effects upon the mind, some absurdities might have been prevented, with
which the compositions of our greatest poets are disgraced, who, for
want of some settled ideas and accurate distinctions, have unhappily
confounded tragick with comick sentiments. They seem to have thought,
that as the meanest of personages constituted comedy, their greatness
was sufficient to form a tragedy; and that nothing was necessary but
that they should crowd the scene with monarchs, and generals, and
guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfall of
kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not considered, that
thoughts or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still more
grotesque by the solemnity of such characters; that reason and nature
are uniform and inflexible: and that what is despicable and absurd, will
not, by any association with splendid titles, become rational or great;
that the most important affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasonable
levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give
no dignity to nonsense or to folly.
"Comedy," says Horace, "sometimes raises her voice;" and Tragedy may
likewise on proper occasions abate her dignity; but as the comick
personages can only depart from their familiarity of style, when the
more violent passions are put in motion, the heroes and queens of
tragedy should never descend to trifle, but in the hours of ease, and
intermissions of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the
king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having just drawn the
lot, by which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boast that
his dust shall take possession of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus
between the captive and his conqueror:
_Muley Moluch_. What shall I do to conquer thee?
_Seb_. Impossible!
Souls know no conquerors.
_M. Mol_. I'll shew thee for a monster thro' my Afric.
_Seb_. No, thou canst only shew me for a man:
Afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy
Thy subjects have not seen.
_M. Mol_. Thou talk'st as if
Still at the head of battle.
_Seb_. Thou mistak'st,
For there I would not talk.
_Benducar, the Minister_. Sure he would sleep.
This conversation, with the sly remark of the minister, can only be
found not to be comick, because it wants the probability necessary to
representations of common life, and degenerates too much towards
buffoonery and farce.
The same play affords a smart return of the general to to the emperor,
who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his
impatience in this abrupt threat:
--No more replies,
But see thou dost it: Or--
To which Dorax answers,
Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud.
A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one
scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive
queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose
charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her
charms, to carry her message to his rival.
ARIMANT, _with a letter in his hand_: INDAMORA.
_Arim_. And I the messenger to him from you?
Your empire you to tyranny pursue:
You lay commands both cruel and unjust,
To serve my rival, and betray my trust.
_Ind_. You first betray'd your trust in loving me:
And should not I my own advantage see?
Serving my love, you may my friendship gain;
You know the rest of your pretences vain.
You must, my Arimant, you must be kind:
'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind.
_Arim_. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign.
_Ind_. His trust you may, but you shall never mine.
Heaven made you love me for no other end,
But to become my confidant and friend:
As such, I keep no secret from your sight,
And therefore make you judge how ill I write:
Read it, and tell me freely then your mind,
If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind.
Arim. _I ask not heaven my freedom to restore_--[Reading.
_But only for your sake_--I'll read no more.
And yet I must--
_Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad_--[Reading.
Another line like this, would make me mad--
Heav'n! she goes on--yet more--and yet more kind!
[--_As reading_.
Each sentence is a dagger to my mind.
_See me this night_--[Reading.
_Thank fortune who did such a friend provide;
For faithful Arimant shall be your guide_.
Not only to be made an instrument,
But pre-engaged without my own consent!
_Ind_. Unknown to engage you still augments my score,
And gives you scope of meriting the more.
_Arim_. The best of men
Some int'rest in their actions must confess;
None merit, but in hope they may possess:
The fatal paper rather let me tear,
Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence hear.
_Ind_. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice:
'Twill only give me pains of writing twice.
You know you must obey me, soon or late:
Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?
_Arim_. I thank thee, heav'n! thou hast been wondrous kind!
Why am I thus to slavery design'd,
And yet am cheated with a free-born mind!
Or make thy orders with my reason suit,
Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute--[_She frowns_.
You frown, and I obey with speed, before
That dreadful sentence comes, _See me no more_.
In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The
wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the
lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it
ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of
amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the
imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of
the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose
his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot
persuade his reason to approve, are sufficient to awaken the most torpid
risibility.
There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its
most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions,
with buffoonery and meanness; but though, perhaps, it cannot be
pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy
of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which
either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later
tragedies, indeed, have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive
to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tumour of phrase
with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the
paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality
of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our present writers almost all
that dominion over the passions which was the boast of their
predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they
avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity,
they are always careful not to provoke laughter.
No. 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751.
_--Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta_. VET. AUCT.
Sands form the mountain, moments make the year. YOUNG.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
Among other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was
lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of
her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his
mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or
culpable timidity.
