The three Unities.
The first chapter unfolds the pleasure we have in a chain of connected
facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a people, this
pleasure is but faint; because the connections are slight or obscure. We
find more entertainment in biography, where the incidents are connected
by their relation to one person, who makes a figure and commands our
attention. But the greatest entertainment of the kind, is afforded by
the history of a single event, supposing it to be interesting. The
history of one event produceth a more entire connection among the parts,
than the history of one person. In the latter, the circumstances are not
otherwise connected than by their relation to that person: in the
former, the circumstances are connected by the strongest of all
relations, that of cause and effect. Thus, the circumstances of a single
event, having a mutual connection extremely intimate, form a delightful
train: we survey with peculiar pleasure a number of facts that give
birth to each other; and we pass with ease and satisfaction from the
first to the last.
But this subject merits a more particular discussion. When we consider
the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of
purpose, design, or thought, we find a train of incidents in succession,
without beginning, middle, or end. Every thing that happens is both a
cause and an effect: it is the effect of something that goes before, and
the cause of one or many things that follow. One incident may affect us
more, another less; but all of them, great and small, are so many links
in the universal chain. The mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot
rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the
train without any close.
But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with
the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and
choice; he acts with a view to some end, glory, for example, or riches,
or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country
in general; and he proposes means and lays schemes to attain the end
proposed. Here is recognised a capital end or event, connected with
subordinate events or incidents by the relation of causation. In running
over a series of subordinate events, we cannot rest upon any one;
because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end. But
we rest with satisfaction upon the ultimate event; because there, the
purpose, the plan, the aim, of the chief person or persons, is completed
and brought to a final conclusion. This indicates a beginning, a middle,
and an end, of what Aristotle calls _an entire action_[63]. The story
naturally begins with describing those circumstances which move the
distinguished person to form a plan, in order to compass some desired
event. The prosecution of that plan, and the obstructions, carry the
reader into the heat of action. The middle is properly where the action
is the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about,
and the design accomplished.
A design or plan thus happily perfected, after many obstructions,
affords wonderful delight to the reader. And to produce this delight, a
principle mentioned above[64] mainly contributes; a principle that
disposes the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to
carry every thing to its ultimate conclusion.
I have given the foregoing example of a plan laid down and completed,
because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, and
an end, in which consists unity of action: and indeed stricter unity
cannot be imagined than in this case. But an action may have unity, or a
beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts. The
catastrophe may be different from what is intended or desired; which is
frequently the case in our best tragedies. The _Æneid_ is an instance of
means employ’d to produce a certain event, and these means crowned with
success. The _Iliad_ is formed upon a different model. It begins with
the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon: it goes on to describe the
several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a reconciliation.
Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end: it
must however be acknowledged, that the _Æneid_ is more happy in point of
connection. The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of
history: it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the
incidents or under-parts are connected together by their relation to the
event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we
have in the _Æneid_. But it is not altogether so pleasant, as in the
_Iliad_, to connect effects by their common cause; for such connection
forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking backward is like
walking backward.
But Homer’s plan is still more imperfect, for another reason, That the
events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of
Achilles as their cause. His wrath did not exert itself in action; and
the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the effects of his
wrath, by depriving them of his assistance.
If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human
affairs, a double action must be a capital defect, by carrying on
together two trains of unconnected objects. For the sake of variety, we
indulge an under-plot that contributes to the principal event. But two
unconnected events are a great deformity; and it lessens the deformity
but a very little, to engage the same actors in both. Ariosto is quite
licentious in this particular: he carries on at the same time a
plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is
perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for every thing in the _Orlando
Furioso_ is wild and extravagant.
To state facts according to the order of time, is the most natural and
the most simple method: a method however not so essential, in an
historical fable especially, as not to yield to some conspicuous
beauties[65]. If a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements,
be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the
heat of action, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if
it shall be thought necessary. This method, at the same time, being
dramatic, hath a peculiar beauty, which narration cannot reach[66].
