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THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
VOL. II.
Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
Red Lion Passage, Fleet-Street, London.
THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
IN EIGHT VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
1811.
CRITICAL WORKS.
VOL. II.
Q. HORATII FLACCI
EPISTOLAE
AD
PISONES,
ET
AUGUSTUM:
WITH AN ENGLISH
COMMENTARY AND NOTES:
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
Page.
DISSERTATION I.
_On the Idea of Universal Poetry._ 1
DISSERTATION II.
_On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._ 27
DISSERTATION III.
_On Poetical Imitation._ 107
DISSERTATION IV.
_On the Marks of Imitation._ 243
CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.
I. ON THE IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
II. ON THE PROVINCES OF DRAMATIC POETRY.
III. ON POETICAL IMITATION.
IV. ON THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
VATIBVS ADDERE CALCAR,
VT STVDIO MAIORE PETANT HELICONA VIRENTEM.
HOR.
A
DISSERTATION
ON THE
IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
DISSERTATION I.
ON THE
IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
When we speak of poetry, as an _art_, we mean _such a way or method of
treating a subject, as is found most pleasing and delightful to us_.
In all other kinds of literary composition, pleasure is subordinate to
USE: in poetry only, PLEASURE is the end, to which use itself (however
it be, for certain reasons, always pretended) must submit.
This _idea_ of the end of poetry is no novel one, but indeed the very
same which our great philosopher entertained of it; who gives it as
the essential note of this part of learning—THAT IT SUBMITS THE SHEWS
OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND: WHEREAS REASON DOTH BUCKLE AND
BOW THE MIND UNTO THE NATURE OF THINGS. For to _gratify the desires of
the mind_, is to PLEASE: _Pleasure_ then, in the idea of Lord Bacon,
is the ultimate and appropriate end of poetry; for the sake of which
it accommodates itself to _the desires of the mind_, and doth not (as
other kinds of writing, which are under the controul of _reason_)
_buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things_.
But they, who like a principle the better for seeing it in Greek,
may take it in the words of an old philosopher, ERATOSTHENES, who
affirmed—ποιητὴν πάντα στοχάζεσθαι ψυχαγωγίας, οὐ διδασκαλίας—of
which words, the definition given above, is the translation.
This _notion_ of the end of poetry, if kept steadily in view, will
unfold to us all the mysteries of the poetic art. There needs but to
evolve the philosopher’s idea, and to apply it, as occasion serves.
_The art of poetry_ will be, universally, THE ART OF PLEASING; and all
its _rules_, but so many MEANS, which experience finds most conducive
to that end;
Sic ANIMIS natum inventumque poema JUVANDIS.
Aristotle has delivered and explained these rules, so far as they
respect one species of poetry, the _dramatic_, or, more properly
speaking, the _tragic_: And when such a writer, as he, shall do as
much by the other species, then, and not till then, a complete ART OF
POETRY will be formed.
I have not the presumption to think myself, in any degree, equal to
this arduous task: But from the idea of this art, as given above, an
ordinary writer may undertake to deduce some general conclusions,
concerning _Universal Poetry_, which seem preparatory to those nicer
disquisitions, concerning its _several sorts or species_.
I. It follows from that IDEA, that it should neglect no advantage,
that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of
language, as is most _taking_ and agreeable to us. We may expect then,
in the language or style of poetry, a choice of such words as are most
sonorous and expressive, and such an arrangement of them as throws
the discourse out of the ordinary and common phrase of conversation.
Novelty and variety are certain sources of pleasure: a construction
of words, which is not vulgar, is therefore more suited to the ends
of poetry, than one which we are every day accustomed to in familiar
discourse. Some manners of placing them are, also, more agreeable to
the ear, than others: Poetry, then, is studious of these, as it would
by all means, not manifestly absurd, give pleasure: And hence a certain
musical cadence, or what we call _Rhythm_, will be affected by the poet.
But, of all the means of adorning and enlivening a discourse by words,
which are infinite, and perpetually grow upon us, as our knowledge of
the tongue, in which we write, and our skill in adapting it to the ends
of poetry, increases, there is none that pleases more, than _figurative
expression_.
By _figurative expression_, I would be understood to mean, here, that
which respects _the pictures or images of things_. And this sort
of figurative expression is universally pleasing to us, because it
tends to impress on the mind the most distinct and vivid conceptions;
and truth of representation being of less account in this way of
composition, than the liveliness of it, poetry, as such, will delight
in tropes and figures, and those the most strongly and forceably
expressed. And though the _application_ of figures will admit of great
variety, according to the nature of the subject, and the _management_
of them must be suited to the taste and apprehension of the people, to
whom they are addressed, yet, in some way or other, they will find a
place in all works of poetry; and they who object to the use of them,
only shew that they are not capable of being pleased by this sort of
composition, or do, in effect, interdict the thing itself.
The ancients looked for so much of this force and spirit of expression
in whatever they dignified with the name of _poem_, that Horace tells
us it was made a question by some, whether comedy were rightly referred
to this class, because it differed only, in point of measure, from mere
prose.
