Epic and Dramatic Compositions.
Tragedy differs from the epic more in form than in substance. The ends
proposed by each are instruction and amusement; and each of them copy
human actions as means to bring about these ends. They differ in the
manner only of copying. Epic poetry deals in narration: Tragedy
represents its facts as transacted in our sight. In the former, the poet
introduces himself as an historian: in the latter he presents his actors
and never himself[45].
This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight; but the
effects it occasions, are by no means so. What we see, makes a stronger
impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story
told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under
our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and
gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.
A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of
action. A dialogue makes a deeper impression than a narration: because
in the former persons express their own sentiments; whereas in the
latter sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason,
Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an
epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his
actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrowest
bounds[46]. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and
his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to
the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault: the
_Pharsalia_ is stuffed with cold and languid reflections; the merit of
which the author assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his
personages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of such
reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had
made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage[47].
Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and
complex. But it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well
as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained
by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that hath no
tendency beyond moving the passions and exhibiting pictures of virtue
and vice, may be distinguished by the name of _pathetic_. But where a
story is purposely contrived to illustrate some important lesson of
morality, by showing the natural connection betwixt disorderly passions
and external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated
_moral_[48]. It indeed conveys moral instruction with a perspicuity
that is not exceeded by the most accurate reasoning; and makes a deeper
impression than any moral discourse can do. To be satisfied of this, we
need but reflect, that a man whose affections are justly balanced, hath
a better chance to escape misfortunes, than one who is a slave to every
passion. Indeed, nothing is more evident, than the natural connection
that vice hath with misery, and virtue with happiness; and such
connection may be illustrated, by stating a fact as well as by urging an
argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths, That
discord among the chiefs, renders ineffectual all common measures; and
that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride
and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury.
These truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and
Achilles at the siege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet’s
chief aim, to invent proper circumstances, presenting to our view the
natural consequences of such discord. These circumstances must seem to
arise in the common course of human affairs: no accidental or
unaccountable event ought to be indulged; for the necessary or probable
connection betwixt vice and misery, is learned from no events but what
are governed by the characters and passions of the persons represented.
A real event of which we see no cause, may be a lesson to us; because
what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a
story that is known to be fictitious.
Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition,
whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting
emotions that produce good actions, and avert us from those that are
vicious or irregular[49]. It likewise, by its frequent pictures of human
woes, humanizes the mind, and fortifies us in bearing our own
misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good
effects, because by being moral it doth not cease to be pathetic. It
enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself: for it not only improves
the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it
contains. For my part, I cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to
a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral
truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in
an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great
catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A
work of this kind, has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion
the whole train of the social affections. We have at the same time great
mental enjoyment, in perceiving every event and every subordinate
incident connected with its proper cause. Our curiosity is by turns
excited and gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon
finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the
commencement, that every circumstance down to the final catastrophe is
natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of
causes and effects.
Considering an epic and dramatic poem as the same in substance, and
having the same aim or end, it might be thought that they are equally
fitted for the same subjects. But considering their difference as to
form, there will be found reason to correct that thought, at least in
some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in
either form; but the subjects are still more numerous for which one of
the forms is better qualified than the other; and there are subjects
proper for the one and not for the other. To give some slight notion of
the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every
article, I observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing
sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. These peculiarities tend
to confine each within certain limits. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted
courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure best in
action: tender passions and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections,
figure best in sentiment. What we feel is the most remarkable in the
latter: what we perform is the most remarkable in the former. It
clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province
of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry[50].
I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly
adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex,
I must take a narrower view of them; which I do the more willingly, in
order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.
In the chapter of emotions and passions[51], it is occasionally shown,
that the subject best fitted for tragedy is the story of a man who has
himself been the cause of his misfortune. But this man must neither be
deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune must be occasioned
by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes
of this kind, call forth the whole force of the social affections, and
interest the spectator in the warmest manner. An accidental misfortune,
if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity. The person
who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments,
_viz_. the anguish of mind occasioned by remorse:
Poco é funesta
Laltrui fortuna,
Quando non resta
Ragione alcuna
Ne di pentirsi, né darrossir.