Romance-writers, who give little attention to nature, deviate in this
particular, among many, from a just standard. They make no difficulty of
presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons
engaged in some adventure equally unknown. In _Cassandra_, two
personages, who afterward are discovered to be the heroes of the story,
start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in
a single combat[67].
A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene
makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident
relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding
it. If no incident be produced, such a scene, which may be termed
barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action.
A barren scene can never be intitled to a place, because the chain is
complete without it. In the _Old Bachelor_, the 3d scene of act 2. and
all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces,
without any consequence. The 10th and 11th scenes, act 3. _Double
Dealer_, the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1. _Love for
Love_, are of the same kind. Neither is _The Way of the World_ entirely
guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to
display characters. It were better, like Dryden, in his _dramatis
personæ_, to describe characters beforehand, which would not interrupt
the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such
artifice: he can display the characters of his personages much more to
the life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by
Shakespear! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren
scene.
Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable,
ought to have a mutual connection by their common relation to the grand
event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the _unity_ of action
consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic compositions.
How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a question of
greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Grecian
and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and English
critics as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory, these
unities are also acknowledged by our best poets, though their practice
is seldom correspondent: they are often forc’d to take liberties, which
they pretend not to justify, against the practice of the Greeks and
Romans, and against the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in
the course of this inquiry it will be made evident, that the example of
the ancients ought, upon this point, to have no weight with us, and that
our critics are guilty of a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of
place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.
Suffer me only to premise, that the unities of place and time, are not,
by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such a
composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be
absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow limits
either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history, or an
historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility.
We never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in
reading; nor of forming any connection betwixt the place of action and
that which we occupy.
I am sensible, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to admit
different rules. It will be observed, “That an historical fable, which
affords entertainment by reading solely, is under no limitation of time
or of place, more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic
composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as
its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore
that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it
would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be
justly represented.” This argument, I acknowledge, has at least a
plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy,
considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the
unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds[68].
A view of the Grecian drama, and a comparison betwixt it and our own,
may perhaps help to relieve us from this dilemma. If they be differently
constructed, as shall by and by be made evident, it is possible that the
foregoing reasoning may not be applicable with equal force to both. This
is an article, that, with relation to the present subject, has not, so
far as I know, been examined by any writer.
All authors agree, that the first notion of tragedy in Greece, was
derived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by
a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the singers, and for the sake of variety,
introduced one actor; who gave a narrative of the subject, and sometimes
represented one or other personage. Eschylus, introducing a second
actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic:
and the actors were multiplied when the subject represented made it
necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was
considered as an essential part of its constitution. In the first scene,
generally, are unfolded the preliminary circumstances that lead to the
grand event. This scene is by Aristotle termed the _prologue_. In the
second scene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is
introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the stage during the
whole performance. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides
is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces it becomes necessary
to remove the chorus. But this is seldom done; and when done, matters
are so ordered as that their absence is but momentary. The chorus often
mix in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be suspended, the
chorus, during the interval, is employ’d in singing. Nor does the
removal of the chorus, when that unusual step is risked, interrupt the
representation. They never leave the stage of their own accord, but at
the command of some principal personage who constantly waits their
return.
Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without any
interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued
representation without a pause, affords not opportunity to vary the
place of action; and has withal a very short duration. To a
representation so confined in place and time, the foregoing reasoning is
strictly applicable. A real or feigned action that is brought to a
conclusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent change of
place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits of no
latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time,
were, or ought to have been, strictly observed in the Grecian tragedies.
This is made necessary by the very constitution of their drama; for it
is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly represented.
Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules founded on
the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The
unities of place and of time, so much vaunted, were in Greece, as we
see, a matter of necessity, not of choice. I am now ready to show, that
if we submit to these fetters, it must be from choice not necessity.