Idcirco quidam, comoedia necne poema
Esset, quaesivere: quod acer spiritus, ac vis,
Nec _verbis_, nec rebus inest: nisi quod pede certo
Differt sermoni, sermo merus—
Sat. l. I. iv.
But they might have spared their doubt, or at least have resolved it,
if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this _force and
spirit of words_, as is consistent with the _nature_ and _degree_ of
that pleasure, which it pretends to give. For the name of poem will
belong to every composition, whose primary end is to _please_, provided
it be so constructed as to afford _all_ the pleasure, which its kind or
_sort_ will permit.
II. From the idea of the _end_ of poetry, it follows, that not only
figurative and tropical terms will be employed in it, as _these_, by
the images they convey, and by the air of novelty which such indirect
ways of speaking carry with them, are found most delightful to us,
but also that FICTION, in the largest sense of the word, is essential
to poetry. For its purpose is, not to delineate truth simply, but to
present it in the most taking forms; not to reflect the real face of
things, but to illustrate and adorn it; not to represent the fairest
objects only, but to represent them in the fairest lights, and to
heighten all their beauties up to the possibility of their natures;
nay, to _outstrip_ nature, and to address itself to our wildest fancy,
rather than to our judgment and cooler sense.
Οὔτ’ ἐπιδερκτὰ τάδ’ ἀνδράσιν, οὔτ’ ἐπακουστὰ,
Οὔτε νόῳ περίληπτα—
As sings one of the profession[1], who seems to have understood his
privileges very well.
For there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which
prompts it to overlook obvious and familiar appearances, and to feign
to itself other and more extraordinary; such as correspond to the
extent of its own powers, and fill out all the faculties and capacities
of our souls. This restless and aspiring disposition, poetry, first and
principally, would indulge and flatter; and thence takes its name of
_divine_, as if some power, above _human_, conspired to lift the mind
to these exalted conceptions.
Hence it comes to pass, that it deals in apostrophes and invocations;
that it impersonates the virtues and vices; peoples all creation
with new and living forms; calls up infernal spectres to terrify, or
brings down celestial natures to astonish, the imagination; assembles,
combines, or connects its ideas, at pleasure; in short, prefers not
only the agreeable, and the graceful, but, as occasion calls upon
her, the vast, the incredible, I had almost said, the impossible, to
the obvious truth and nature of things. For all this is but a feeble
expression of that magic virtue of poetry, which our Shakespear has so
forcibly described in those well-known lines—
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rowling,
Doth glance from heav’n to earth, from earth to heav’n;
And, as Imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to aery nothing
A focal habitation and a name.
When the received system of manners or religion in any country,
happens to be so constituted as to suit itself in some degree to this
extravagant turn of the human mind, we may expect that poetry will
seize it with avidity, will dilate upon it with pleasure, and take
a pride to erect its specious wonders on so proper and convenient a
ground. Whence it cannot seem strange that, of all the forms in which
poetry has appeared, that of _pagan fable_, and _gothic romance_,
should, in their turns, be found the most alluring to the true poet.
For, in defect of these advantages, he will ever adventure, in some
sort, to supply their place with others of his own invention; that is,
he will mould every system, and convert every subject, into the most
amazing and miraculous form.
And this is that I would say, at present, of these two requisites of
universal poetry, namely, _that licence of expression_, which we call
the _style_ of poetry, and _that licence of representation_, which
we call _fiction_. The _style_ is, as it were, the body of poetry;
_fiction_, is its soul. Having, thus, taken the privilege of a poet to
create a Muse, we have only now to give her a voice, or more properly
to _tune_ it, and then she will be in a condition, as one of her
favourites speaks, TO RAVISH ALL THE GODS. For
III. It follows from the same idea of the _end_, which poetry would
accomplish, that not only Rhythm, but NUMBERS, properly so called, is
essential to it. For this Art undertaking to gratify all those desires
and expectations of pleasure, that can be reasonably entertained by us,
and there being a capacity in language, the instrument it works by, of
pleasing us very highly, not only by the sense and imagery it conveys,
but by the structure of words, and still more by the harmonious
arrangement of them in metrical sounds or numbers, and lastly there
being no reason in the nature of the thing itself why these pleasures
should not be united, it follows that poetry will not be that which it
professes to be, that is, not accomplish its own purpose, unless it
delight the ear with numbers, or, in other words, unless it be cloathed
in VERSE.
The reader, I dare say, has hitherto gone along with me, in this
deduction: but here, I suspect, we shall separate. Yet he will startle
the less at this conclusion, if he reflect on the origin and first
application of poetry among all nations.
It is every where of the most early growth, preceding every other
sort of composition; and being destined for the _ear_, that is, to be
either sung, or at least recited, it adapts itself, even in its first
rude essays, to that sense of measure and proportion in sounds, which
is so natural to us. The hearer’s attention is the sooner gained by
this means, his entertainment quickened, and his admiration of the
performer’s art excited. Men are ambitious of pleasing, and ingenious
in refining upon what they observe will please. So that musical
cadences and harmonious sounds, which nature dictated, are farther
softened and improved by art, till poetry become as ravishing to the
ear, as the images, it presents, are to the imagination. In process
of time, what was at first the extemporaneous production of genius or
passion, under the conduct of a _natural ear_, becomes the labour of
the closet, and is conducted by artificial rules; yet still, with a
secret reference to the _sense_ of hearing, and to that acceptation
which melodious sounds meet with in the recital of expressive words.