_Metastasio._
A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself,
excites little pity, for a different reason. His remorse, it is true,
aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity: but then
our hatred to the criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge
considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal,
partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse
to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and
the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly
from our pity. For this reason, the happiest of all subjects for
tragedy, if such a one could be invented, would be where a man of
integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an innocent action, but
which by some singular means he conceives to be criminal. His remorse
aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by
indignation, rises to its highest pitch. Pity comes thus to be the
ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper representation, may
be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A
moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beside exercising our pity,
it raises another passion, selfish indeed, but which deserves to be
cherished equally with the social affections. When a misfortune is the
natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator
who is conscious of some such defect in himself, takes the alarm, and
considers that he is liable to the same misfortune. This consideration
raises in him an emotion of fear or terror; and it is by this emotion,
frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the
spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.
The commentators upon Aristotle and other critics, have been much
graveled about the account given of tragedy by this author, “That by
means of pity and terror it refines in us all sorts of passion.” But no
one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy,
can have any difficulty about Aristotle’s meaning. Our pity is engaged
for the persons represented, and our terror is upon our own account.
Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions,
because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our
sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in
what manner our other passions are refined by terror I have just now
said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to
the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really
Aristotle’s meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers
several propositions agreeable to the doctrine as here explained. These,
at the same time, I the rather chuse to mention; because, so far as
authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about the proper
subjects for tragedy. His first proposition is, That it being the
province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person
falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition
is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of
this nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an
inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The
second proposition is, That we must not represent a wicked person
emerging from misery to good fortune. This excites neither terror nor
compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the
misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented. Such
representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of
justice: but it will not move our pity; or any degree of terror, except
in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented.
His last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation
lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the
misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary
fault, as our author expresses it[52]. The only objection I find to
Aristotle’s account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too
narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind. For if
terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name,
but where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of
mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution. Such misfortunes
always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only can
terror be excited for our improvement.
Thus Aristotle’s four propositions above mentioned, relate solely to
tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not
confined within so narrow limits. Subjects fitted for the theatre, are
not in such plenty, as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which
rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect to
subjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful question, whether the
conclusion ought not always to be happy. Where a person of integrity is
represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental,
we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice; for
seldom is man so submissive to the course of Providence, as not to
revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance: he will be
inclined to say, This ought not to be. I give for an example the _Romeo
and Juliet_ of Shakespear, where the fatal catastrophe is occasioned by
Friar Laurence’s coming to the monument a minute too late. Such a story
we think of with regret: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away
dissatisfied. This is a temper of mind which ought not to be cherished;
and for that reason, I vote for excluding stories of this kind from the
theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person arising from necessary
causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will, I am apt to
think, be considered in a different light. Chance affords always a
gloomy prospect, and in every instance gives an impression of anarchy
and misrule. A regular chain, on the other hand, of causes and effects,
directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand
of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious
that submission is our duty[53]. For that reason, we are not
dissatisfied with the distresses of Voltaire’s _Mariamne_, though
redoubled on her till the moment of her death, without the least fault
or failing on her part. Her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely
natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The
fate of Desdemona in the _Moor of Venice_, affects us in the same
manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in _King
Lear_: the causes of her misfortune, are by no means so evident, as to
exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, it appears, that a
perfect character suffering under misfortunes is qualified for being
the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is
it altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be
introduced as an under-part, supposing the chief place to be filled with
an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case
of Desdemona and Mariamne just now mentioned; and it is the case of
Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway’s two tragedies, _The Orphan_, and
_Venice preserv’d_.
I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, That fable
operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our
sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality[54]. Hence, in
epic and dramatic compositions, it is of importance to employ every
means that may promote the delusion, such as the borrowing from history
some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the
author’s purpose. The principal facts are known to be true; and we are
disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in chusing a
subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary
than where the whole is invented. In the first place, no circumstances
must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be
true: history may be supplied, but it must not be contradicted. In the
next place, a pure fable, entirely new with respect to the persons as
well as the incidents, may be supposed an ancient or a modern story. But
if the poet build upon truth, the subject he chuses must be distant in
time, or at least in place; for he ought by all means to avoid the
familiarity of persons and events nearly connected with us. Familiarity
ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar
character of which is dignity and elevation. Modern manners make but a
poor figure in such a poem[55].
