province of comedy, puts one in mind of that he made, many years ago,
in pastoral poetry. It is exactly the same spirit which has governed
this polite writer in both adventures. He was once for bringing
courtiers in masquerade into _Arcadia_. And now he would set them
unmasked on the comic stage. Here, at least, he thought they would be
in place. But the simplicity of pastoral dialogue would not suffer
the one; and the familiarity of comic action forbids the other. It
must be confessed, however, he hath succeeded better in the example of
his comedies, than his pastorals. And no wonder. For what we call the
_fashions_ and _manners_ are confined to certain conditions of life, so
that _pastoral courtiers_ are an evident contradiction and absurdity.
But, the _appetites and passions_ extending through all ranks, hence
low tricks and low amours are thought to suit the minister and sharper
alike. However it be, the fact is, that M. de Fontenelle hath succeeded
best in his _comedies_. And as his theory is likely to gain more credit
from the success of his practice than the force of his reasoning, I
think it proper to close these remarks with an observation or two upon
it.
There are, I observed, three things to be considered in his comedies,
his _introduction of great personages, his practice of laying the
scene in antiquity, and his pathos_.
Now to see the impropriety of the _first_ of these innovations, we
need only observe with what art he endeavours to conceal it. His very
dexterity in managing his comic heroes clearly shews the natural
repugnance he felt in his own mind betwixt the representation of such
characters, and even his own idea of the comic drama.
The TYRANT is a strange title of a comedy. It required singular address
to familiarize this frightful personage to our conceptions. Which
yet he hath tolerably well done, but by such expedients as confute
his general theory. For, to bring him down to the level of a comic
character, he gives us to understand, that the _Tyrant_ was an usurper,
who from a very mean birth had forced his way into the tyranny. And
to lower him still more, we find him represented, not only as odious
to his people, but of a very contemptible character. He further makes
him the tyrant only of a small Greek town; so that he passes, with
the modern reader, for little more than the Mayor of a corporation.
There is also a plain illusion in making a _simple citizen_ demand his
daughter in marriage. For under the cover of this word, which conveys
the idea of a person in lower life, we think very little of the dignity
of a free citizen of Corinth. Whence it appears that the poet felt the
necessity of unkinging this tyrant as far as possible, before he could
make a comic character of him.
The case of his ABDOLONIME is still easier. ’Tis true, the structure of
the fable requires us to have an eye to royalty, but all the pride and
pomp of the regal character is studiously kept out of sight. Besides,
the affair of royalty does not commence till the action draws to a
conclusion, the persons of the drama being all simple particulars, and
even of the lowest figure through the entire course of it.
The King of Sidon is, further, a paltry sovereign, and a creature
of Alexander. And the characters of the persons, which are indeed
admirably touched, are purposely contrived to lessen our ideas of
sovereignty.
The LYSIANASSE is a tragedy in form, of that kind which hath a happy
catastrophe. The _persons_, _subject_, every thing so important, and
attaches the mind so intirely to the event, that nothing interests
more.
As to his _laying the scene in antiquity, and especially in the free
towns of Greece_, I would recommend it as an admirable expedient to
all those who are disposed to follow him in this new province of
heroic comedy. For amongst other advantages, it gives the writer an
occasion to fill the courts of his princes with _simple citizens_,
which, as was observed, by no means answer to our ideas of nobility.
But in any other view I cannot say much for the practice. It is for
obvious reasons highly inconvenient. Even this writer found it so, when
in one of his plays, the MACATE, he was obliged to break through the
propriety of ancient manners in order to adapt himself to the modern
taste. His duel, as he himself says, “_a l’air bien françois et bien
peu grec_.” The reader, if he pleases, may see his apology for this
transgression of decorum. Or, if there were no inconvenience of this
sort, the representation of characters after the _antique_ must, on
many occasions, be cold and disgusting. At least none but professed
scholars can be taken with it.