Even the prose-writer (when the art is enough advanced to produce
prose) having been accustomed to have his ear consulted and gratified
by the poet, catches insensibly the same harmonious affection, tunes
his sentences and periods to some agreement with song, and transfers
into his coolest narrative, or gravest instruction, something of that
music, with which his ear vibrates from poetic impressions.
In short, he leaves measured and determinate numbers, that is, METRE,
to the poet, who is to please up to the height of his faculties, and
the nature of his work; and only reserves to himself, whose purpose
of giving pleasure is subordinate to another end, the looser musical
measure, or what we call RHYTHMICAL PROSE.
The reason appears, from this deduction, why _all_ poetry aspires to
please by melodious numbers. To _some_ species, it is thought more
essential, than to others, because those species continue to be _sung_,
that is, are more immediately addressed to the ear; and because they
continue to be sung in concert with _musical instruments_, by which the
ear is still more indulged. It happened in antient Greece, that even
tragedy retained this accompaniment of musical instruments, through
all its stages, and even in its most improved state. Whence Aristotle
includes _Music_, properly so called, as well as _Rhythm_ and _Metre_,
in his idea of the tragic poem. He did this, because he found the drama
of his country, OMNIBUS NUMERIS ABSOLUTUM, I mean in possession of
all the advantages which could result from the union of _rhythmical_,
_metrical_, and _musical_ sounds. Modern tragedy has relinquished part
of these: yet still, if it be true that this poem be more pleasing
by the addition of the _musical_ art, and there be nothing in the
nature of the composition which forbids the use of it, I know not
why Aristotle’s idea should not be adopted, and his precept become a
standing law of the tragic stage. For this, as every other poem, being
calculated and designed properly and ultimately to _please_, whatever
contributes to produce that end most perfectly, all circumstances taken
into the account, must be thought of the nature or essence of the kind.
But without carrying matters so far, let us confine our attention to
metre, or what we call _verse_. This must be essential to every work
bearing the name of _poem_, not, because we are only accustomed to call
works written in verse, _poems_, but because a work, which professes to
please us by every possible and proper method, and yet does not give
us this pleasure, which it is in its power, and is no way improper for
it, to give, must so far fall short of fulfilling its own engagements
to us; that is, it has not all those qualities which we have a right to
expect in a work of literary art, of which _pleasure_ is the ultimate
_end_.
To explain myself by an obvious instance. History undertakes to
INSTRUCT us in the transactions of past times. If it answer this
purpose, it does all that is of _its nature_; and, if it find means to
_please_ us, besides, by the harmony of its style, and vivacity of its
narration, all this is to be accounted as pure gain: if it instructed
ONLY, by the truth of its reports, and the perspicuity of its method,
it would fully attain its _end_. Poetry, on the other hand, undertakes
to PLEASE. If it employ all its powers to this purpose, it effects all
that is of _its nature_: if it serve, besides, to inform or instruct
us, by the truths it conveys, and by the precepts or examples it
inculcates, this service may rather be accepted, than required by
us: if it pleased ONLY, by its ingenious fictions, and harmonious
structure, it would discharge its office, and answer its _end_.
In this sense, the famous saying of Eratosthenes, quoted above—_that
the poet’s aim is to please, not to instruct_—is to be understood: nor
does it appear, what reason Strabo could have to take offence at it;
however it might be misapplied, as he tells us it was, by that writer.
For, though the poets, no doubt (and especially THE POET, whose honour
the great Geographer would assert, in his criticism on Eratosthenes)
frequently _instruct us_ by a true and faithful representation of
things; yet even this instructive air is only assumed for the sake of
_pleasing_; which, as the human mind is constituted, they could not
so well do, if they did not instruct at all, that is, if _truth_ were
wholly neglected by them. So that _pleasure_ is still the ultimate end
and _scope_ of the poet’s art; and _instruction_ itself is, in his
hands, only one of the _means_, by which he would effect it[2].
I am the larger on this head to shew that it is not a mere verbal
dispute, as it is commonly thought, whether poems should be written in
verse, or no. Men may include, or not include, the idea of metre in
their complex idea of what they call a _Poem_. What I contend for, is,
that _metre_, as an instrument of _pleasing_, is essential to every
work of poetic art, and would therefore enter into such idea, if men
judged of poetry according to its confessed _nature and end_.
