays. Hence it is most likely, that the tragedy of _Telephus_

(and probably of _Peleus_, though we have not so direct authority

for this) was, in fact, the tragedy of _Euripides_, translated into

Latin, and accommodated to the Roman stage, by one of these writers.

It remains only to enquire, if the _Telephus_ itself of _Euripides_

answered to this character. Which, I think, it manifestly did, from

considering what his enemy, the buffoon Aristophanes, hath said

concerning it. Every body knows, that the BATRAXOI of this poet

contains a direct satyr, and Burlesque upon _Euripides_. Some part

of it is particularly levelled against his _Telephus_: whence we may

certainly learn the objections, that were made to it. Yet the amount

of them is only this, “That he had drawn the character of _Telephus_

in too many circumstances of distress and humiliation.” His fault was,

that he had represented him more like a beggar, than an unfortunate

prince. Which, in more candid hands, would, I suppose, amount only to

this, “That the poet had painted his distress in the most natural, and

affecting manner.” He had stripped him of his royalty, and, together

with it of the pomp and ostentation of the regal language, the very

beauty, which Horace applauds and admires in his _Telephus_.

2. Next, I think it as clear from what follows, “That some real tragedy

of _Telephus_, and _Peleus_, was also glanced at, of a different stamp

from the other, and in which the characters were not supported by

such propriety of language.” Let the reader judge. Having quoted a

_Telephus_ and _Peleus_, as examples to the rule concerning the style

of tragedy, and afterwards enlarged [from v. 98 to 103] on the reasons

of their excellence, he returns, with an air of insult, to the same

names, apostrophizing them in the following manner:

_Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loquêris,

Aut dormitabo aut ridebo_:

But why this address to _characters_, which he had before alleged, as

examples of true dramatical _drawing_? Would any tolerable writer,

after having applauded Shakespear’s King _Lear_, as an instance of the

kingly character in distress, naturally painted, apostrophize it, with

such pointed vehemence, on the contrary supposition? But let this pass.

The Poet, as though a notorious violation of the critic’s rules was to

be thoroughly exposed, goes on, in the seven following lines, to search

into the bottom of this affair, laying open the source and ground of

his judgment; and concludes upon the whole,

_Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta_,

ROMANI TOLLENT EQUITESQUE PATRESQUE CACHINNUM.

Can any thing be plainer, than that this last line points at some

well-known instance of a Latin play, which had provoked, upon this

account, the contempt and laughter of the best judges? It may further

be observed, that this way of understanding the passage before us, as

it is more conformable to what is here shewn to be the general scope of

the epistle, so doth it, in its turn, likewise countenance, or rather

clearly shew, the truth and certainty of this method of interpretation.

* * * * *

99. NON SATIS EST PULCHRA, etc.] Dr. Bentley objects to _pulchra_,

because this, he says, is a general term, including under it every

species of beauty, and therefore that of _dulcis_ or the _affecting_.

But the great critic did not sufficiently attend to the connexion,

which, as F. Robortellus, in his paraphrase on the epistle, well

observes, stands thus: “It is not enough, that tragedies have that kind

of beauty, which arises from a pomp and splendor of diction, they must

also be pathetic or affecting.” _Objiciat se mihi hoc loco aliquis et

dicat, si id fiat_ [_i. e._ si projiciantur ampullæ] _corrumpi omnem

venustatem et gravitatem poëmatis tragici, quod nihil nisi grande et

elatum recipit. Huic ego ita respondendum puto, non satis esse, ut

poëmata venusta sint et dignitatem suam servent: nam dulcedine quoque

et suavitate quâdam sunt conspergenda, ut possint auditoris animum

inflectere in quamcunque voluerint partem._

But a very ingenious person, who knows how to unite philosophy with

criticism; and to all that is elegant in _taste_, to add what is most

just and accurate in _science_, hath, in the following note, shewn the

very foundation of Dr. Bentley’s criticism to be erroneous.