Nor is the usage of the Latin writers any precedent. For, besides
that Horace, we know, condemned it as suitable only to the infancy of
their comic poetry, the manners, laws, religion of the Greeks were
in the main so similar to their own, that the difference was hardly
discernible. Or if it were otherwise in some points, the neighbourhood
of this famous people and the intercourse the Romans had with them,
would bring them perfectly acquainted with such difference. And this
last reflexion shews how insufficient it was for the author to excuse
his own practice from the authority of his countrymen; who, says he,
“never scruple laying their scene in Spain or England.” Are the manners
of ancient Greece as familiar to a French pit, as those of these two
countries?
Lastly, I have very little to object to the _pathos_ of his comedy.
When it is subservient to the _manners_, as in the TESTAMENT and
ABDOLONIME, I think it admirable. When it exceeds this degree and
takes the attention intirely, as in the LYSIANASSE, it gives a
pleasure indeed, but not the pleasure appropriate to comedy. I regard
it as a faint imperfect species of tragedy. After all, I fear the
_tender and pitiable_ in comedy, though it must afford the highest
pleasure to sensible and elegant minds, is not perfectly suited to
the apprehensions of the generality. Are they susceptible of the soft
and delicate emotions which the fine distress in the _Testament_ is
intended to raise? Every one indeed is capable of being delighted
through the _passions_; but they must be worked up, as in tragedy, to
a greater height, before the generality can receive that delight from
them. The same objection, it will be said, holds against the finer
strokes of character. Not, I think, with the same force. I doubt our
sense of imitation, especially of the _ridiculous_, is quicker than our
humanity. But I determine nothing. Both these pleasures are perfectly
consistent. And my idea of comedy requires only that the _pathos_ be
kept in subordination to the _manners_.
CHAP. IV.
OF THE PROVINCE OF FARCE.
Thus much then for the general idea of COMEDY. If considered more
accurately, it is, further, of _two kinds_. And in considering these we
shall come at a just notion of the province of FARCE. For this _mirror
of private life_ either, 1. reflects such qualities and characters,
as are common _to human nature at large_: or, 2. it represents the
whims, extravagances, and caprices, which characterize the folly of
_particular persons or times_.
Again, _each_ of these is, further, to be subdivided into _two
species_. For 1. the representations of _common nature_ may either be
taken _accurately_, so as to reflect a _faithful and exact image_ of
their original; which alone is _that_ I would call COMEDY, as best
agreeing to the description which Cicero gives of it, when he terms
it IMAGINEM VERITATIS. Or, they may be forced and overcharged above
the simple and just proportions of _nature_; as when the excesses
of a _few_ are given for _standing_ characters, when not the man is
described, but the _passion_, or when, in the draught of the man, the
leading feature is extended beyond measure: And in these cases the
representation holds of the lower province of FARCE. In like manner,
2. the other _species_, consisting in the representation of _partial
nature_, either transcribes such characters as are peculiar to _certain
countries or times_, of which _our comedy_ is, in great measure, made
up; or it presents the image of _some real individual person_; which
was the distinguishing character of the _old comedy_ properly so called.
Both these kinds evidently belong to FARCE: not only as failing in that
general and universal imitation of nature, which is alone deserving the
name of comedy, but, also, for this reason, that, being more directly
written for the present purpose of discrediting certain _characters_
or _persons_, it is found convenient to exaggerate their peculiarities
and enlarge their features; and so, on a double account, they are to be
referred to that _class_.
And thus the _three forms of dramatic composition_, the only ones which
good sense acknowledges, are kept distinct: and the proper END and
CHARACTER of each, clearly understood.
1. _Tragedy and Comedy_, by their lively but faithful representations,
cannot fail to _instruct_. Such natural exhibitions of the human
character, being set before us in the clear mirror of the drama,
must needs serve to the highest _moral uses_, in awakening that
instinctive approbation, which we cannot withhold from _virtue_,
or in provoking the not less necessary detestation of _vice_. But
this, though it be their best _use_, is by no means their primary
_intention_. Their proper and immediate _end_ is, to PLEASE: the _one_,
more especially by interesting the _affections_; the _other_, by _a
just and delicate imitation of real life_. _Farce_, on the contrary,
professes to _entertain_, but this, in order more effectually to serve
the interests of virtue and good sense. Its proper _end_ and purpose
(if we allow it to have any reasonable one) is, then, to INSTRUCT.
