Whether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species--Origin of the New
Comedy--A mixed species--Its prosaic character--Whether versification is
essential to Comedy--Subordinate kinds--Pieces of Character, and of
Intrigue--The Comic of observation, of self-consciousness, and arbitrary
Comic--Morality of Comedy--Plautus and Terence as imitators of the Greeks
here cited and characterised for want of the Originals--Moral and social
aim of the Attic Comedy--Statues of two Comic Authors.
Ancient critics assume the existence of a _Middle Comedy_, between
the _Old_ and the _New_. Its distinguishing characteristics are variously
described: by some its peculiarity is made to consist in the abstinence
from personal satire and introduction of real characters, and by others in
the abolition of the chorus. But the introduction of real persons under
their true names was never an indispensable requisite. Indeed, in several,
even of Aristophanes' plays, we find characters in no respect historical,
but altogether fictitious, but bearing significant names, after the manner
of the New Comedy; while personal satire is only occasionally employed.
This right of personal satire was no doubt, as I have already shown,
essential to the Old Comedy, and the loss of it incapacitated the poets
from throwing ridicule on public actions and affairs of state. When
accordingly they confined themselves to private life, the chorus ceased at
once to have any significance. However, accidental circumstances
accelerated its abolition. To dress and train the choristers was an
expensive undertaking; now, as Comedy with the forfeiture of its political
privileges lost also its festal dignity, and was degraded into a mere
amusement, the poet no longer found any rich patrons willing to take upon
themselves the expense of furnishing the chorus.
Platonius mentions a further characteristic of the Middle Comedy. On
account, he says, of the danger of alluding to public affairs, the comic
writers had turned all their satire against serious poetry, whether epic
or tragic, and sought to expose its absurdities and contradictions. As a
specimen of this kind he gives the _Aeolosikon_, one of Aristophanes'
latest works. This description coincides with the idea of parody, which we
placed foremost in our account of the Old Comedy. Platonius adduces also
another instance in the _Ulysses_ of Cratinus, a burlesque of the
_Odyssey_. But, in order of time, no play of Cratinus could belong to
the Middle Comedy; for his death is mentioned by Aristophanes in his
_Peace_. And as to the drama of Eupolis, in which he described what
we call an Utopia, or Lubberly Land, what else was it but a parody of the
poetical legends of the golden age? But in Aristophanes, not to mention
his parodies of so many tragic scenes, are not the Heaven-journey of
Trygaeus, and the Hell-journey of Bacchus, ludicrous imitations of the
deeds of Bellerophon and Hercules, sung in epic and tragic poetry? In vain
therefore should we seek in this restriction to parody any distinctive
peculiarity of the so-called Middle Comedy. Frolicsome caprice, and
allegorical significance of composition are, poetically considered, the
only essential criteria of the Old Comedy. In this class, therefore, we
shall rank every work where we find these qualities, in whatever times,
and under whatever circumstances, it may have been composed.
As the New Comedy arose out of a mere negation, the abolition, viz., of
the old political freedom, we may easily conceive that there would be an
interval of fluctuating, and tentative efforts to supply its place, before
a new comic form could be developed and fully established. Hence there may
have been many kinds of the Middle Comedy, many intermediate gradations,
between the Old and the New; and this is the opinion of some men of
learning. And, indeed, historically considered, there appears good grounds
for such a view; but in an artistic point of view, a transition does not
itself constitute a species.
We proceed therefore at once to the New Comedy, or that species of poetry
which with us receives the appellation of Comedy. We shall, I think, form
a more correct notion of it, if we consider it in its historical
connexion, and from a regard to its various ingredients explain it to be a
mixed and modified species, than we should were we to term it an original
and pure species, as those do who either do not concern themselves at all
with the Old Comedy, or else regard it as nothing better than a mere rude
commencement. Hence, the infinite importance of Aristophanes, as we have
in him a kind of poetry of which there is no other example to be found in
the world.