One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from
fear; and that if Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man
who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with
robbers could think him blameable; for why should life be hazarded
without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a
brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather,
and declared, that, for his part, while there were coaches and a bridge,
he would never be seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he might
be thrown by any irregular agitation, or which might be overset by
accident, or negligence, or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush
of a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to keep the security of
daylight, and dry ground; for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man
ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark.
The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tranquilla had seen, like him,
the cattle run roaring about the meadows in the hot months, she would
not have thought meanly of her lover for not venturing his safety among
them. His neighbour then told us, that for his part he was not ashamed
to confess, that he could not see a rat, though it was dead, without
palpitation; that he had been driven six times out of his lodgings
either by rats or mice; and that he always had a bed in the closet for
his servant, whom he called up whenever the enemy was in motion. Another
wondered that any man should think himself disgraced by a precipitate
retreat from a dog; for there was always a possibility that a dog might
be mad; and that surely, though there was no danger but of being bit by
a fierce animal, there was more wisdom in flight than contest. By all
these declarations another was encouraged to confess, that if he had
been admitted to the honour of paying his addresses to Tranquilla, he
should have been likely to incur the same censure; for, among all the
animals upon which nature has impressed deformity and horrour, there is
none whom he durst not encounter rather than a beetle.
Thus, Sir, though cowardice is universally defined too close and anxious
an attention to personal safety, there will be found scarcely any fear,
however excessive in its degree, or unreasonable in its object, which
will be allowed to characterise a coward. Fear is a passion which every
man feels so frequently predominant in his own breast, that he is
unwilling to hear it censured with great asperity; and, perhaps, if we
confess the truth, the same restraint which would hinder a man from
declaiming against the frauds of any employment among those who profess
it, should withhold him from treating fear with contempt among human
beings.
Yet, since fortitude is one of those virtues which the condition of our
nature makes hourly necessary, I think you cannot better direct your
admonitions than against superfluous and panick terrours. Fear is
implanted in us as a preservative from evil; but its duty, like that of
other passions, is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor should
it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to raise phantoms of
horrour, or beset life with supernumerary distresses.
To be always afraid of losing life is, indeed, scarcely to enjoy a life
that can deserve the care of preservation. He that once indulges idle
fears will never be at rest. Our present state admits only of a kind of
negative security; we must conclude ourselves safe when we see no
danger, or none inadequate to our powers of opposition. Death, indeed,
continually hovers about us, but hovers commonly unseen, unless we
sharpen our sight by useless curiosity.
There is always a point at which caution, however solicitous, must limit
its preservatives, because one terrour often counteracts another. I once
knew one of the speculatists of cowardice, whose reigning disturbance
was the dread of housebreakers. His inquiries were for nine years
employed upon the best method of barring a window, or a door; and many
an hour has he spent in establishing the preference of a bolt to a lock.
He had at last, by the daily superaddition of new expedients, contrived
a door which could never be forced; for one bar was secured by another
with such intricacy of subordination, that he was himself not always
able to disengage them in the proper method. He was happy in this
fortification, till being asked how he would escape if he was threatened
by fire, he discovered, that with all his care and expense, he had only
been assisting his own destruction. He then immediately tore off his
bolts, and now leaves at night his outer door half-locked, that he may
not by his own folly perish in the flames.
There is one species of terrour which those who are unwilling to suffer
the reproach of cowardice have wisely dignified with the name of
_antipathy_. A man who talks with intrepidity of the monsters of the
wilderness while they are out of sight, will readily confess his
antipathy to a mole, a weasel, or a frog. He has indeed no dread of harm
from an insect or a worm, but his antipathy turns him pale whenever they
approach him. He believes that a boat will transport him with as much
safety as his neighbours, but he cannot conquer his antipathy to the
water. Thus he goes on without any reproach from his own reflections,
and every day multiplies antipathies, till he becomes contemptible to
others, and burdensome to himself. It is indeed certain, that
impressions of dread may sometimes be unluckily made by objects not in
themselves justly formidable; but when fear is discovered to be
groundless, it is to be eradicated like other false opinions, and
antipathies are generally superable by a single effort. He that has been
taught to shudder at a mouse, if he can persuade himself to risk one
encounter, will find his own superiority, and exchange his terrours for
the pride of conquest.
I am, Sir, &c.
THRASO.
SIR, As you profess to extend your regard to the minuteness of decency,
as well as to the dignity of science, I cannot forbear to lay before you
a mode of persecution by which I have been exiled to taverns and
coffee-houses, and deterred from entering the doors of my friends. Among
the ladies who please themselves with splendid furniture, or elegant
entertainment, it is a practice very common, to ask every guest how he
likes the carved work of the cornice, or the figures of the tapestry;
the china at the table, or the plate on the side-board: and on all
occasions to inquire his opinion of their judgment and their choice.