After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of erecting an
epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an
event of this kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy. It
was admitted in Greece, and Shakespear has employ’d it successfully in
several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of
more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular
to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home:
familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the
ridicule of our own manners.
After a proper subject is chosen, there appears to me some delicacy in
dividing it into parts. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of
an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so
slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed
pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every
act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this
respect, a dramatic or epic poem, ought to resemble a sentence or
period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from
each other by regular pauses: or it ought to resemble a piece of music,
having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that
contribute to the melody. Every act therefore ought to close with some
incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no
pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break
off in the very heat of action: against this every one would exclaim.
The absurdity still remains, though the action relents, if it be not
actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an
epic poem; though there a deviation from the rule is less remarkable,
because it is in the reader’s power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding
instantly to another book. The first book of the _Paradise Lost_, ends
without any regular close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly,
where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to make a speech to the
convocated host of the fall’n angels; and the second book begins with
the speech. Milton seems to have copied the _Æneid_, of which the two
first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any
proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the _Æneid_. There is no
proper pause at end of the seventh book of _Paradise Lost_, nor at the
end of the eleventh.
* * * * *
Hitherto I have carried on together the epic and dramatic compositions.
I proceed to handle them separately, and to mention circumstances
peculiar to each, beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical
entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a
monstrous absurdity to introduce upon the stage invisible beings in a
visible shape. But it has been much disputed, whether such beings may
not be properly introduced in an epic poem. If we rest upon the
authority of practice, we must declare for the affirmative; and
Boileau[56], among many other critics, is a stout champion for this sort
of machinery. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the
judgement, let us draw what light we can from reason. I begin with a
preliminary remark, That this matter is but indistinctly handled by
critics. It is laid down above, that several passions incite the mind to
animate its objects[57]: the moral virtues become so many goddesses, and
even darts and arrows are inspired with life and action. But then it
must not be overlooked, that such personification, being the work of
imagination, is descriptive only, and assumes not even an appearance of
truth[58]. This is very different from what is termed _machinery_, where
deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as
real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the
catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in
the reasoning. The poetical privilege of animating insensible objects
for the sake of description, cannot be controverted, because it is
founded on a natural principle. But has the privilege of machinery, if
it be a privilege, the same good foundation? Far from it: nothing can
be more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First,
it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of
reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our
passions[59]. This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery,
whatever entertainment it may give to readers of a fantastic taste or
irregular imagination. And next, were it possible to disguise the
fiction, and to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can
hardly be, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that
the aim or end of an epic poem can never be accomplished in any
perfection where machinery is introduced. Virtuous emotions cannot be
raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endued with
passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions. And as
for moral instruction, it is evident, that we can draw none from beings
who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop’s manner
is no objection to this reasoning. His lions, bulls, and goats, are
truly men under disguise: they act and feel in every respect as human
beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it
is true, introduces the gods into his fable; and he was authorised to
take that liberty by the religion of his country; it being an article in
the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in
human affairs. I must however observe, that Homer’s deities do no honour
to his poems. Fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have
a good effect: they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will
not be relished by any person of a correct taste. Let me add, that of
whatever use such fictions may be to a mean genius, an able writer has
much finer materials of Nature’s production for elevating his subject,
and making it interesting.
Boileau, a strenuous advocate for the Heathen deities, as observed,
declares against angels and devils, though supported by the religious
creed of his country. One would be apt to imagine, that a critic famed
for his good taste, could have no other meaning than to justify the
employing Heathen deities for enlivening or elevating the description.
But as the Heathen deities make not a better figure in poetical language
than angels and devils, Boileau, in pleading for the former, certainly
meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that these may be introduced as
actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of this glaring absurdity,
where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the
taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the
walls were built by Apollo or Neptune; and in relating the passage of
the Rhine, _anno_ 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting
with all his might to oppose the French monarch. This is confounding
fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general
run into this error: wonderful! that they should not be sensible how
ridiculous it is.
