Chapter VII: Part III (2)

_et quæ sequuntur: quæ nisi cùm tibicen accesserit_, ORATIONI SUNT SOLUTÆ SIMILLIMA: which character exactly agrees to _this_ of Horace, wherein the language of that play is censured, as flat and prosaic, and hardly rising above the level of ordinary conversation in comedy. This allusion to a particular play, written by one of their best poets, and frequently exhibited on the Roman stage, gives great force and spirit to the precept, at the same time that it exemplifies it in the happiest manner. It seems further probable to me, that the poet also designed an indirect compliment to _Varius_, whose Thyestes, we are told, [_Quinctil._ l. x. c. i.] _was not inferior to any tragedy of the Greeks_. This double intention of these lines well suited the poet’s general aim, which is seen through all his critical works, of beating down the excessive admiration of the old poets, and of asserting the just honours of the modern. It may further be observed that the critics have not felt the force of the words _exponi_ and _narrari_ in this precept. They are admirably chosen to express the two faults condemned: the first implying a kind of pomp and ostentation in the language, which is therefore improper for the low subjects of comedy: and the latter, as I have hinted, a flat, prosaic expression, not above the cast of a common _narrative_, and therefore equally unfit for tragedy. Nothing can be more rambling than the comment of Heinsius and Dacier on this last word.

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94. IRATUSQUE CHREMES TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE: ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] It may not be amiss to open a little more particularly the grounds of this criticism: which may best be done by a commentary on the following lines of the poet:

_Format enim natura priùs nos intùs ad omnem
Fortunarum habitum; juvat aut impellit ad iram;
Aut ad humum mærore gravi deducit et angit:
Pòst effert animi motus interprete linguâ_:

To _draw_ after the life, in any given conjuncture, the poet must recollect (which may easily be done by consulting with his own conscious experience) that _peculiar disposition_ of mind, into which the speaker is, of necessity, carried by the circumstances of his situation. And the _sentiments_, which give the image of this peculiar disposition, are the genuine lineaments of the character intended.

But the _truth_ of sentiment may be hurt or effaced by incongruous language, just as the exactest lineaments of a portrait are often disguised or lost under a vicious coloring. To _paint_ then as well as draw after the truth, it is requisite that a further regard be had to the _expression_. Which again is no great difficulty for the artist, the same common nature holding the torch to him, as before. For in entering into ourselves we find, that as the mind, in any supposed situation, gives birth to a _certain_ set of conceptions and sentiments, correspondent to its true state, and expressive of it: so by attending to the _language_, in which those sentiments ordinarily manifest themselves, we easily perceive they take _one_ style or manner of expression preferably to every other. For _expression_, where false art is not employed to distort it, gives the just image of our _sentiments_; just as _these_, when nature is not suppressed or counteracted, are ever the faithful representatives of the _manners_. They result, like the famous _Simulacra_ of Epicurus, as by a secret destination, from their _original forms_; and are, _each_, the perfect copies of _other_. All which will be clearly understood by applying these general observations to the instances in view.

The passion of ANGER rouses all the native fire and energy of the soul. In this disorder, and, as it were, insurrection of the mental powers, our sentiments are strong and vigorous; nature prompting us to liberal and lofty conceptions of ourselves, and a superior disdainful regard of others. This again determines the _genius_ of our language, which, to conform to such sentiments, must be bold and animated; breaking out into forcible imagery, and swelling in all the pomp of sounding epithets and violent figures. And this even amidst the humbler concerns of private and inferior fortunes:

_Iratusque Chremes_ TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.

In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the reverse of this takes place. For the mind, oppressed and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks into a weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to submit, almost without resistance, to the incumbent affliction; or if we struggle at all with it, it is only to ease the labouring heart by putting forth some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings. Thus we find it represented by those perfect masters of simple nature, the Greek tragedians. So far are their sorrowing personages from entertaining any vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they constantly languish into sad repinings at their present, and trembling apprehensions of future, misery.

When these sentiments come to express themselves in _words_, what can they be but the plainest and simplest which the language of the complainant furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up with terms as humble as his fortune. His feeble conception is not only unapt or unable to look out for fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance throw them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings of another condition, and which serves only to upbraid his present wretchedness. The pomp of numbers and pride of _poetic_ expression are so little his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to observe the ordinary exactness of _mere prose_[11]. And this even where the height of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more state and dignity.

_Et tragicus plerumque_ DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.

Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself by entering into his own _consciousness_, and observing the sure dictates of experience. For what concerns the successful application of this rule in _practice_, every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.] must depend on the constitution of his own mind; which yet may be much assisted by the diligent study of those writers, who excel most in this way: in which class all agree to give the palm to EURIPIDES.

But here it may not be improper to obviate a common mistake that seems to have arisen from the too strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule. _Tragic characters_, he says, _will generally express their sorrows in a prosaic language_. From this just observation, hastily considered and compared with the absurd practice of some writers, it hath been concluded, That what we call _pure Poetry_, the essence of which consists in bold figures and a lively imagery, hath no place on the Stage. It may not be sufficient to oppose to this notion the _practice_ of the best poets, ancient and modern; for the question recurrs, how far that practice is to be justified on the principles of good criticism and common sense. To come then, _to the Reason of the thing_.