“There are a multitude of words in every language, which are sometimes

used in a _wider_, sometimes in a _more restrained_ sense. Of this

kind are καλὸν of the Greeks, the _pulchrum_ of the Romans, and the

words by which they are translated in modern languages. To whatever

subjects these epithets are applied, we always intend to signify that

they give us _pleasure_: and we seldom apply them to any subjects,

but those which please by means of impressions made on the fancy:

_including_ under this name the reception of images conveyed directly

by the sight itself. As Poetry therefore always addresses itself to the

imagination, every species of _poetical excellence_ obtains the name of

_Beauty_: and, among the rest, the power of pleasing us by affecting

the _passions_; an effect which intirely depends on the various images

presented to our view. In this sense of the word _beautiful_, it cannot

be opposed to _pathetic_. _Pulchrum enim quascunque carminis virtutes,

etiam ipsam_ dulcedinem, _in se continere meritò videatur._

But nothing, I think, can be plainer, than that this epithet is often

used more _determinately_. Visible forms are not merely occasions of

pleasure, in common with other objects, but they produce a pleasure of

a singular kind. And the power they have of producing it, is properly

denominated by the name of _Beauty_. Whether Regularity and Variety

have been rightly assigned, as the circumstances on which it depends,

is a question, which in this place we need not consider. It cannot

at least be denied, that we make a distinction among the objects of

sight, when the things themselves are removed from our view: and that

we annex the names of Beauty and Deformity to different objects and

different pictures, in consequence of these perceptions. I ask then,

what is meant, when the words are thus applied? Is it only that we

are _pleased_ or _displeased_? This surely cannot be said. For the

epithets would then be applied with equal propriety to the objects

of different senses: and the fragrance of a flower, for instance,

would be a species of beauty; the bitterness of wormwood a species

of deformity.—Do we then mean, that we receive pleasure and pain by

means of the _Imagination_? We may indeed mean _this_: but we certainly

mean _more_ than this. For the same names are used and applied, in a

manner perfectly similar, by numbers of persons who never once thought

of this artificial method of distinguishing their ideas. There is then

some kind of perception, common to them and us, which has occasioned

this uniformity in our ways of speaking: and whether you will chuse to

consider the perceptive faculty as resulting only from habit, or allow

it the name of a _Sense_ of Beauty; whether these perceptions can,

or cannot, be resolved into some _general_ principle, imagination of

private advantage, or sympathy with others, are, in the present case,

circumstances wholly indifferent.

If it be admitted that the epithets, of which we are speaking, were

originally used in this restrained sense, it is easy to see that they

would readily obtain the more _extended_ signification. For the species

of pleasure to which they were first confined, was found always to

arise from images impressed on the fancy: what then more natural,

than to apply the same words to every species of pleasure resulting

from the imagination, and to every species of images productive of

pleasure? Thus the _beauty_ of a human person might originally signify

such combinations of figure and colour, as produced the _peculiar_

perception above-mentioned. _Pulchritudo corporis_ (says Cicero) _aptâ

compositione membrorum movet oculos, et eo ipso delectat, &c._—But

from this signification to the other the transition was easy and

obvious. If every beautiful form gave pleasure, every pleasing form

might come to be called beautiful: not because the same perceptions

are excited by _all_ (the pleasures being apparently different) but

because they are all excited in the same manner. And this is confirmed

by a distinction which every one understands between beauties of the

_regular_ and _irregular_ kind. When we would distinguish these from

each other, we call the latter _agreeable_, and leave to the former

only the name of _beautiful_: that is, we confine the latter term to

its proper and original sense.—In much the same manner objects _not

visible_ may sometimes obtain the name of beauty, for no other reason

than because the imagination is agreeably employed about them; and we

may speak of a beautiful _character_, as well as a beautiful _person_:

by no means intending that we have the same _feeling_ from the one as

the other, but that in both cases we are _pleased_, and that in both

the _imagination_ contributes to the pleasure.