The New Comedy may, in certain respects, be described as the Old, tamed
down; but in productions of genius, tameness is not generally considered a
merit. The loss incurred by the prohibition of an unrestricted freedom of
satire the new comic writers endeavoured to compensate by a mixture of
earnestness borrowed from tragedy, both in the form of representation and
the general structure, and also in the impressions which they laboured to
produce. We have seen how, in its last epoch, tragic poetry descended from
its ideal elevation, and came nearer to common reality, both in the
characters and in the tone of the dialogue, but more especially in its
endeavour to convey practical instruction respecting the conduct of civil
and domestic life in all their several requirements. This utilitarian turn
in Euripides was the subject of Aristophanes' ironical commendation
[Footnote: The _Frogs_, v. 971-991.]. Euripides was the precursor of
the New Comedy; and all the poets of this species particularly admired
him, and acknowledged him as their master.--The similarity of tone and
spirit is even so great between them, that moral maxims of Euripides have
been ascribed to Menander, and others of Menander to Euripides. On the
other hand, among the fragments of Menander, we find topics of consolation
which frequently rise to the height of the true tragic tone.
New Comedy, therefore, is a mixture of earnestness and mirth. [Footnote:
The original here is not susceptible of an exact translation into English.
Though the German language has this great advantage, that there are few
ideas which may not be expressed in it in words of Teutonic origin, yet
words derived from Greek and Latin are also occasionally used
indiscriminately with the Teutonic synonymes, for the sake of variety or
otherwise. Thus the generic word _spiel_ (play), is formed into
_lustspiel_ (comedy), _trauerspiel_ (tragedy), _sing-spiel_ (opera),
_schauspiel_ (drama); but the Germans also use _tragoedie_, _komoedie_,
opera and drama. In the text, the author proposes, for the sake of
distinction, to give the name of _lustspiel_ to the New Comedy, to
distinguish it from the old; but having only the single term comedy in
English, I must, in translating _lustspiel_, make use of the two words,
_New Comedy_.--TRANS.] The poet no longer turns poetry and the world into
ridicule, he no longer abandons himself to an enthusiasm of fun, but seeks
the sportive element in the objects themselves; he depicts in human
characters and situations whatever occasions mirth, in a word, what is
pleasant and laughable. But the ridiculous must no longer come forward as
the pure creation of his own fancy, but must be verisimilar, that is, seem
to be real. Hence we must consider anew the above described _comic ideal_
of human nature under the restrictions which this law of composition
imposes, and determine accordingly the different kinds and gradations of
the Comic.
The highest tragic earnestness, as I have already shown, runs ever into
the infinite; and the subject of Tragedy (properly speaking) is the
struggle between the outward finite existence, and the inward infinite
aspirations. The subdued earnestness of the New Comedy, on the other hand,
remains always within the sphere of experience. The place of Destiny is
supplied by Chance, for the latter is the empirical conception of the
former, as being that which lies beyond our power or control. And
accordingly we actually find among the fragments of the Comic writers as
many expressions about Chance, as we do in the tragedians about Destiny.
To unconditional necessity, moral liberty could alone be opposed; as for
Chance, every one must use his wits, and turn it to his own profit as he
best can. On this account, the whole moral of the New Comedy, just like
that of the Fable, is nothing more than a theory of prudence. In this
sense, an ancient critic has, with inimitable brevity, given us the whole
sum of the matter: that Tragedy is a running away from, or making an end
of, life; Comedy its regulation.
The idea of the Old Comedy is a fantastic illusion, a pleasant dream,
which at last, with the exception of the general effect, all ends in
nothing. The New Comedy, on the other hand, is earnest in its form. It
rejects every thing of a contradictory nature, which might have the effect
of destroying the impressions of reality. It endeavours after strict
coherence, and has, in common with Tragedy, a formal complication and
dénouement of plot. Like Tragedy, too, it connects together its incidents,
as cause and effect, only that it adopts the law of existence as it
manifests itself in experience, without any such reference as Tragedy
assumes to an idea. As the latter endeavours to satisfy our feelings at
the close, in like manner the New Comedy endeavours to provide, at least,
an apparent point of rest for the understanding. This, I may remark in
passing, is by no means an easy task for the comic writer: he must
contrive at last skilfully and naturally to get rid of the contradictions
which with their complication and intricacy have diverted us during the
course of the action; if he really smooths them all off by making his
fools become rational, or by reforming or punishing his villains, then
there is an end at once of everything like a pleasant and comical
impression.