This will be evident upon taking a view of the construction of our
drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less
perfect, is a separate question, which shall be handled afterward. By
dropping the chorus, an opportunity is afforded to split our drama into
parts or acts, which in the representation are distinguished by
intervals of time; and during these intervals, the stage is totally
evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This construction qualifies our
drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of
place. The time supposed to pass during the suspension of the
representation, is not measured by the time of the suspension; nor is
any connection formed, betwixt the box we sit in and the place where
things are supposed to be transacted in our absence: and by that means,
many subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, for which there
was no place in those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be
illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures:
let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be
complete. Each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays.
There must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in
each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during
each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in
the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such
historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by
Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have
passed betwixt the subjects exhibited in two different pictures, though
the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the
other. We have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place,
however great. In this matter, there is truly no difference betwixt five
acts of a modern play and five such pictures. Where the representation
is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of
time or any change of place. The spectator, it is true, may be
conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are
employ’d in the representation, even including the intervals. But this
is a work of reflection; and by the same reflection he may also be
conscious, that Garrick is not King Lear, that the playhouse is not
Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word,
during an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult
for a spectator to imagine himself carried from place to place, and from
one period of time to another, than at once, when the scene first opens,
to be carried from London to Rome, or from the present time two thousand
years back. And indeed, it must appear ridiculous, that a critic, who
makes no difficulty of supposing candle-light to be sun-shine, and some
painted canvasses a palace or a prison, should affect so much difficulty
in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the story, beyond what is
necessary in the representation.
There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latitude in time that
ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre. Nothing can
be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full grown person who
appears a child at the beginning. The mind rejects as contrary to all
probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so
remarkable. The greatest change from place to place hath not altogether
the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs place is not material;
and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little
regardful of minute circumstances. These may be varied at will, because
they scarce make any impression.
But though I have thus taken arms to rescue modern poets from the
slavish fetters of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify
liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to place
and time, is faulty for a reason that seems to have been overlooked: it
never fails to break in upon the unity of action. In the ordinary course
of human affairs, single events, such as are fit to be represented on
the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and generally employ no great
extent of time. We accordingly seldom find strict unity of action in a
dramatic composition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these
particulars. I must say farther, that a composition which employs but
one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary
for the representation, is so far the more perfect: because the
confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of
action; and also prevents that labour, however slight, which the mind
must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and many intervals
of time. But still I must insist, that the limitation of place and time
which was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and
therefore that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the
composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place
to a thousand beauties more substantial. And I may add, that it is
extremely difficult, I was about to say impracticable, to contract
within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number
and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.
It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time
upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them all equally
essential, have not attended to the nature and construction of the
modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, with which no
writer finds fault, it is plainly absurd to condemn the greatest
advantage it procures us, that of representing many interesting subjects
excluded from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation,
why not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action?
There is certainly no medium: for to admit an interruption without
relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to
load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the
same time to with-hold from us its advantages.
And therefore the only proper question is, whether our model be or be
not a real improvement. This indeed may justly be called in question;
and in order to a fair comparative trial, some particulars must be
premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to enter into the
scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place. We know that
the play is a representation only: and the imagination, with facility,
accommodates itself to every circumstance. Our situation is very
different after we are engaged. It is the perfection of representation
to hide itself, to impose upon the spectator, and to produce in him an
impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event[69]. Any
interruption annihilates this impression: he is roused out of his waking
dream, and unhappily restored to his senses. So difficult it is to
support this impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions
than the interval betwixt two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm.
In the 5th act of the _Mourning Bride_, the three first scenes are in a
room of state; the fourth in a prison. This change is operated by
shifting the scene, which is done in a trice. But however quick the
transition may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators so
far as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the
palace to the prison. They immediately reflect, that the palace and
prison are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.
From these premisses one will be naturally led, at first view, to
declare against the frequent interruptions in the modern drama. It will
occur, “That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream
of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist
while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore that in the
modern drama sufficient time is not afforded for the fluctuation and
swelling of passion, like what is afforded in the Grecian drama, where
there is no interruption.” This reasoning, it must be owned, has a
specious appearance: but we must not turn faint-hearted upon the first
repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.
Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the
representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended
not less frequently than in the modern drama. There are five acts in
each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is
suspended, as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the
interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that the
Grecian continuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong
the impression of reality. To banish this impression, a suspension of
the action while the chorus is employ’d in singing, is not less
operative than a total suspension both of the representation and action.
But to open a larger view, I am ready to show, that a continued
representation, without a single pause even in the principal action, so
far from an advantage, would be really an imperfection; and that a
representation with proper pauses, is better calculated for moving the
audience, and making the strongest impressions. Representation cannot
very long support an impression of reality: when the spirits are
exhausted by close attention and by the agitation of passion, an
uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Now
supposing an act to employ as much time as can easily be given with
strict attention to any incident, a supposition that cannot be far from
the truth; it follows, that the impression of reality would not be
prolonged beyond the space of an act, even supposing a continued
representation. Hence it appears, that a continued representation
without any pause, would be a bad contrivance: it would break the
attention by overstraining it, and produce a total absence of mind. In
this respect, the four pauses have a fine effect. By affording to the
audience a seasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone,
and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from
its fatigue; and consequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very
time possibly of the most interesting scenes.
In one article indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its
chorus, during an interval, not only preserves alive the impressions
made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts finely for new
impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end
of every act, are in a manner solicited to withdraw their thoughts from
what has been passing, and to trifle away the time the best way they
can. Thus in the intervals betwixt the acts, every warm impression is
banished; and the spectators begin the next act cool and indifferent,
as at the commencement of the play. Here is a gross malady in our
theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable.
To revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of
place and time. But I can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a
pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in
the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against
music betwixt the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted to the subject?
Such detached chorus, beside admitting the same latitude that we enjoy
at present as to time and place, would have more than one happy effect:
it would recruit the spirits; and it would preserve entire, the tone, if
not the tide, of passion. The music that comes first, ought to accord
with the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it
accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act.
The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by their
conjunction; which will thus appear. Music that accords with the present
tone of mind, is, upon that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly,
though music singly hath not power to raise any passion, it tends
greatly to support a passion already raised. Further, music, though it
cannot of itself raise a passion, prepares us for the passion that
follows: by making chearful, tender, melancholy, or animated
impressions, music has power to dispose the heart to various passions.
Of this power, the first scene of the _Mourning Bride_ is a shining
instance: without the preparation of soft music in a melancholy strain,
it would be extremely difficult to enter all at once into Almeria’s deep
distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other
delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the
representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and
the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the
representation that succeeds. It appears to me clear, that, by some such
contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the
advantage of the ancient chorus without its slavish limitation of place
and time. And as to music in particular, I cannot figure any plan that
would tend more to its improvement. Composers, those for the stage at
least, would be reduced to the happy necessity of studying and imitating
nature; instead of indulging, according to the present fashion, in wild,
fantastic, and unnatural conceits. But we must return to our subject,
and finish the comparison betwixt the ancient and the modern drama.
The numberless improprieties forc’d upon the Grecian dramatic poets by
the constitution of their drama, are, of themselves one should think, a
sufficient reason for preferring that of the moderns, even abstracting
from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article,
it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action
never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen to which every person
may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to
some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which
excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though
these commonly are the most important. Such cruel restraint is of
itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly
the Grecian writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to
woful improprieties. In the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides[70], Phedra,
distressed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her
palace to the place of action, is there laid upon a couch unable to
support herself upon her limbs, and made to utter many things improper
to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus. What is still
worse, her female attendant uses the strongest intreaties to make her
reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary
to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of this
very chorus[71]. Alcestes, in _Euripides_, at the point of death, is
brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting
her untimely fate[72]. In the _Trachiniens_ of Sophocles[73], a secret
is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence of the
chorus. In the tragedy of _Iphigenia_, the messenger employ’d to carry
Clitemnestra the news that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops short at the
place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen from her palace
to hear the news. Again, in the _Iphigenia in Tauris_, the necessary
presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a gross absurdity, which is
to form a secret plot in their hearing[74]; and to disguise the
absurdity, much courtship is bestowed on the chorus, not one woman but a
number, to engage them to secrecy. In the _Medea_ of Euripides, that
princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the chorus, to plot the
death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her father the King of
Corinth, all by poison. It was necessary to bring Medea upon the stage,
and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the
chorus. This scene closes the second act; and in the end of the third,
she frankly makes the chorus her confidents in ploting the murder of her
own children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forc’d to make a
conversation within doors be heard on the open street: the cries of a
woman in labour are there heard distinctly.