Whence it may seem a little strange, that my Lord Bacon should speak
of _poesy as a part of learning in measure of words_ FOR THE MOST PART
_restrained_; when his own notion, as we have seen above, was, that
the essence of poetry consisted _in submitting the shews of things to
the desires of the mind_. For these _shews of things_ could only be
exhibited to the mind through the _medium of words_: and it is just as
natural for the mind to desire that these words should be _harmonious_,
as that the images, conveyed in them, should, be _illustrious_; there
being a capacity in the mind of being delighted through its organ, the
_ear_, as well as through its power, or faculty of _imagination_. And
the wonder is the greater, because the great philosopher himself was
aware of the _agreement and consort which poetry hath with music_, as
well as _with man’s nature and pleasure_, that is, with the pleasure
which naturally results from gratifying the imagination. So that, to be
consistent with himself, he should, methinks, have said—_that poesy
was a part of learning in measure of words_ ALWAYS _restrained_; such
_poesy_, as, through the idleness or negligence of writers, is not so
restrained, not agreeing to his own idea of _this part of learning_[3].
These reflexions will afford a proper solution of that question, which
has been agitated by the critics, “Whether a work of fiction and
imagination (such as that of the archbishop of Cambray, for instance)
conducted, in other respects, according to the rules of the epic poem,
but written in prose, may deserve the name of POEM, or not.” For,
though it be frivolous indeed to dispute about names, yet from what has
been said it appears, that if metre be not incongruous to the nature of
an epic composition, and it afford a pleasure which is not to be found
in mere prose, metre is, for that reason, essential to this mode of
writing; which is only saying in other words, that an epic composition,
to give all the pleasure which it is capable of giving, must be written
in _verse_.
But, secondly, this conclusion, I think, extends farther than to such
works as aspire to the name of _epic_. For instance, what are we to
think of those _novels_ or _romances_, as they are called, that is,
fables constructed on some private and familiar subject, which have
been so current, of late, through all Europe? As they propose pleasure
for their end, and prosecute it, besides, in the way of _fiction_,
though without metrical numbers, and generally, indeed, in harsh and
rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under
what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet, as they are wholly
destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other numberless
defects) they can, at most, be considered but as hasty, imperfect,
and abortive poems; whether spawned from the dramatic, or narrative
species, it may be hard to say—
Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation’s so equivocal.
However, such as they are, these _novelties_ have been generally well
received: _Some_, for the real merit of their execution; _Others_,
for their amusing subjects; _All_ of them, for the gratification
they afford, or promise at least, to a vitiated, palled, and sickly
imagination—that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of
expiring Letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these
things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced, and are produced
as soon as they are conceived) good sense will acknowledge no work of
art but such as is composed according to the laws of its _kind_. These
KINDS, as arbitrary things as we account them (for I neither forget
nor dispute what our best philosophy teaches concerning _kinds_ and
_sorts_), have yet so far their foundation in nature and the reason of
things, that it will not be allowed us to multiply, or vary them, at
pleasure. We may, indeed, mix and confound them, if we will (for there
is a sort of literary luxury, which would engross all pleasures at
once, even such as are contradictory to each other), or, in our rage
for incessant gratification, we may take up with half-formed pleasures,
such as come first to hand, and may be administered by any body: But
true taste requires chaste, severe, and simple pleasures; and true
genius will only be concerned in administering such.
Lastly, on the same principle on which we have decided on these
questions concerning the _absolute merits_ of poems in prose, in
_all_ languages, we may, also, determine another, which has been put
concerning the _comparative merits_ of RHYMED, and what is called BLANK
verse, in our _own_, and the other _modern_ languages.
Critics and antiquaries have been sollicitous to find out who were
the inventors of rhyme, which some fetch from the Monks, some from
the Goths, and others from the Arabians: whereas, the truth seems to
be, that _rhyme_, or the consonance of final syllables, occurring at
stated intervals, is the dictate of nature, or, as we may say, an
appeal to the _ear_, in all languages, and in some degree pleasing in
all. The difference is, that, in some languages, these consonances are
apt of themselves to occur so often that they rather nauseate, than
please, and so, instead of being affected, are studiously avoided by
good writers; while in others, as in all the modern ones, where these
consonances are less frequent, and where the quantity of syllables
is not so distinctly marked as, of itself, to afford an harmonious
measure and musical variety, there it is of necessity that poets have
had recourse to _Rhyme_; or to some other expedient of the like nature,
such as the _Alliteration_, for instance; which is only another way
of delighting the ear by iterated sound, and may be defined, _the
consonance of initial letters_, as rhyme is, the _consonance of final
syllables_. All this, I say, is of necessity, because what we call
verses in such languages will be otherwise untuneful, and will not
strike the ear with that vivacity, which is requisite to put a sensible
difference between poetic numbers and measured prose.
In short, no method of gratifying the ear by _measured sound_, which
experience has found pleasing, is to be neglected by the poet: and
although, from the different structure and genius of languages, these
methods will be different, the studious application of such methods,
as each particular language allows, becomes a necessary part of his
office. He will only cultivate those methods most, which tend to
produce, in a given language, the most harmonious structure or measure,
of which it is capable.
Hence it comes to pass, that the poetry of some modern languages cannot
so much as subsist, without rhyme: In others, it is only embellished
by it. Of the _former_ sort is the French, which therefore adopts, and
with good reason, rhymed verse, not in tragedy only, but in comedy: And
though foreigners, who have a language differently constructed, are
apt to treat this observance of rhyme as an idle affectation, yet it
is but just to allow that the French themselves are the most competent
judges of the natural defect of their own tongue, and the likeliest to
perceive by what management such defect is best remedied or concealed.