Melania has laid her new watch in the window nineteen times, that she
may desire me to look upon it. Calista has an art of dropping her
snuff-box by drawing out her handkerchief, that when I pick it up I may
admire it; and Fulgentia has conducted me, by mistake, into the wrong
room, at every visit I have paid since her picture was put into a new
frame.
I hope, Mr. Rambler, you will inform them, that no man should be denied
the privilege of silence, or tortured to false declarations; and that
though ladies may justly claim to be exempt from rudeness, they have no
right to force unwilling civilities. To please is a laudable and elegant
ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest praise; but to seize
applause by violence, and call out for commendation, without knowing, or
caring to know, whether it be given from conviction, is a species of
tyranny by which modesty is oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The
tribute of admiration, thus exacted by impudence and importunity,
differs from the respect paid to silent merit, as the plunder of a
pirate from the merchant's profit.
I am, &c.
MISOCOLAX
SIR,
Your great predecessor, the Spectator, endeavoured to diffuse among his
female readers a desire of knowledge; nor can I charge you, though you
do not seem equally attentive to the ladies, with endeavouring to
discourage them from any laudable pursuit. But however either he or you
may excite our curiosity, you have not yet informed us how it may be
gratified. The world seems to have formed an universal conspiracy
against our understandings; our questions are supposed not to expect
answers, our arguments are confuted with a jest, and we are treated like
beings who transgress the limits of our nature whenever we aspire to
seriousness or improvement.
I inquired yesterday of a gentleman eminent for astronomical skill, what
made the day long in summer, and short in winter; and was told that
nature protracted the days in summer, lest ladies should want time to
walk in the park; and the nights in winter, lest they should not have
hours sufficient to spend at the card-table.
I hope you do not doubt but I heard such information with just contempt,
and I desire you to discover to this great master of ridicule, that I
was far from wanting any intelligence which he could have given me. I
asked the question with no other intention than to set him free from the
necessity of silence, and give him an opportunity of mingling on equal
terms with a polite assembly, from which, however uneasy, he could not
then escape, by a kind introduction of the only subject on which I
believed him able to speak with propriety.
I am, &c.
GENEROSA.
No. 127. TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1751.
_Capisti meliust, quam desinis. Ultima primis
Cedunt: dissimiles hic vir et ille puer_. Ovid. Ep. ix. 24.
Succeeding years thy early fame destroy;
Thou, who began'st a man, wilt end a boy.
Politian, a name eminent among the restorers of polite literature, when
he published a collection of epigrams, prefixed to many of them the year
of his age at which they were composed. He might design, by this
information, either to boast the early maturity of his genius, or to
conciliate indulgence to the puerility of his performances. But whatever
was his intent, it is remarked by Scaliger, that he very little promoted
his own reputation, because he fell below the promise which his first
productions had given, and, in the latter part of his life, seldom
equalled the sallies of his youth.
It is not uncommon for those who, at their first entrance into the
world, were distinguished for attainments or abilities, to disappoint
the hopes which they had raised, and to end in neglect and obscurity
that life which they began in celebrity and honour. To the long
catalogue of the inconveniencies of old age, which moral and satirical
writers have so copiously displayed, may be often added the loss of
fame.
The advance of the human mind towards any object of laudable pursuit,
may be compared to the progress of a body driven by a blow. It moves,
for a time, with great velocity and vigour, but the force of the first
impulse is perpetually decreasing, and though it should encounter no
obstacle capable of quelling it by a sudden stop, the resistance of the
medium through which it passes, and the latent inequalities of the
smoothest surface, will, in a short time, by continued retardation,
wholly overpower it. Some hindrances will be found in every road of
life, but he that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a distance,
necessarily loses sight of all that fills up the intermediate space, and
therefore sets forward with alacrity and confidence, nor suspects a
thousand obstacles, by which he afterwards finds his passage embarrassed
and obstructed. Some are indeed stopt at once in their career by a
sudden shock of calamity, or diverted to a different direction by the
cross impulse of some violent passion; but far the greater part languish
by slow degrees, deviate at first into slight obliquities, and
themselves scarcely perceive at what time their ardour forsook them, or
when they lost sight of their original design.
Weariness and negligence are perpetually prevailing by silent
encroachments, assisted by different causes, and not observed till they
cannot, without great difficulty, be opposed. Labour necessarily
requires pauses of ease and relaxation, and the deliciousness of ease
commonly makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, perhaps, prevail
upon ourselves to renew our attempts, but eagerly listen to every
argument for frequent interpositions of amusement; for, when indolence
has once entered upon the mind, it can scarcely be dispossessed but by
such efforts as very few are willing to exert.