Now as every _representative art_ is capable of affording us pleasure,

and this pleasure is occasioned by images impressed on the fancy;

every pleasing production of art, will of course obtain the name

of beautiful. Yet this hinders us not from considering beauty as a

_distinct_ excellence in such productions. For we may distinguish,

either in a picture or poem, between the pleasures we receive directly

from the imitation of _visible forms_, and those which principally

depend on _other_ kinds of imitation: And we may consider visible forms

themselves either as _occasions_ of pleasure, in _common_ with other

objects; or as yielding us that _peculiar_ delight which they alone are

capable of yielding. If we use the word _beautiful_ in this _limited_

sense, it is very intelligibly opposed to _pathetic_. Images of Groves,

Fields, Rocks and Water, afford us a pleasure extremely different

from that which we find in the indulgence of our _tender affections_:

nor can there be any danger of confounding the agreeable perception

received from a masterly statue of an Apollo or a Venus, with that

which arises from a representation of the _terrors_ men feel under a

storm or a plague.

It is no objection to what has been said, that the objects we call

_beautiful_ may also in some cases be occasions of _passion_. The

sight, for instance, of a beautiful person may give birth to the

passion of Love: yet to perceive the beauty and to feel the passion are

two different things. For every beautiful object does not produce love

in every observer, and the same passion is sometimes excited by objects

not beautiful; I mean not called beautiful by the persons themselves

who are affected by them. And the distinction between these feelings,

would receive further confirmation (if indeed there could be any doubt

of it) from observing that people frequently speak of beauty, and as

far as appears intelligibly, in persons of their _own sex_; who feel

perhaps no _passion_ but that of _envy_: which will not surely be

thought the same with the perception of _beauty_.

There is then no room for an objection to the text of Horace, as

it stood before Dr. B.’s emendation: unless it should be thought an

impropriety to oppose two epithets which are _capable_ of being

understood in senses _not opposite_. But there is not the least ground

for this imagination. For when a word of uncertain signification is

_opposed_ to another whose signification is certain; the opposition

itself _determines_ the sense. The word _day_ in one of its senses

includes the whole space of twenty-four hours: yet it is not surely

an impropriety to oppose _day_ to _night_.—In like manner the words

_pulchra poëmata_, if we were not directed by the context, might

signify _good poems_ in general: but when the beauty of a poem is

_distinguished_ from other excellences, this distinction will lead

us to confine our idea to _beautiful imagery_; and, we know it is

agreeable to the sentiments which Horace expresses in other places,

to declare that this kind of merit is _insufficient_ in _dramatic_

writers, from whom we expect a pleasure of very different kind. Indeed

the most exquisite painting, if it is not constantly subordinate to

this higher end, becomes not only insufficient, but _impertinent_:

serving only to divert the attention, and interrupt the course of the

passions.

It may seem perhaps that the force of a _Latin_ expression cannot be

ascertained from reflections of this sort, but must be gathered from

citations of particular passages. And this indeed is true with regard

to the _peculiarities_ of the language. But the question before us

is of a different kind. It is a question of _Philosophy_ rather than

_Criticism_: as depending on those differences of ideas, which are

marked by similar forms of expression in _all_ languages.”

* * * * *

102. SI VIS ME FLERE, DOLENDUM EST PRIMUM IPSI TIBI:] _Tragedy_, as[13]

one said, who had a heart to feel its tenderest emotions, _shewed forth

the ulcers that are covered with tissue_. In order to awaken and call

forth in the spectator all those sympathies, which naturally await on

the lively exhibition of such a scene, the writer must have a soul

_tuned_ to the most exquisite sensibility, and susceptible of the same

vibrations from his own created images, which are known to _shake_ the

sufferer in real life. This is so uncommon a pitch of humanity, that

’tis no wonder, so few have succeeded in this _trying_ part of the

drama. Euripides, of all the ancients, had most of this sympathetic

tenderness in his nature, and accordingly we find him without a rival

in this praise. Τραγικώτατος τῶν ποιητῶν, says Aristotle of him [Περὶ

ποιητ. κ. ιγʹ.] and to the same purpose another great critic, _In

affectibus cum omnibus mirus, tum in iis, qui_ MISERATIONE _constant,

facile præcipuus_. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] They, who apply themselves to

express the _pitiable_ ἐλεεινὸν in tragedy, would do well to examine

their own hearts by this rule, before they presume to practise upon

those of others. See, further, this remark applied by Cicero to the

subject of oratory, and inforced with his usual elegance and good

sense. [l. ii. c. xlv. _De oratore._]