In the _latter_ class of languages, whose poetry is only embellished
by the use of rhyme, we may reckon the Italian and the English: which
being naturally more tuneful and harmonious than the French, may afford
all the melody of sound which is expected in some sorts of poetry, by
its _varied pause_, and _quantity_ only; while in other sorts, which
are more sollicitous to please the ear, and where such solicitude, if
taken notice of by the reader or hearer, is not resented, it may be
proper, or rather it becomes a law of the English and Italian poetry,
to adopt _rhyme_. Thus, our tragedies are usually composed in blank
verse: but our epic and Lyric compositions are found most pleasing,
when cloathed in rhyme. Milton, I know, it will be said, is an
exception: But, if we set aside some learned persons, who have suffered
themselves to be too easily prejudiced by their admiration of the
Greek and Latin languages, and still more, perhaps, by the prevailing
notion of the monkish or gothic original of rhymed verse, all other
readers, if left to themselves, would, I dare say, be more delighted
with this poet, if, besides his various pause, and measured quantity,
he had enriched his numbers, with _rhyme_. So that his love of liberty,
the ruling passion of his heart, perhaps transported him too far,
when he chose to follow the example set him by one or two writers of
_prime note_ (to use his own eulogium), rather than comply with the
regular and prevailing practice of his favoured Italy, which first and
principally, as our best rhymist sings,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell’d words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,
MADE RHYME AN ART—
Our comedy, indeed, is generally written in _prose_; but through the
idleness, or ill taste, of our writers, rather than from any other
just cause. For, though rhyme be not necessary, or rather would be
improper, in the comedy of our language, which can support itself in
poetic numbers, without the diligence of rhyme; yet some sort of metre
is requisite in this humbler species of poem; otherwise, it will not
contribute all that is within its power and province, to _please_. And
the particular metre, proper for this species, is not far to seek. For
it can plainly be no other than a careless and looser Iambic, such as
our language naturally runs into, even in conversation, and of which
we are not without examples, in our old and best writers for the comic
stage. But it is not wonderful that those critics, who take offence
at English epic poems in _rhyme_, because the Greek and Latin only
observed _quantity_, should require English comedies to be written in
_prose_, though the Greek and Latin comedies were composed in _verse_.
For the ill application of examples, and the neglect of them, may be
well enough expected from the same men, since it does not appear that
their judgment was employed, or the reason of the thing attended to, in
either instance.
And THUS much for the idea of UNIVERSAL POETRY. It is the art of
treating any subject in _such_ a way as is found most delightful
to us; that is, IN AN ORNAMENTED AND NUMEROUS STYLE—IN THE WAY OF
FICTION—AND IN VERSE. Whatever deserves the name of POEM must unite
these three properties; only in different degrees of each, according to
its nature. For the art of every _kind_ of poetry is only this general
art so modified as the _nature_ of each, that is, its more immediate
and subordinate end, may respectively require.
We are now, then, at the well-head of the poetic art; and they who
drink deeply of this spring, will be best qualified to perform the
rest. But all heads are not equal to these copious draughts; and,
besides, I hear the sober reader admonishing me long since—
Lusisti satis atque BIBISTI;
Tempus abire tibi est, ne POTUM LARGIUS AEQUO
Rideat, et pulset lasciva decentius AETAS.
THURCASTON,
MDCCLXV.
A
DISSERTATION
ON THE
PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.
DISSERTATION II.
ON THE
PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.
In the former Essay, I gave an idea, or slight sketch, of _Universal
Poetry_. In this, I attempt to deduce the laws of one of its kinds, the
_Dramatic_, under all its forms. And I engage in this task, the rather,
because, though much has been said on the subject of the drama, writers
seem not to have taken sufficient pains to distinguish, with exactness,
its several species.
I deduce the laws of this poem, as I did those of poetry at large, from
the consideration of its _end_: not the general end of poetry, which
alone was proper to be considered the former case, but the proximate
end of this kind. For from these ends, in subordination to that,
which governs the genus, or which all poetry, as such, designs and
prosecutes, are the peculiar rules and maxims of each species to be
derived.
THE PURPOSE OF THE DRAMA is, universally, “to represent human life in
the way of _action_.” But as such representation it made for separate
and distinct ENDS, it is, further, distinguished into different
_species_, which we know by the names of TRAGEDY, COMEDY, and FARCE.
By TRAGEDY, then, I mean that species of dramatic representation, whose
_end_ is “_to excite the passions of_ PITY _and_ TERROR, _and perhaps
some others, nearly allied to them_.”
By COMEDY _that_, which proposeth, for the _ends_ of its
representation, “_the sensation of pleasure arising from a view of the
truth of_ CHARACTERS, _more especially their specific differences_.”
By FARCE I understand, that species of the drama, “_whose sole aim and
tendency is to excite_ LAUGHTER.”