Which the reader will understand me as saying, not of what we know by
the name of _farce_ on the modern stage (whose _prime_ intention can
hardly be thought even that low one, ascribed to it by Mr. Dryden,
_of_ entertaining _citizens, country gentlemen, and Covent Garden
fops_), but of the legitimate _end_ of this _drama_; known to the
Ancients under the name of the _old Comedy_, but having neither name
nor existence, properly speaking, among the Moderns. Of which we may
say, as Mr. Dryden did, but with less propriety, of Comedy, “_That it
is a sharp manner of_ instruction _for the vulgar, who are never well
amended, till they are more than sufficiently exposed_.” [Pref. to
Trans. of Fresnoy, p. xix.]
2. Though tragedy and comedy respect the _same general_ END, yet
pursuing it by _different means_, hence it comes to pass, their
CHARACTERS are wholly different. For tragedy, aiming at _pleasure_,
principally through the _affections_, whose flow must not be checked
and interrupted by any counter impressions: and comedy, as we have
seen, addressing itself _principally_ to our _natural sense of
resemblance and imitation_; it follows, that the _ridiculous_ can never
be associated with tragedy, without destroying its _nature_, though
with the _serious comic_ it very well consists.
And here the _practice_ coincides with the _rule_. All exact writers,
though they constantly mix _grave and pleasant_ scenes together in the
same _comedy_, yet never presume to do this in _tragedy_, and so keep
the two species of _tragedy and comedy_ themselves perfectly distinct.
But,
3. It is quite otherwise with _comedy_ and _farce_. These almost
perpetually run into each other. And yet the reason of the thing
demands as intire and perfect a separation in this case, as in
the other. For the perfection of _comedy_ lying in the accuracy
and fidelity of universal representation, and _farce_ professedly
neglecting or rather purposely transgressing the limits of common
nature and just decorum, they clash entirely with each other. And
_comedy_ must so far fail of giving the _pleasure_, appropriate to its
design, as it allies itself with _farce_; while _farce_, on the other
hand, forfeits the _use_, it intends, of promoting popular ridicule,
by restraining itself within the exact rules of _Nature_, which Comedy
observes.
But there is little occasion to guard against this _latter_ abuse. The
danger is all on the other side. And the passion for what is now called
_Farce_, the shadow of the Old Comedy, has, in fact, possessed the
modern poets to such a degree that we have scarcely one example of a
comedy, without this gross mixture. If any are to be excepted from this
censure in Moliere, they are his _Misanthrope_ and _Tartuffe_, which
are accordingly, by common allowance, the best of his large collection.
In proportion as his other plays have less or more of this farcical
turn, their true value hath been long since determined.
Of our own comedies, such of them, I mean, as are worthy of criticism,
Ben Jonson’s _Alchymist_ and _Volpone_ bid the fairest for being
written in this genuine unmixed manner. Yet, though their merits are
very great, severe Criticism might find something to object even to
these. The ALCHYMIST, some will think, is exaggerated throughout, and
so, at best, belongs to that species of comedy, which we have before
called _particular and partial_. At least, the extravagant pursuit
so strongly exposed in that play, hath now, of a long time, been
forgotten; so that we find it difficult to enter fully into the humour
of this highly-wrought character. And, in general, we may remark of
such characters, that they are a strong temptation to the writer to
exceed the bounds of truth in his draught of them at _first_, and are
further liable to an imperfect, and even unfair sentence from the
reader _afterwards_. For the welcome reception, which these pictures of
prevailing _local_ folly meet with on the stage, cannot but induce the
poet, almost without design, to inflame the representation: And the
want of _archetypes_, in a little time, makes it pass for immoderate,
were it originally given with ever so much discretion and justice. So
that whether the _Alchymist_ be farcical or not, it will _appear_,
at least, to have this note of Farce, “That the principal character
is exaggerated.” But then this is all we must affirm. For as to the
_subject_ of this Play’s being a _local folly_, which seems to bring
it directly under the denomination of Farce, it is but just to make
a distinction. Had the _end and purpose_ of the Play been to expose
_Alchymy_, it had been liable to this objection. But this mode of
_local folly_, is employed as the _means_ only of exposing _another_
folly, extensive as our Nature and coeval with it, namely _Avarice_. So
that the subject has all the requisites of true _Comedy_. It is just
otherwise, we may observe, in the _Devil’s an Ass_; which therefore
properly falls under our censure. For there, the folly of the time,
_Projects and Monopolies_, are brought in to be exposed, as the _end
and purpose_ of the comedy.