Such were the comic and tragic ingredients of the New Comedy, or Comedy in
general. There is yet a third, however, which in itself is neither comic
nor tragic, in short, not even poetic. I allude to its portrait-like
truthfulness. The ideal and caricature, both in the plastic arts and in
dramatic poetry, lay claim to no other truth than that which lies in their
significance: their individual beings even are not intended to appear
real. Tragedy moves in an ideal, and the Old Comedy in a fanciful or
fantastical world. As the creative power of the fancy was circumscribed in
the New Comedy, it became necessary to afford some equivalent to the
understanding, and this was furnished by the probability of the subjects
represented, of which it was to be the judge. I do not mean the
calculation of the rarity or frequency of the represented incidents (for
without the liberty of depicting singularities, even while keeping within
the limits of every-day life, comic amusement would be impossible), but
all that is here meant is the individual truth of the picture. The New
Comedy must be a true picture of the manners of the day, and its tone must
be local and national; and even if we should see comedies of other times,
and other nations, brought upon the stage, we shall still be able to trace
and be pleased with this resemblance. By portrait-like truthfulness I do
not mean that the comic characters must be altogether individual. The most
striking features of different individuals of a class may be combined
together in a certain completeness, provided they are clothed with a
sufficient degree of peculiarity to have an individual life, and are not
represented as examples of any partial and incomplete conception. But in
so far as Comedy depicts the constitution of social and domestic life in
general, it is a portrait; from this prosaic side it must be variously
modified, according to time and place, while the comic motives, in respect
of their poetical principle, are always the same.
The ancients themselves acknowledged the New Comedy to be a faithful
picture of life. Full of this idea, the grammarian Aristophanes exclaimed
in a somewhat affected, though highly ingenious turn of expression: "O
life and Menander! which of you copied the other?" Horace informs us that
"some doubted whether Comedy be a poem; because neither in its subject nor
in its language is there the same impressive elevation which distinguished
from ordinary discourse by the versification." But it was urged by others,
that Comedy occasionally elevates her tone; for instance, when an angry
father reproaches a son for his extravagance. This answer, however, is
rejected by Horace as insufficient. "Would Pomponius," says he, with a
sarcastic application, "hear milder reproaches if his father were living?"
To answer the doubt, we must examine wherein Comedy goes beyond individual
reality. In the first place it is a simulated whole, composed of congruous
parts, agreeably to the scale of art. Moreover, the subject represented is
handled according to the laws of theatrical exhibition; everything foreign
and incongruous is kept out, while all that is essential to the matter in
hand is hurried on with swifter progress than in real life; over the
whole, viz., the situations and characters, a certain clearness and
distinctness of appearance is thrown, which the vague and indeterminate
outlines of reality seldom possess. Thus the form constitutes the poetic
element of Comedy, while its prosaic principle lies in the matter, in the
required assimilation to something individual and external.
We may now fitly proceed to the consideration of the much mooted question,
whether versification be essential to Comedy, and whether a comedy written
in prose is an imperfect production. This question has been frequently
answered in the affirmative on the authority of the ancients, who, it is
true, had no theatrical works in prose; this, however, may have arisen
from accidental circumstances, for example, the great extent of their
stage, in which verse, from its more emphatic delivery, must have been
better heard than prose. Moreover, these critics forget that the Mimes of
Sophron, so much admired by Plato, were written in prose. And what were
these Mimes? If we may judge of them from the statement that some of the
Idylls of Theocritus were imitations of them in hexameters, they were
pictures of real life, in which every appearance of poetry was studiously
avoided. This consists in the coherence and connexion of a drama, which
certainly is not found in these pieces; they are merely so many detached
scenes, in which one thing succeeds another by chance, and without
preparation, as the particular hour of any working-day or holiday brought
it about. The want of dramatic interest was supplied by the mimic element,
that is, by the most accurate representation of individual peculiarities
in action and language, which arose from nationality as modified by local
circumstances, and from sex, age, rank, occupations, and so forth.
Even in versified Comedy, the language must, in the choice of words and
phrases, differ in no respect, or at least in no perceptible degree, from
that of ordinary life; the licences of poetical expression, which are
indispensable in other departments of poetry, are here inadmissible. Not
only must the versification not interfere with the common, unconstrained,
and even careless tone of conversation, but it must also seem to be itself
unpremeditated. It must not by its lofty tone elevate the characters as in
Tragedy, where, along with the unusual sublimity of the language, it
becomes as it were a mental Cothurnus. In Comedy the verse must serve
merely to give greater lightness, spirit, and elegance to the dialogue.
Whether, therefore, a particular comedy ought to be versified or not, must
depend on the consideration whether it would be more suitable to the
subject in hand to give to the dialogue this perfection of form, or to
adopt into the comic imitation all rhetorical and grammatical errors, and
even physical imperfections of speech. The frequent production, however,
of prose comedies in modern times has not been owing so much to this cause
as to the ease and convenience of the author, and in some degree also of
the player. I would, however, recommend to my countrymen, the Germans, the
diligent use of verse, and even of rhyme, in Comedy; for as our national
Comedy is yet to be formed, the whole composition, by the greater
strictness of the form, would gain in keeping and appearance, and we
should be enabled at the very outset to guard against many important
errors. We have not yet attained such a mastery in this matter as will
allow us to abandon ourselves to an agreeable negligence.