The Grecian poets are not more happy with respect to time than with
respect to place. In the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides, that prince is
banished at the end of the fourth act. In the first scene of the
following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of
the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster. This remarkable event must
have employ’d many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined
to the time employ’d by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th
act. The inconsistency is still greater in the _Iphigenia in
Tauris_[75]. The song could not exhaust half an hour; and yet the
incidents supposed to have happened in that time, could not naturally be
transacted in less than half a day.
The Grecian artists are not less frequently obliged to transgress
another rule, derived also from a continued representation, which is,
that the place of action must constantly be occupied; for the very least
vacuity is an interruption of the representation. Sophocles, with regard
to this rule as well as others, is generally correct. But Euripides
cannot bear such restraint: he often evacuates the stage, and leaves it
empty for others in succession. _Iphigenia in Tauris_, after pronouncing
a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is
succeeded by Orestes and Pylades. They, after some conversation, walk
off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the
_Alcestes_, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at
the end of the third act. It is true, that to cover this irregularity,
and to preserve the representation in motion, Euripides is extremely
careful to fill the stage without loss of time. But this is still an
interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of
the actors, there must always be a space of time, when we cannot justly
say, that the stage is occupied by either set. It makes indeed a more
remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the
actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.
It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having
no chorus, there is a cessation in the representation at the end of
every act. But advantage is not taken of this cessation, even to vary
the place of action. The street is always chosen, where every thing
passing may be seen by every person: and by this choice, the most
sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly pass
within doors, are excluded; witness the last act of the _Eunuch_. He
hath submitted to the same slavery with respect to time. In a word, a
play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than
his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows implicitly ancient forms
and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductive
cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence,
makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation:
he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation
suits his purpose.
The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that I plead for no
change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude
in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of
place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during
the representation, there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation
from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the
stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacuity makes an
interval. Another rule is not less essential: it would be a gross breach
of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions
at the same time; and therefore to preserve this unity, it is necessary
that each personage introduced during an act, be linked to those in
possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things
follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the
slightest interruption. The moment the representation is intermitted,
there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act,
but where after a pause or interval, the representation is again put in
motion. French writers, generally speaking, are extremely correct in
this particular: the English, on the contrary, are so irregular as
scarce to deserve a criticism: actors not only succeed each other in the
same place without connection; but, what is still worse, they frequently
succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same
act, ought never to be indulged; for, beside breaking the unity of the
act, it has a disagreeable effect. After an interval, the mind can
readily accommodate itself to any place that is necessary, just as
readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the
representation, the mind rejects change of place. From the foregoing
censure must be excepted the _Mourning Bride_ of Congreve, where
regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make
it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. I must
acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant
performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts,
the unities of place and time are strictly observed; but in the last
act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place. In the
three first scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state,
which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene: the chain of the
actors withal is broken; for the persons introduced in the prison, are
different from those who made their appearance in the room of state.
This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect two
acts instead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule, that a play ought
not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far
defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting six
acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a longer
pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for it
requires more than a momentary interruption, to enable the imagination
readily to accommodate itself to a new place, or to prorogation of time.
In _The Way of the World_, of the same author, unity of place is
preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time during the
whole play than is necessary.