* * * * *

103. TUNC TUA ME INFORTUNIA LAEDENT.] This is expressed with accuracy.

Yet the truth is, The more we are _hurt_ with representations of this

sort, the more we are _pleased_ with them. Whence arises this strange

_Pleasure_? The question hath been frequently asked, and various

answers have been given to it.

But of all the solutions of this famous difficulty, that which we have

just now received from Mr. Hume, is by far the most curious.

His account in short is, “That the force of imagination, the energy

of expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation, are all

naturally of themselves delightful to the mind; that these sentiments

of beauty, being the _predominant_ emotions, seize the whole mind, and

convert the uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In a word, that

the sentiments of _beauty_, excited by a good tragedy, are the superior

prevailing movements, and transform the subordinate impressions

arising from _grief_, _compassion_, _indignation_, and _terror_, into

one uniform and strong enjoyment.” [_See four Dissertations by_ D.

Hume, _Esq. p. 185, &c._]

I have but two objections to this ingenious theory. ONE is, that it

supposes the impression of grief or terror, excited by a well-written

tragedy, to be weaker than that which arises from our observation of

the faculties of the writer, the power of numbers, and imitation. Which

to me is much the same thing as saying, That the sight of a precipice

hanging over our heads makes a fainter impression on the eye, than

the shrubs and wild flowers with which it happens to be covered. The

fact is so far otherwise, that, if the tragedy be well-written, I will

venture to say, the faculties of the writer, the charms of poetry, or

even the thought of imitation, never come into the spectator’s head.

But he may feel the effect of them, it will be said, for all that.

True: But unluckily the whole effect of these things is (and that was

my OTHER objection) to deepen the impressions of grief and terror. They

are out of place, and altogether impertinent, if they contribute to any

other end. So that to say, The impression of grief and terror from a

tragic story, strong as it is in itself, and made still stronger by the

art of the poet, is a weaker impression, than the mere pleasure arising

from that _art_, is methinks to account for one mystery by another ten

times greater, and to make the poet a verier _magician_ than Horace

ever intended to represent him.

This ingenious solution then, being so evidently founded on the

supposition of a _false fact_, deserves no further notice. As to the

_difficulty_ itself, the following hints may, perhaps, enable the

reader, in some measure, to account for it.

1. It is not to be doubted but that we love to have our _attention_

raised, and our _curiosity_ gratified. So far the ABBÉ DU BOS’ system

may be admitted.

2. The representation, however distressful, is still seen to be a

representation. We find our hearts affected, and even pained, by a

good tragedy. But we instantly recollect that the scene is fictitious;

and the _recollection_ not only abates our uneasiness, but diffuses a

secret joy upon the mind in the discovery we make that the _occasion_

of our uneasiness is not real. Just as our awaking from a frightful

dream, and sometimes a secret consciousness of the illusion during

the dream itself, is attended with pleasure. That so much of M. DE

FONTENELLE’S notion must be admitted, is clear, because children, who

take the sufferings on the stage for realities, are so afflicted by

them that they don’t care to repeat the experiment.

But still, all this is by no means a full account of the matter. For,

3. It should be considered, that ALL the uneasy Passions, in the

very time that we are distressed by them, nay, though the occasions

be instant and real, have a secret complacency mixed with them. It

seems as if Providence, in compassion to human feeling, had, together

with our sorrows, infused a kind of balm into the mind, to temper and

qualify, as it were, these bitter ingredients. But,

4. Besides this _general_ provision, the nature of the _peculiar_

passions, excited by tragedy, is such as, in a more eminent degree,

must produce pleasure. For what are these, but indignation at

prosperous vice, or the commiseration of suffering virtue? And the

agitation of these passions is even, in real life, accompanied with a

certain delight, which was, no doubt, intended to quicken us in the

exercise of those social offices. Still further.