That this is a capital error in the _Gierusalleme liberata_, Tasso’s
greatest admirers must acknowledge. A situation can never be intricate,
nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is
an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his
essay upon epic poetry, talking of the _Pharsalia_, observes
judiciously, “That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the
character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the
solidity of Lucan’s subject, deprived him of all liberty of poetical
fiction.” Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with
respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire,
not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible
and superior beings, introduces them into the action. In the sixth canto
of the _Henriade_, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the
soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to
Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &_c._
assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are chased away by a
good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious
personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any
rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV.
This singly is sufficient to make the _Henriade_ a short-liv’d poem,
were it otherwise possessed of every beauty. I have tried serious
reasoning upon this subject; but ridicule, I suppose, will be found a
more successful weapon, which Addison has applied in an elegant manner:
“Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing
near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend
to shew their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as
much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have
good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who
shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not
to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of
him in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon
Phœbus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses
by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with
any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by
no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any
plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that
I shall not allow the destinies to have had an hand in the deaths of the
several thousands who have been slain in the late war; being of opinion
that all such deaths may be very well accounted for by the Christian
system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the fates to
cut the thread of man’s life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be
for the sake of the rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that
Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems
which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his
appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short
allusion; and that even here he be not permitted to enter, but with
great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be
extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to
condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises
any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I
expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related
which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided
always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to
extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still
be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same
manner as if this paper had never been written.” _Spectator_, Nº 523.
The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not
wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of
readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer
introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and
Virgil has still less moderation: an over-watched pilot cannot fall
asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: the two lovers, Æneas
and Dido, cannot take the same bed, without the immediate interposition
of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even
through the thickest vail of gravity and solemnity.
Angels and devils serve equally with the Heathen deities, as materials
for figurative language, perhaps better among Christians, because we
believe in them, and not in the Heathen deities. But every one is
sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed
make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible
powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems. The reason I take to
be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries,
were beings elevated one step only above mankind, actuated by the same
passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether
improper to mix with mankind in an important action. In our creed,
superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of
a nature so different, that with no propriety can they appear with us
upon the same stage. Man is a creature so much inferior, that he loses
all dignity when set in opposition.
There seems to be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the
embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other
figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the
allegorical manner. It amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a
sort of magic, converted into active beings; and it is delightful to
trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings
should be confined within their own sphere; and never be admitted to mix
in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the
catastrophe. This would have a still worse effect, than the introduction
of invisible powers; and I am ready to assign the reason. An historical
fable affords entertainment chiefly by making us conceive its personages
to be really existing and acting in our presence: in an allegory, this
agreeable delusion is denied; for we must not imagine an allegorical
personage to be a real being, but the figure only of some virtue or
vice; otherwise the allegory is lost. The impression of real existence,
essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative
existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can
be more effectual to destroy the impression of reality, than to
introduce allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to
be really existing. The love-episode in the _Henriade_[60], is
insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life. This
episode is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the _Gierusalemme
liberata_, which hath no merit to intitle it to be copied. An
allegorical object, such as fame in the _Æneid_, and the temple of love
in the _Henriade_, may find place in a description: but to introduce
Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another
real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these
figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble
of discordant materials, _viz._ truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin
and Death in the _Paradise Lost_, is, I presume, not generally
relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what I have
been condemning. The _Paradise Lost_ is not confined to the history of
our first parents; and in a work comprehending the achievements of
superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined
to human actions.
What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished
from what is really a part of the principal action? Every incident that
promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be a part of the principal
action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, “An
incident connected with the principal action, but which contributes not
either to advance or retard it.” The descent of Æneas into hell doth not
advance or retard the catastrophe; and therefore is an episode. The
story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of
the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The
family-scene in the sixth book of the _Iliad_ is of the same nature: by
Hector’s retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the
Grecians got liberty to breathe, and even to press upon the Trojans. It
being thus the nature of an episode to break the unity of action, it
ought never to be indulged unless to refresh and unbend the mind after
the fatigue of a long narration. This purpose of an episode demands the
following properties. It ought to be well connected with the principal
action: it ought to be short: and it ought to be lively and interesting.