It is the fate of industry to be equally endangered by miscarriage and
success, by confidence and despondency. He that engages in a great
undertaking, with a false opinion of its facility, or too high
conceptions of his own strength, is easily discouraged by the first
hindrance of his advances, because he had promised himself an equal and
perpetual progression without impediment or disturbance; when unexpected
interruptions break in upon him, he is in the state of a man surprised
by a tempest, where he purposed only to bask in the calm, or sport in
the shallows.
It is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprize greater,
but the profit less, than hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world
with very happy prejudices in her own favour. She imagines herself not
only certain of accomplishing every adventure, but of obtaining those
rewards which the accomplishment may deserve. She is not easily
persuaded to believe that the force of merit can be resisted by
obstinacy and avarice, or its lustre darkened by envy and malignity. She
has not yet learned that the most evident claims to praise or preferment
may be rejected by malice against conviction, or by indolence without
examination; that they may be sometimes defeated by artifices, and
sometimes overborne by clamour; that, in the mingled numbers of mankind,
many need no other provocation to enmity than that they find themselves
excelled; that others have ceased their curiosity, and consider every
man who fills the mouth of report with a new name, as an intruder upon
their retreat, and disturber of their repose; that some are engaged in
complications of interest which they imagine endangered by every
innovation; that many yield themselves up implicitly to every report
which hatred disseminates or folly scatters; and that whoever aspires to
the notice of the publick, has in almost every man an enemy and a rival;
and must struggle with the opposition of the daring, and elude the
stratagems of the timorous, must quicken the frigid and soften the
obdurate, must reclaim perverseness and inform stupidity.
It is no wonder that when the prospect of reward has vanished, the zeal
of enterprize should cease; for who would persevere to cultivate the
soil which he has, after long labour, discovered to be barren? He who
hath pleased himself with anticipated praises, and expected that he
should meet in every place with patronage or friendship, will soon remit
his vigour, when he finds that, from those who desire to be considered
as his admirers, nothing can be hoped but cold civility, and that many
refuse to own his excellence, lest they should be too justly expected to
reward it.
A man, thus cut off from the prospect of that port to which his address
and fortitude had been employed to steer him, often abandons himself to
chance and to the wind, and glides careless and idle down the current of
life, without resolution to make another effort, till he is swallowed up
by the gulph of mortality.
Others are betrayed to the same desertion of themselves by a contrary
fallacy. It was said of Hannibal, that he wanted nothing to the
completion of his martial virtues, but that when he had gained a victory
he should know how to use it. The folly of desisting too soon from
successful labours, and the haste of enjoying advantages before they are
secured, are often fatal to men of impetuous desire, to men whose
consciousness of uncommon powers fills them with presumption, and who,
having borne opposition down before them, and left emulation panting
behind, are early persuaded to imagine that they have reached the
heights of perfection, and that now, being no longer in danger from
competitors, they may pass the rest of their days in the enjoyment of
their acquisitions, in contemplation of their own superiority, and in
attention to their own praises, and look unconcerned from their eminence
upon the toils and contentions of meaner beings.
It is not sufficiently considered in the hour of exultation, that all
human excellence is comparative; that no man performs much but in
proportion to what others accomplish, or to the time and opportunities
which have been allowed him; and that he who stops at any point of
excellence is every day sinking in estimation, because his improvement
grows continually more incommensurate to his life. Yet, as no man
willingly quits opinions favourable to himself, they who have once been
justly celebrated, imagine that they still have the same pretensions to
regard, and seldom perceive the diminution of their character while
there is time to recover it. Nothing then remains but murmurs and
remorse; for if the spendthrift's poverty be embittered by the
reflection that he once was rich, how must the idler's obscurity be
clouded by remembering that he once had lustre!
These errours all arise from an original mistake of the true motives of
action. He that never extends his view beyond the praises or rewards of
men will be dejected by neglect and envy, or infatuated by honours and
applause. But the consideration that life is only deposited in his hands
to be employed in obedience to a Master who will regard his endeavours,
not his success, would have preserved him from trivial elations and
discouragements, and enabled him to proceed with constancy and
cheerfulness, neither enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by
censure.
No. 128. SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1751.
[Greek:
Aion d asphalaes
Ouk egent, out Aiakida para Paelei,
Oute par antitheo
Kadmo legontai man broton
Olbon hupertaton hoi
Schein.] PIND. Py. iii. 153.