5. To the pleasure _directly_ springing from these passions we may

add another which naturally, but imperceptibly almost steals in upon

us from _reflexion_. We are conscious to our own humanity on these

tender occasions. We understand and feel that it is _right_ for us

to be affected by the distresses of others. Our pain is softened by

a secret exultation in the rectitude of these sympathies. ’Tis true,

this reflex act of the mind is prevented, or suspended at least for a

time, when the sufferings are real, and concern those for whom we are

most interested. But the fictions of the stage do not press upon us so

closely.

Putting all these things together, the conclusion is, That though the

impressions of the theatre are, in their immediate effect, painful to

us, yet they must, on the whole, afford an extreme pleasure, and that

in proportion to the degree of the first painful impression. For not

only our attention is rouzed, but our moral instincts are gratified; we

reflect with joy that they are so, and we reflect too that the sorrows

which call them forth and give this exercise to our humanity, are but

fictitious. We are occupied, in a word, by a _great_ event; we are

melted into tears by a _distressful_ one; the heart is relieved by this

burst of sorrow; is cheared and animated by the finest moral feelings;

exults in the consciousness of its own sensibility; and finds, in

conclusion, that the whole is but an illusion.

The sum is, that we are not so properly delighted _by_ the Passions,

as _through_ them. They give _occasion_ to the most pleasing movements

and gratulations. The art of the poet indeed consists in giving _pain_.

But nature and reflexion fly to our relief; and though they do not

convert our pain into joy (for that methinks would be little less than

a new kind of _Transubstantiation_) they have an equivalent effect in

producing an exquisite joy out of our preceding sorrows.

* * * * *

119. AUT FAMAM SEQUERE, &c.] The connexion lies thus: _Language_ must

agree with _character_; _character_ with _fame_, or at least with

_itself_.

* * * * *

123. SIT MEDEA FEROX INVICTAQUE.] Horace took this instance from

Euripides, where the _unconquered fierceness_ of this character is

preserved in that due mediocrity, which nature and just writing

demand. The poet, in giving her character, is content to say of her,

Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶς

Πάσχους’

And

Δεινὴ γάρ. οὖ τοι ῥᾳδίως γε συμβαλὼν

Ἐχθράν τις αὐτῇ, καλλίνικον οἴσεται.

And she herself, when opening to the chorus her last horrid purpose,

says, fiercely indeed, but not frantically:

Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτω

Μηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.

And this is _nature_, which Seneca not perceiving, and yet willing to

write up to the critic’s rule, hath outraged her character beyond all

bounds, and, instead of a resolute, revengeful woman, hath made of her

a downright fury. Hence her passion is wrought up to a greater height

in the very first scene of the Latin play, than it ever reaches in the

Greek poet. The tenor of her language throughout is,

_invadam deos,

Et cuncta quatiam_.

And hence, in particular, the third and fourth acts expose to our view

all the horrors of sorcery (and those too _imaged_ to an extravagance)

which Euripides, with so much better judgment, thought fit entirely to

conceal.

* * * * *

126. SERVETUR AD IMUM QUALIS AB INCEPTO PROCESSERIT, ET SIBI CONSTET.]

The rule is, as appears from the reason of the thing, and from

Aristotle, “Let an _uniformity_ of character be preserved, or at least

a _consistency_:” i. e. either let the manners be exactly the same

from the beginning to the end of the play, as those of Medea, for

instance, and Orestes; or, if any change be necessary, let it be such

as may consist with, and be easily reconciled to, the manners formerly

attributed; as is seen in the case of Electra and Iphigenia. We should

read then, it is plain,

_servetur ad imum

Qualis ab incepto processerit_, AUT _sibi constet_.

The mistake arose from imagining, that a character could no other way

_consist_ with itself, but by being _uniform_. A mistake however,

which, as I said, not the reason of the thing only, but Aristotle’s

rule might have set right. It is expressed thus: Τέταρτον δὲ τὸ ὁμαλόν.