The idea of these _three species_ being then proposed, let us now
see, what conclusions may be drawn from it. And chiefly in respect
of _Tragedy_ and _Comedy_, which are most important. For as to what
concerns the province of _Farce_, this will be easily understood, when
the character of the other two is once settled.
CHAP. I.
ON THE PROVINCES OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.
From the idea of these two species, as given above, the following
conclusions, about the _natures_ of each, are immediately deducible.
1. If the proper end of TRAGEDY be to _affect_, it follows,
“that _actions_, not characters, are the chief object of its
representations.” For that which _affects_ us most in the view of human
life is the observation of those signal circumstances of _felicity
or distress_, which occur in the fortunes of men. But _felicity_ and
_distress_, as the great critic takes notice, depend on _action_; κατὰ
τὰς πράξεις, εὐδαίμονες, ἢ τουναντίον. They are then the calamitous
_events_, or fortunate _Issues_ in human action, which stir up the
stronger _affections_, and agitate the heart with _Passion_. The
_manners_ are not, indeed, to be neglected. But they become an inferior
consideration in the views of the tragic poet, and are exhibited only
for the sake of making the _action_ more proper to interest us. Thus
our _joy_, on the _happy catastrophe_ of the fable, depends, in a
good degree, on the _virtuous character_ of the agent; as on the other
hand, we sympathize more strongly with him, on a _distressful issue_.
The _manners_ of the several persons in the drama must, also, be
signified, that the _action_, which in many cases will be determined by
them, may appear to be carried on with _truth and probability_. Hence
every thing passing before us, as we are accustomed to see it in real
life, we enter more warmly into their interests, as forgetting, that
we are attentive to a _fictitious scene_. And, besides, from knowing
the personal _good, or ill, qualities_ of the agents, we learn to
anticipate their future _felicity_ or _misery_, which gives increase
to the _passion_ in either case. Our acquaintance with IAGO’S _close
villainy_ makes us tremble for Othello and Desdemona beforehand: and
HAMLET’S _filial piety and intrepid daring_ occasion the audience
secretly to exult in the _expectation_ of some successful vengeance to
be inflicted on the incestuous murderers.
2. For the same reason as tragedy takes for its _object_ the actions
of men, it, also, prefers, or rather confines itself to, such actions,
as are most _important_. Which is only saying, that as it intends
to _interest_, it, of course, chuses the representation of those
_events_, which are most _interesting_.
And this shews the defect of modern tragedy, in turning so constantly
as it does, on _love subjects_; the effect of this practice is,
that, excepting only the rank of the actors (which indeed, as will
be seen presently, is of considerable importance), the rest is below
the dignity of this drama. For the _action_, when stripped of its
accidental ornaments and reduced to the _essential fact_, is nothing
more than what might as well have passed in a cottage, as a king’s
palace. The Greek poets should be our guides here, who take the very
grandest events in their story to ennoble their tragedy. Whence it
comes to pass that the _action_, having an essential dignity, is always
_interesting_, and by the simplest management of the poet becomes in a
supreme degree, _pathetic_.
3. On the same account, the _persons_, whose actions Tragedy would
exhibit to us, must be of _principal rank and dignity_. For the actions
of these are, both in _themselves_ and in their _consequences_, most
fitted to excite passion. The _distresses_ of private and inferior
persons will, no doubt, _affect_ us greatly; and we may give the name
of _tragedies_, if we please, to dramatic representations of them:
as, in fact, we have several applauded pieces of this kind. Nay, it
may seem, that the fortunes of private men, as more nearly resembling
_those_ of the generality, should be most _affecting_. But this
circumstance, in no degree, makes amends for the loss of other and much
greater _advantages_. For, whatever be the _unhappy incidents_ in the
story of private men, it is certain, they must take faster hold of the
_imagination_, and, of course, impress the heart more forcibly, when
related of the higher characters in life.
Τῶν γὰρ μεγάλων ἀξιοπενθεῖς
Φῆμαι μᾶλλον κατέχουσιν.
EURIP. HIPP. v. 1484.
Kings, Heroes, Statesmen, and other persons of great and public
authority, influence by their _ill-fortune_ the whole community, to
which they belong. The attention is rouzed, and all our faculties
take an alarm, at the apprehension of such extensive and important
wretchedness. And, besides, if we regard the _event_ itself, without
an eye to its _effects_, there is still the widest difference between
the two cases. Those ideas of awe and veneration, which opinion throws
round the persons of princes, make us esteem the very _same event_ in
their fortunes, as more august and emphatical, than in the fortunes
of private men. In the _one_, it is ordinary and familiar to our
conceptions; it is singular and surprizing, in the _other_. The fall of
a _cottage_, by the accidents of time and weather, is almost unheeded;
while the ruin of a _tower_, which the neighbourhood hath gazed at for
ages with admiration, strikes all observers with concern. So that if we
chuse to continue the absurdity, taken notice of in the last article
of planning _unimportant action_ in our tragedy, we should, at least,
take care to give it this foreign and extrinsic _importance_ of great
_actors_: Yet our passion for the _familiar_ goes so far, that we have
tragedies, not only of private action, but of _private persons_; and so
have well nigh annihilated the noblest of the two dramas amongst us. On
the whole it appears, that as the proper object or tragedy is _action_,
so it is _important_ action, and therefore more especially the action
of _great and illustrious men_. Each of these conclusions is the direct
consequence of our idea of its _end_.