On the whole, the _Alchymist_ is a Comedy in just form, but a little
_Farcical_ in the extension of one of its characters.
The VOLPONE, is a subject so manifestly fitted for the entertainment
of all times, that it stands in need of no vindication. Yet neither,
I am afraid, is this Comedy, in all respects, a complete model. There
are even some Incidents of a farcical invention; particularly the
_Mountebank Scene_ and _Sir Politique’s Tortoise_ are in the taste
of the _old comedy_; and without its rational purpose. Besides,
the _humour_ of the dialogue is sometimes on the point of becoming
inordinate, as may be seen in the pleasantry of _Corbaccio’s mistakes
through deafness_, and in other instances. And we shall not wonder that
the best of his plays are liable to some objections of this sort, if
we attend to the _character_ of the writer. For his nature was severe
and rigid, and this in giving a strength and manliness, gave, at times
too, an intemperance to his satyr. His taste for ridicule was strong
but indelicate, which made him not over-curious in the choice of his
_topics_. And lastly, his _style_ in picturing characters, though
masterly, was without that elegance of _hand_, which is required to
correct and allay the force of so bold a colouring. Thus, the bias of
his nature leading him to Plautus rather than Terence for his model,
it is not to be wondered that his wit is too frequently caustic; his
raillery coarse; and his humour excessive.
Some later writers for the stage have, no doubt, avoided these
defects of the exactest of our old dramatists. But do they reach his
excellencies? Posterity, I am afraid, will judge otherwise, whatever
may be now thought of some more fashionable comedies. And if they do
not, neither the state of general manners, nor the turn of the public
taste, appears to be such as countenances the expectation of greater
improvements. To those who are not over-sanguine in their hopes, our
forefathers will perhaps be thought to have furnished (what, in
nature, seem linked together) the fairest example of _dramatic_, as of
_real manners_.
But here it will probably be said, an affected zeal for the honour of
our old poets has betrayed their unwary advocate into a concession,
which discredits his whole pains on this subject. For to what purpose,
may it be asked, this waste of dramatic criticism, when, by the
allowance of the idle speculatist himself, his theory is likely to
prove so unprofitable, at least, if it be not ill-founded? The only
part I can take in this nice conjuncture, is to screen myself behind
the authority of a much abler critical theorist, who had once the
misfortune to find himself in these unlucky circumstances, and has
apologized for it. The _objection_ is fairly urged by this fine
writer; and in so profound and speculative an age, as the present, I
presume to suggest no other answer, than he has thought fit to give to
it. “Speculations of this sort, says he, do not bestow genius on those
who have it not; they do not, perhaps, afford any great assistance to
those who have; and most commonly the men of genius are even incapable
of being assisted by speculation. To what use then do they serve? Why,
to lead up _to the first principles of beauty_ such persons as love
reasoning and are fond of reducing, under the controul of philosophy,
subjects that appear the most independent of it, and which are
generally thought abandoned to the caprice of taste[15].”
A
DISCOURSE
ON
POETICAL IMITATION.
DISSERTATION III.
ON
POETICAL IMITATION.
I undertake, in the following discourse, to consider TWO QUESTIONS,
in which the credit of almost all great writers, since the time of
_Homer_, is vitally concerned.
First, “_Whether that Conformity in Phrase or Sentiment between two
writers of different times, which we call_ IMITATION, _may not with
probability enough, for the most part, be accounted for from general
causes, arising from our common nature; that is, from the exercise
of our natural faculties on such objects as lie in common to all
observers?_”
Secondly, “_Whether, in the case of confessed Imitations, any certain
and necessary conclusion holds to the disadvantage of the natural_
GENIUS _of the imitator?_”—QUESTIONS, which there seems no fit method
of resolving, but by taking the matter pretty deep, and deducing it
from its _first principles_.
SECTION I.