As we have pronounced the New Comedy to be a mixed species, formed out of
comic and tragic, poetic and prosaic elements, it is evident that this
species may comprise several subordinate kinds, according to the
preponderance of one or other of the ingredients. If the poet plays in a
sportive humour with his own inventions, the result is a farce; if he
confines himself to the ludicrous in situations and characters, carefully
avoiding all admixture of serious matter, we have a pure comedy
(_lustspiel_); in proportion as earnestness prevails in the scope of
the whole composition, and in the sympathy and moral judgment it gives
rise to, the piece becomes what is called Instructive or Sentimental
Comedy; and there is only another step to the familiar or domestic
tragedy. Great stress has often been laid on the two last mentioned
species as inventions entirely new, and of great importance, and peculiar
theories have been devised for them, &c. In the lacrymose drama of
Diderot, which was afterwards so much decried, the failure consisted
altogether in that which was new; the affectation of nature, the pedantry
of the domestic relations, and the lavish use of pathos. Did we still
possess the whole of the comic literature of the Greeks, we should,
without doubt, find in it the models of all these species, with this
difference, however, that the clear head of the Greeks assuredly never
allowed them to fall into a chilling monotony, but that they arrayed and
tempered all in due proportion. Have not we, even among the few pieces
that remain to us, the _Captives_ of Plautus, which may be called a
pathetic drama, the _Step-Mother_ of Terence, a true family picture; while
the _Amphitryo_ borders on the fantastic boldness of the Old Comedy, and
the _Twin-Brothers_ (_Menaechmi_) is a wild piece of intrigue? Do we not
find in all Terence's plays serious, impassioned, and touching passages?
We have only to call to mind the first scene of the _Heautontimorumenos_.
From our point of view we hope in short to find a due place for all
things. We see here no distinct species, but merely gradations in the tone
of the composition, which are marked by transitions more or less
perceptible.
Neither can we allow the common division into _Plays of Character_ and
_Plays of Intrigue_, to pass without limitation. A good comedy ought
always to be both, otherwise it will be deficient either in body or
animation. Sometimes, however, the one and sometimes the other will, no
doubt, preponderate. The development of the comic characters requires
situations to place them in strong contrast, and these again can result
from nothing but that crossing of purposes and events, which, as I have
already shown, constitutes intrigue in the dramatic sense. Every one knows
the meaning of intriguing in common life; namely, the leading others by
cunning and dissimulation, to further, without their knowledge and against
their will, our own hidden designs. In the drama both these significations
coincide, for the cunning of the one becomes a cross-purpose for the
other.
When the characters are only slightly sketched, so far merely as is
necessary to account for the actions of the characters in this or that
case; when also the incidents are so accumulated, that little room is left
for display of character; when the plot is so wrought up, that the motley
tangle of misunderstandings and embarrassments seems every moment on the
point of being loosened, and yet the knot is only drawn tighter and
tighter: such a composition may well be called a Play of Intrigue. The
French critics have made it fashionable to consider this kind of play much
below the so-called Play of Character, perhaps because they look too
exclusively to how much of a play may be retained by us and carried home.
It is true, the Piece of Intrigue, in some degree, ends at last in
nothing: but why should it not be occasionally allowable to divert oneself
ingeniously, without any ulterior object? Certainly, a good comedy of this
description requires much inventive wit: besides the entertainment which
we derive from the display of such acuteness and ingenuity, the wonderful
tricks and contrivances which are practised possess a great charm for the
fancy, as the success of many a Spanish piece proves.
To the Play of Intrigue it is objected, that it deviates from the natural
course of things, that it is improbable. We may admit the former without
however admitting the latter. The poet, no doubt, exhibits before us what
is unexpected, extraordinary, and singular, even to incredibility; and
often he even sets out with a great improbability, as, for example, the
resemblance between two persons, or a disguise which is not seen through;
afterwards, however, all the incidents must have the appearance of truth,
and all the circumstances by means of which the affair takes so marvellous
a turn, must be satisfactorily explained. As in respect to the events
which take place, the poet gives us but a light play of wit, we are the
more strict with him respecting the _how_ by which they are brought about.