The reverse of all this holds true of COMEDY. For,
1. Comedy, by the very terms of the definition, is conversant about
_characters_. And if we observe, that which creates the pleasure we
find in contemplating the lives of men, considered as distinct from
the _interest_ we take in their fortunes, is the contemplation of
their manners and humours. Their _actions_, when they are not of that
sort, which seizes our admiration, or catches the affections, are not
otherwise considered by us, than as they are sensible indications of
the internal sentiment and disposition. Our intimate consciousness
of the several turns and windings of our nature, makes us attend to
these pictures of human life with an incredible curiosity. And herein
the proper entertainment, which comic representation, _as such_,
administers to the mind, consists. By turning the thought on _event and
action_, this entertainment is proportionably lessened; that is, the
_end_ of comedy is less perfectly attained[4].
But here, again, though _action_ be not the main object of comedy,
yet it is not to be neglected, any more than _character_ in tragedy,
but comes in as an useful accessary, or assistant to it. For the
_manners of men_ only shew themselves, or shew themselves most usually,
in _action_. It is this, which fetches out the latent strokes of
_character_, and renders the inward _temper and disposition_ the object
of sense. _Probable circumstances_ are then imagined, and a certain
_train of action_ contrived, to evidence the _internal qualities_.
There is no _other_, or no _probable_ way, but this, of bringing us
acquainted with them. Again; by engaging his _characters_ in a course
of action and the pursuit of some _end_, the comic poet leaves them to
express themselves undisguisedly, and _without design_; in which the
essence of _humour_ consists.
Add to this, that when the _fable_ is so contrived as to attach the
mind, we very naturally fancy ourselves present at a course of _living_
action. And this illusion quickens our attention to the _characters_,
which no longer appear to us creatures of the poet’s fiction, but
actors in real life.
These observations concerning the _moderated_ use of action in comedy,
instruct us what to think “of those intricate Spanish plots, which have
been in use, and have taken both with us and some French writers for
the stage. The truth is, they have hindered very much the main end of
comedy. For when these unnatural plots are used, the mind is not only
entirely _drawn off_ from the characters by those surprizing turns and
revolutions; but characters have no opportunity even of being _called
out_ and displaying themselves. For the actors of all characters
_succeed_ and are _embarrassed_ alike, when the instruments for
carrying on designs are only _perplexed apartments_, _dark entries_,
_disguised habits_, and _ladders of ropes_. The comic plot is, and
must, indeed, be carried on by _deceipt_. The Spanish scene does it
by deceiving the man _through his senses_: Terence and Moliere, by
deceiving him _through his passions and affections_. This is the right
method: for the character is _not_ called out under the _first_ species
of deceipt: under the _second_, the character does _all_.”
2. As _character_, not _action_, is the object of comedy; so the
_characters_ it paints must not be of _singular and illustrious note_,
either for their _virtues_ or _vices_. The reason is, that such
characters take too fast hold of the _affections_, and so call off
the mind from adverting to the _truth_ of the manners; that is, from
receiving the _pleasure_, which this poem _intends_. Our _sense of
imitation_ is that to which the comic poet addresses himself; but such
pictures of _eminent worth_ or _villainy_ seize upon the _moral sense_;
and by raising the strong correspondent passions of _admiration_ and
_abhorrence_, turn us aside from contemplating the _imitation itself_.
And,
3. For a like cause, comedy confines its views to the characters of
_private and inferior persons_. For the _truth of character_, which is
the spring of _humour_, being necessarily, as was observed, to be shewn
through the medium of _action_, and the actions of the great being
usually such as excite the _pathos_, it follows of course, that these
cannot, with propriety, be made the actors in comedy. Persons of high
and public life, if they are drawn agreeably to our accustomed ideas
of them, must be employed in such a _course of action_, as arrests the
attention, or interests the passions; and either way it diverts the
mind from observing the _truth_ of manners, that is, it prevents the
attainment of the specific _end_, which comedy designs.
And if the reason, here given, be sufficient to exclude the _higher
characters_ in life from this _drama_, even where the representation
is intended to be _serious_, we shall find it still more improper to
expose them in any pleasant or ridiculous light. ’Tis true, the follies
and foibles of the great will apparently take an easier ridicule by
representation, than those of their inferiors. And this it was, which
misled the celebrated P. CORNEILLE into the opinion, _that the actions
of the great, and even of kings themselves, provided they be of the
ridiculous kind, are as fit objects of comedy, as any other_. But he
did not reflect, that the _actions_ of the great being usually such,
as interest the intire community, at least scarcely any other falling
beneath vulgar notice; and the higher _characters_ being rarely seen
or contemplated by the people but with reverence, hence it is, that
in fact, _the representation of high life_ cannot, without offence to
probability, be made _ridiculous_, or consequently be admitted into
comedy under this view. And therefore PLAUTUS, when he thought fit
to introduce these reverend personages on the comic stage in his
AMPHITRUO, though he employed them in no very serious matters, was
yet obliged to apologize for this impropriety in calling his play a
_Tragicomedy_. What he says upon the occasion, though delivered with an
air of pleasantry, is according to the laws of just criticism.