All _Poetry_, to speak with Aristotle and the Greek critics (if
for so plain a point authorities be thought wanting) is, properly,
_imitation_. It is, indeed, the noblest and most extensive of the
mimetic arts; having all creation for its object, and ranging the
entire circuit of universal being. In this view every wondrous
_original_, which ages have gazed at, as the offspring of creative
fancy; and of which poets themselves, to do honour to their inventions,
have feigned, as of the immortal panoply of their heroes, that it
came down from heaven, is itself but a _copy_, a transcript from
some brighter page of this vast volume of the universe. Thus all is
_derived_; all is _unoriginal_. And the office of genius is but to
select the fairest forms of things, and to present them in due _place_
and _circumstance_, and in the richest colouring of _expression_, to
the imagination. This primary or original _copying_, which in the ideas
of Philosophy is _Imitation_, is, in the language of Criticism, called
INVENTION.
Again; of the endless variety of these _original forms_, which the
poet’s eye is incessantly traversing, those, which take his attention
most, his active mimetic faculty prompts him to convert into fair and
living _resemblances_. This magical operation the _divine_ philosopher
(whose fervid fancy, though it sometimes obscures[16] his reasoning,
yet never fails to clear and brighten his imagery) excellently
illustrates by the similitude of a _mirror_; “_which_, says he, _as you
turn about and oppose to the surrounding world, presents you instantly
with a_ SUN, STARS, _and_ SKIES; _with your_ OWN, _and every_ OTHER
_living form; with the_ EARTH, _and its several appendages of_ TREES,
PLANTS, _and_ FLOWERS[17].” Just so, on whatever side the poet turns
his imagination, the shapes of things immediately imprint themselves
upon it, and a new corresponding creation reflects the old one. This
shadowy ideal world, though unsubstantial as the _American vision
of souls_[18], yet glows with such apparent life, that it becomes,
thenceforth, the object of other mirrors, and is itself _original_ to
future reflexions; This secondary or derivative image, is that alone
which Criticism considers under the Idea of IMITATION.
And here the difficulty, we are about to examine, commences. For the
poet, in his quick researches through all his stores and materials
of _beauty_, meeting every where, in his progress, these _reflected
forms_; and deriving from them his stock of imagery, as well as
from the real subsisting objects of nature, the reader is often at
a loss (for the poet himself is not always aware of it) to discern
the _original_ from the _copy_; to know, with certainty, if the
_sentiment_, or _image_, presented to him, be directly taken from
the _life_, or be itself, a lively transcript, only, of some former
copy. And this difficulty is the greater, because the _original_, as
well as the _copy_, is always at hand for the poet to turn to, and we
can rarely be certain, since both were equally in his power, which
of the two he chose to make the object of his own _imitation_. For
it is not enough to say here, as in the case of _reflexions_, that
the latter is always the weaker, and of course betrays itself by the
degree of faintness, which, of necessity, attends a _copy_. This,
indeed, hath been said by one, to whose judgment a peculiar deference
is owing. QUICQUID ALTERI SIMILE EST, NECESSE EST MINUS SIT EO, QUOD
IMITATUR[19]. But it holds only of strict and scrupulous _imitations_.
And of such alone, I think, it was intended; for the explanation
follows, _ut umbra corpore, & imago facie, & actus histrionum veris
affectibus_; that is, where the artist confines himself to the single
view of taking a faithful and exact transcript. And even this can be
allowed only, when the copyist is of inferior, or at most but of equal,
talents. Nay, it is not certainly to be relied upon even _then_; as
may appear from what we are told of an inferior painter’s [Andrea
del Sarto’s] copying a portrait of the divine Raphael. The story is
well known. But, as an aphorism, brought to determine the merits of
_imitation_, in general, nothing can be falser or more delusive. For,
1. Besides the supposed _original_, the object itself, as was observed,
is before the poet, and he may catch from thence, and infuse into his
piece, the same glow of real life, which animated the _first copy_.
2. He may also take in circumstances, omitted or overlooked before
in the _common_ object, and so give new and additional vigour to his
imitation. Or, 3. He may possess a stronger, and more plastic genius,
and therefore be enabled to touch, with more force of expression, even
those particulars, which he professedly imitates.