In the comedies which aim more at delineation of character, the dramatic
personages must be skilfully grouped so as to throw light on each other's
character. This, however, is very apt to degenerate into too systematic a
method, each character being regularly matched with its symmetrical
opposite, and thereby an unnatural appearance is given to the whole. Nor
are those comedies deserving of much praise, in which the rest of the
characters are introduced only, as it were, to allow the principal one to
go through all his different probations; especially when that character
consists of nothing but an opinion, or a habit (for instance,
_L'Optimiste_, _Le Distrait_), as if an individual could thus be made up
entirely of one single peculiarity, and must not rather be on all sides
variously modified and affected.
What was the sportive ideal of human nature in the Old Comedy I have
already shown. Now as the New Comedy had to give to its representation a
resemblance to a definite reality, it could not indulge in such studied
and arbitrary exaggeration as the old did. It was, therefore, obliged to
seek for other sources of comic amusement, which lie nearer the province
of earnestness, and these it found in a more accurate and thorough
delineation of character.
In the characters of the New Comedy, either the _Comic of Observation_ or
the _Self-Conscious_ and _Confessed Comic_, will be found to prevail. The
former constitutes the more refined, or what is called High Comedy, and
the latter Low Comedy or Farce.
But to explain myself more distinctly: there are laughable peculiarities,
follies, and obliquities, of which the possessor himself is unconscious,
or which, if he does at all perceive them, he studiously endeavours to
conceal, as being calculated to injure him in the opinion of others. Such
persons consequently do not give themselves out for what they actually
are; their secret escapes from them unwittingly, or against their will.
Rightly, therefore, to portray such characters, the poet must lend us his
own peculiar talent for observation, that we may fully understand them.
His art consists in making the character appear through slight hints and
stolen glimpses, and in so placing the spectator, that whatever delicacy
of observation it may require, he can hardly fail to see through them.
There are other moral defects, which are beheld by their possessor with a
certain degree of satisfaction, and which he even makes it a principle not
to get rid of, but to cherish and preserve. Of this kind is all that,
without selfish pretensions, or hostile inclinations, merely originates in
the preponderance of the animal being. This may, without doubt, be united
to a high degree of intellect, and when such a person applies his mental
powers to the consideration of his own character, laughs at himself,
confesses his failings or endeavours to reconcile others to them, by
setting them in a droll light, we have then an instance of the _Self-
Conscious_ Comic This species always supposes a certain inward duality
of character, and the superior half, which rallies and laughs at the
other, has in its tone and occupation a near affinity to the comic poet
himself. He occasionally delivers over his functions entirely to this
representative, allowing him studiously to overcharge the picture which he
draws of himself, and to enter into a tacit understanding with the
spectators, that he and they are to turn the other characters into
ridicule. We have in this way the _Comedy of Caprice_, which generally
produces a powerful effect, however much critics may depreciate it. In it
the spirit of the Old Comedy is still at work. The privileged merry-maker,
who, under different names, has appeared on almost all stages, whose part
is at one time a display of shrewd wit, and at another of coarse
clownishness, has inherited something of the licentious enthusiasm, but
without the rights and privileges of the free and unrestrained writers of
the Old Comedy. Could there be a stronger proof that the Old Comedy, which
we have described as the original species, was not a mere Grecian
peculiarity, but had its root and principle in the very nature of things?
To keep the spectators in a mirthful tone of mind Comedy must hold them as
much as possible aloof from all moral appreciation of its personages, and
from all deep interest in their fortunes, for in both these cases an
entrance will infallibly be given to seriousness. How then does the poet
avoid agitating the moral feeling, when the actions he represents are of
such a nature as must give rise sometimes to disgust and contempt, and
sometimes to esteem and love? By always keeping within the province of the
understanding, he contrasts men with men as mere physical beings, just to
measure on each other their powers, of course their mental powers as well
as others, nay, even more especially. In this respect Comedy bears a very
near affinity to Fable: in the Fable we have animals endowed with reason,
and in Comedy we have men serving their animal propensities with their
understanding. By animal propensities I mean sensuality, or, in a still
more general sense, self-love. As heroism and self-sacrifice raise the
character to a tragic elevation, so the true comic personages are complete
egotists. This must, however, be understood with due limitation: we do not
mean that Comedy never portrays the social instincts, only that it
invariably represents them as originating in the natural endeavour after
our own happiness. Whenever the poet goes beyond this, he leaves the comic
tone. It is not his purpose to direct our feelings to a sense of the
dignity or meanness, the innocence or corruption, the goodness or baseness
of the acting personages; but to show us whether they act stupidly or
wisely, adroitly or clumsily, with silliness or ability.