Κᾂν γὰρ ἀνώμαλός τις ᾖ, ὁ τὴν μίμησιν παρέχων καὶ τοιοῦτον ἦθος

ὑποτιθεὶς, ὅμως ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον δεῖ εἶναι. Ποιητ. κ. ιεʹ. which last

words, having been not at all understood, have kept his interpreters

from seeing the true sense and scope of the precept. For they have been

explained of such characters, as that of _Tigellius_ in Horace; which,

however proper for satyr, or for farcical comedy, are of too fantastic

and whimsical a nature to be admitted into tragedy; of which Aristotle

must there be chiefly understood to speak, and to which Horace, in

this place, alone confines himself. “’Tis true, indeed, it may be said,

that though a _whimsical_ or _fantastic_ character be improper for

tragedy, an _irresolute_ one is not. Nothing is finer than a struggle

between different passions; and it is perfectly natural, that in such

a circumstance, each should prevail by turns.” But then there is the

widest difference between the two cases. _Tigellius_, with all his

fantastic irresolution, is as _uniform_ a character as that of _Mitio_.

If the expression may be allowed, its very _inconsistency_ is of the

essence of its _uniformity_. On the other hand, Electra, torn with

sundry conflicting passions, is most apparently, and in the properest

notion of the word, _ununiform_. One of the strongest touches in her

character is that of a high, heroic spirit, sensible to her own, and

her family’s injuries, and determined, at any rate, to revenge them.

Yet no sooner is this revenge perpetrated, than she softens, relents,

and pities. Here is a manifest _ununiformity_, which can, in no proper

sense of the expression lay claim to the critic’s ὁμαλὸν, but may be so

managed, by the poet’s skill, as to become consistent with the basis or

foundation of her character, that is, to be ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον. And that

this, in fact, was the meaning of the critic, is plain from the similar

example to his own rule, given in the case of Iphigenia: which he

specifies (how justly will be considered hereafter) as an instance of

the ἀνωμάλου, _irregular_, or _ununiform_, character, ill-expressed,

or made _inconsistent_. So that the genuine sense of the precept is,

“Let the manners be uniform; or, if ununiform, yet consistently so, or

uniformly ununiform:” exactly copied, according to the reading, here

given by Horace. Whereas in the other way, it stands thus: “Let your

characters be uniform, or unchanged; or, if you paint an ununiform

character (such as Tigellius) let it be ununiform all the way; _i. e._

such an irregular character to the end of the play, as it was at the

beginning; which is, in effect, to say, let it be _uniform_:” which

apparently destroys the latter part of the precept, and makes it an

unmeaning tautology with the former.

* * * * *

127. AUT SIBI CONSTET.] The ELECTRA and IPHIGENIA of Euripides have

been quoted, in the preceding note, as instances of _ununiform_

characters, justly sustained, or what Aristotle calls, _uniformly

ununiform_: And this, though the general opinion condemns the one,

and the great critic himself, the other; the reader will expect some

account to be given of this singularity.

1. The objection to Electra, is, that her character is drawn with

such heightenings of implacability and resentment, as make it utterly

incredible, she should, immediately on the murder of Clytæmnestra, fall

into the same excess of grief and regret, as Orestes. In confutation

of this censure I observe, 1. That the objection proceeds on a mistaken

presumption, that the distress of Electra is equally violent with that

of Orestes. On the contrary, it is discriminated from it by two plain

marks. 1. Orestes’s grief is expressed in stronger and more emphatic

terms—_he accuses the Gods—he reproaches his sister—he dwells upon

every horrid circumstance, that can inhance the guilt of the murder_.

Electra, in the mean time, _confesses the scene to be mournful—is

apprehensive of bad consequences—calmly submits to the just reproaches

of her brother_. 2. He labours as much as possible, to clear himself

from the imputation of the act. She takes it wholly on herself, but,

regarding it rather as her fate, than her fault, comforts herself in

reflecting on the justice of it.