_Faciam ut commista sit_ TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
_Nam me perpetuo facere, ut sit Comoedia_
REGES QUO VENIANT ET DII, _non par arbitror.
Quid igitur? Quoniam hic_ SERVOS QUOQUE PARTES HABET,
_Faciam sit, proinde ut dixi_, TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
PROL. IN AMPHIT.
And now, taking the _idea_ of the _two dramas_, as here opened, along
with us, we shall be able to give an account of several attributes,
_common_ to both, or which further _characterize_ each of them. And,
1. _A plot will be required in both._ For the end of tragedy being to
excite the affections _by_ action, and the end of comedy, to manifest
the truth of character _through_ it, an artful _constitution of the
Fable_ is required to do justice both to the one and the other. It
serves to bring out the _pathos_, and to produce _humour_. And thus
the general form or structure of the two dramas will be one and the
same.
2. More particularly, _an unity and even simplicity in the conduct
of the fable[5] is a perfection in each_. For the course of the
_affections_ is diverted and weakened by the intervention of what
we call a _double plot_; and even by a multiplicity of _subordinate
events_, though tending to a common _end_; and, of _persons_,
though all of them, some way, concerned in promoting it. The like
consideration shews the observance of this _rule_ to be essential to
just comedy. For when the _attention_ is split on so many interfering
objects, we are not at leisure to observe, nor do we so fully enter
into, the _truth of representation_ in any of them; the _sense of
humour_, as of the _pathos_, depending very much on the continued and
undiverted operation of its _object_ upon us.
3. The two dramas agree, also, in this circumstance; that the _manners_
of the persons exhibited should be _imperfect_. An absolutely good,
or an absolutely bad, character is foreign to the purpose of each.
And the reason is, 1, That such a representation is _improbable_. And
_probability_ constitutes, as we have seen, the very essence of comedy;
and is the _medium_, through which tragedy is enabled most powerfully
to affect us. 2. Such _characters_ are improper to _comedy_, because,
as was hinted above, they turn the attention aside from contemplating
the _expression_ of them, which we call _humour_. And they are not less
unsuited to _tragedy_, because though they make a forcible impression
on the mind, yet, as Aristotle well observes, they do not produce the
passions of _pity and terror_; that is, their _impressions_ are not of
the nature of that _pathos_, by which tragedy works its purpose. [κ.
ίγ.]
There are, likewise, some peculiarities, which distinguish the two
dramas. And
1. _Though a plot be necessary to produce_ humour, _as well as the
pathos, yet a_ good plot _is not so essential to comedy, as tragedy_.
For the pathos is the result of the _entire action_; that is, of all
the circumstances of the story taken together, and conspiring by a
probable tendency, to a completion in the _event_. A failure in the
just arrangement and disposition of the parts may, then, affect what
is of the essence of this drama. On the contrary, _humour_, though
brought out by _action_, is not the effect of the _whole_, but may
be distinctly evidenced in a _single scene_; as may be eminently
illustrated in the two comedies of Fletcher, called _The Little French
Lawyer_, and _The Spanish Curate_. The nice contexture of the fable
therefore, though it may give _pleasure_ of another kind, is not so
immediately required to the production of _that_ pleasure, which the
nature of comedy demands. Much less is there occasion for that labour
and ingenuity of contrivance, which is seen in the intricacy of the
Spanish fable. Yet this is the taste of our comedy. Our writers are
all for plot and intrigue; and never appear so well satisfied with
themselves as when, to speak in their own phrase, they contrive to
have a great deal of _business_ on their hands. Indeed they have
reason. For it hides their inability to colour _manners_, which is the
proper but much harder province of true comedy.
2. _Tragedy succeeds best, when the subject is_ real; _comedy, when
it is_ feigned. What would this say, but that tragedy, turning our
attention principally on the _action represented_, finds means to
_interest_ us more strongly on the persuasion of its being taken from
_actual life_? While comedy, on the other hand, can neglect these
scrupulous measures of _probability_, as intent only on exhibiting
_characters_; for which purpose an _invented story_ will serve much
better. The reason is, _real action_ does not ordinarily afford variety
of incidents enough to shew the _character_ fully: _feigned action_ may.
And this difference, we may observe, explains the reason why tragedies
are often formed on the most _trite and vulgar subjects_, whereas
a _new_ subject is generally demanded in comedy. The _reality_ of
the story being of so much consequence to interest the affections,
the more _known_ it is, the fitter for the poet’s purpose. But a
_feigned_ story having been found more convenient for the display of
characters, it grew into a rule that the story should be always _new_.
This disadvantage on the side of the comic poet is taken notice of in
those verses of Antiphanes, or rather, as Casaubon conjectures, of
_Aristophanes_, in a play of his intitled, Ποίησις. The reason of this
difference now appears.