Examples will place the matter in the clearest light. We possess an
involuntary and immediate veneration for truth, and this belongs to the
innermost emotions of the moral sense. A malignant lie, which threatens
mischievous consequences, fills us with the highest indignation, and
belongs to Tragedy. Why then are cunning and deceit admitted to be
excellent as comic motives, so long as they are used with no malicious
purpose, but merely to promote our self-love, to extricate one's-self from
a dilemma, or to gain some particular object, and from which no dangerous
consequences are to be dreaded? It is because the deceiver having already
withdrawn from the sphere of morality, truth and untruth are in themselves
indifferent to him, and are only considered in the light of means; and so
we entertain ourselves merely with observing how great an expenditure of
sharpness and ready-wittedness is necessary to serve the turn of a
character so little exalted. Still more amusing is it when the deceiver is
caught in his own snare; for instance, when he is to keep up a lie, but
has a bad memory. On the other hand, the mistake of the deceived party,
when not seriously dangerous, is a comic situation, and the more so in
proportion as this error of the understanding arises from previous abuse
of the mental powers, from vanity, folly, or obliquity. But above all when
deceit and error cross one another, and are by that means multiplied, the
comic situations produced are particularly excellent. For instance, two
men meet with the intention of deceiving one another; each however is
forewarned and on his guard, and so both go away deceived only in respect
to the success of their deception. Or again, one wishes to deceive
another, but unwittingly tells him the truth; the other person, however,
being suspicious, falls into the snare, merely from being over-much, on
his guard. We might in this way compose a sort of comic grammar, which
should show how the separate motives are to be entangled one with another,
with continually increasing effect, up to the most artificial
complication. It might also point out how that tangle of misunderstanding
which constitutes a Comedy of Intrigue is by no means so contemptible a
part of the comic art, as the advocates of the fine-spun Comedy of
Character are pleased to assert.
Aristotle describes the laughable as an imperfection, an impropriety which
is not productive of any essential harm. Excellently said! for from the
moment that we entertain a real compassion for the characters, all
mirthful feeling is at an end. Comic misfortune must not go beyond an
embarrassment, which is to be set right at last, or at most, a deserved
humiliation. Of this description are corporeal means of education applied
to grown people, which our finer, or at least more fastidious age, will
not tolerate on the stage, although Molière, Holberg, and other masters,
have frequently availed themselves of them. The comic effect arises from
our having herein a pretty obvious demonstration of the mind's dependence
on external things: we have, as it were, motives assuming a palpable form.
In Comedy these chastisements hold the same place that violent deaths, met
with heroic magnanimity, do in Tragedy. Here the resolution remains
unshaken amid all the terrors of annihilation; the man perishes but his
principles survive; there the corporeal existence remains, but the
sentiments suffer an instantaneous change.
As then Comedy must place the spectator in a point of view altogether
different from that of moral appreciation, with what right can moral
instruction be demanded of Comedy, with what ground can it be expected?
When we examine more closely the moral apophthegms of the Greek comic
writers, we find that they are all of them maxims of experience. It is
not, however, from experience that we gain a knowledge of our duties, of
which conscience gives us an immediate conviction; experience can only
enlighten us with respect to what is profitable or detrimental. The
instruction of Comedy does not turn on the dignity of the object proposed
but on the sufficiency of the means employed. It is, as has been already
said, the doctrine of prudence; the morality of consequences and not of
motives. Morality, in its genuine acceptation, is essentially allied to
the spirit of Tragedy.
Many philosophers have on this account reproached Comedy with immorality,
and among others, Rousseau, with much eloquence, in his _Epistle on the
Drama_. The aspect of the actual course of things in the world is, no
doubt, far from edifying; it is not, however, held up in Comedy as a model
for imitation, but as a warning and admonition. In the doctrine of morals
there is an applied or practical part: it may be called the Art of Living.
Whoever has no knowledge of the world is perpetually in danger of making a
wrong application of moral principles to individual cases, and, so with
the very best intentions in the world, may occasion much mischief both to
himself and others. Comedy is intended to sharpen our powers of
discrimination, both of persons and situations; to make us shrewder; and
this is its true and only possible morality.
So much for the determination of the general idea, which must serve as our
clue in the examination of the merits of the individual poets.