* * * * *
Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I shall
mention is a double plot; being naturally led to it by what is said
immediately above. One of these double plots must be of the nature of an
episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of
entertaining him, if he were forc’d to attend, at the same time, to two
capital plots equally interesting. An under-plot in a tragedy has seldom
a good effect; because a passionate piece cannot be too simple. The
sympathetic emotions once roused, cling to their objects, and cannot
bear interruption: when a subject fills the mind, it leaves no room for
any separate concern[61]. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which
pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even
here, to make a double plot agreeable, a good deal of art is requisite.
The under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from that which is
principal: passions may be varied, but discordant passions are
unpleasant when jumbled together. This is a solid objection to
tragi-comedy. For this reason, I blame the _Provok’d Husband_: all the
scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being
ludicrous and farcical, agree very ill with the sharpness and severity
of the principal subject, exhibiting the discord betwixt Lord Townly and
his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the
_Careless Husband_: the different subjects are sweetly connected; and
have only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously
mixed. But this is not all. The under plot ought to be connected with
the principal action, so as to employ the same persons: the intervals or
pauses of the principal action ought to be filled with the under-plot;
and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the _Merry
Wives of Windsor_.
Violent action ought to be excluded from the stage. While the dialogue
runs on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression
of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive
gesture. The spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses
sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality.
From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from
a pleasing dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a
fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and sounds it upon the reason
given:
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus;
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem.
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.
The French critics, as it appears to me, misapprehend the reason of this
rule. Shedding blood upon the stage, say they, is barbarous and shocking
to a polite audience. This no doubt is an additional reason for
excluding bloodshed from the French stage, supposing the French to be
in reality so delicate. But this evidently is not the reason that
weighed with the Greeks: that polite people had no notion of such
delicacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing
behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles. Her voice is heard
calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks
upon her being stabb’d, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every
person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the
deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of
passion. According to the foregoing reasoning of the French critics,
there is nothing to exclude from the stage a duel occasioned by an
affair of honour, because in it there is nothing barbarous or shocking
to a polite audience: yet a scene of this nature is excluded from the
French stage; which shows, without more argument, that these critics
have misapprehended the rule laid down by Horace. If Corneille, in
representing the affair betwixt Horatius and his sister, upon which
murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view than to remove from
the spectators a scene of horror, he certainly was in a capital mistake:
for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as
represented, is more horrible even where the conclusive stab is not
seen, than the same act performed on the stage by violent and
unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. I heartily
agree with Addison[62], that no part of this incident ought to have been
represented, but reserved for a narrative, with all the alleviating
circumstances possible in favour of the hero. This is the only method to
avoid the difficulties that unqualify this incident for representation,
a deliberate murder on the one hand, and on the other a violent action
performed on the stage, which must rouse the spectator from his dream of
reality.
* * * * *
I shall finish with a few words upon the dialogue; which ought to be so
conducted as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here of
the sentiments, nor of the language; for these come under different
heads. I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every
single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the
former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of
the scene. In this view, the whole speeches, from first to last,
represent so many links, all connected together in one regular chain. No
author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to
Shakespear. Dryden, in this particular, may justly be placed as his
opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon
the same subject, each throwing out his own sentiments separately,
without regarding what is said by the rest. I give for an example the
first scene of _Aurenzebe_. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating
an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one
another, for the sake merely of speaking. Of this notable sort of
dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the
_Conquest of Granada_. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene
second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate
observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of
the mob. It puts one in mind of a pastoral, where two shepherds are
introduced reciting couplets alternately, each in praise of his own
mistress, as if they were contending for a prize.
The bandying sentiments in this manner, beside an unnatural air, has
another bad effect. It stays the course of the action, because it is not
productive of any consequence. In Congreve’s comedies, the action is
often suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more
particularly in the chapter immediately following.