The capital rule in this matter is,

_Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique_.

But to do this, the _Situation_ of the persons, and the various _passions_ resulting from such situation, must be well considered. Each of these has a _character_ or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But _all_ agree in this property, that they occupy the whole attention of the speaker, and are perpetually offering to his mind a set of pictures or images, suitable to his state, and expressive of it. In these the tragic character of every denomination loves to indulge; as we may see by looking no farther than on what passes before us in common life, where persons, under the influence of any passion, are more eloquent and have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery, than at other times. So that to take from the speaker this privilege of representing such pictures or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is, in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest lessons.

’Tis true, if _one_ character is busied in running after the Images which Nature throws in the way only of some _other_; or if, in representing such images as are proper to the character, the Imagination is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and amusing itself with circumstances that have no relation to the case in hand: then indeed the censure of these critics is well applied. It may be _fine poetry_, if you will, but very bad _dramatic writing_. But let the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if it be such only as the governing passion loves to conceive and paint, and if it be no further dilated on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity, than the natural working of the passion demands, the Drama is so far from rejecting such Poetry that it glories in it, as what is most essential to its true end and design.

_Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
Ut magus_——

An office, which the dramatic poet hath no means of sustaining but by that strong painting and forcible imagery, above described.

What seems to have given a colour to the opposite opinion, is the faulty practice which good critics have observed in the _French_ tragedies, and in some of our own that have been formed upon their model. But the case is mistaken. It is not the _Poetry_ of the French or English drama that deserves their censure, but its prolix and languid _Declamation_, neglecting passion for _sentiment_, or expressing _passion_ in a calm circuit of words and without spirit. Even Mr. Addison’s CATO, which from being immoderately extolled has had the usual fate of being as immoderately undervalued, is not to be censured for its abundance of poetry, but for its application of it in a way that hurts the _passion_. General sentiments, uncharacteristic imagery, and both drawn out in a spiritless, or, which comes to the same thing, a too curious expression, are the proper faults of this drama. What the critic of just taste demands in this fine tragedy, is even more poetry, but better applied and touched with more spirit.

Still, perhaps, we are but on the surface of this matter. The true ground of this mistaken Criticism, is, The Notion, that when the Hero is at the crisis of his fate, he is not at liberty to use Poetical, that is, highly figurative expression: but that the proper season for these things is when he has nothing else to do. Whereas the truth is just the contrary. The figures, when he is greatly agitated, come of themselves; and, suiting the grandeur and dignity of his situation, are perfectly natural. To use them in his cool and quiet moments, when he has no great interests to prosecute or extricate himself from, is directly against _Nature_. For, in this state of things, he must _seek_ them, if he will have them. And when he has got them and made his best use of them, what do they produce? Not sublimity, but Bombast. For it is not the _figures_, but the suitableness to the _occasion_, that produces either. Not that I am ignorant that there are vices in the _formation_ of figures, as well as in their application. But these vices go under various other names. The _pure simple Bombast_ (if I may be indulged so bold a catachresis) arises from putting figurative expression to an improper use. To give an instance of what I mean. TACITUS writes under one continued resentment at the degeneracy of his times, and speaking of some sumptuary Laws proposed by the Senate, in 2 _Ann._ c. 33, he says they decreed, _Ne Vestis Serica viros_ FOEDARET. This became the dignity of his historic character and genius. But had his Contemporary, Suetonius, who wrote Chronicles in the spirit of our STOW and HOLINSHED, used the same language, it would have set his readers a laughing.

Not but figurative expression, even when _suitable_ to the character, genius, and general subject of a writer, may still be _misplaced_. Thus, had Tacitus, speaking of the honours decreed to Tiberius on a certain occasion, said with his translator Gordon—_which of these he meant to accept or which to reject, the approaching issue of his days has_ BURIED _in oblivion_—the _figure_, the reader sees, would have been miserably out of place; the conceit of the _burial_ of his intentions, on the mention of his death, being even ridiculous. But the ridicule, we may be sure, falls on the translator only, and not on his great original, who expresses himself on this occasion, not only with propriety, but with the greatest simplicity—_quos omiserit receperitve_ IN INCERTO _fuit ob propinquum vitæ finem_. Ann. l. vi. c. 45.

I have brought these instances to shew that _figurative expression_ is not improper even in a fervent animated historian, on a _fit subject_, and in _due place_: much less should the tragic poet, when his characters are to be shewn in the conflict of the stronger passions, be debarred the use of it.

The short of the matter is, in one word, this. Civil Society first of all _tames us to humanity_, as Cicero expresses it; and, in the course of its discipline, brings us down to one dead level. Its effect is to make us all the same pliant, mimic, obsequious things; not unlike, in a word, (if our pride could overlook the levity of the comparison) what we see of trained Apes. But when the violent passions arise (as in the case of these Apes when the apples were thrown before them) this artificial discipline is all shaken off, and we return again to the free and ferocious state of Nature. And what is the expression of that state? It is (as we understand by experience) a free and fiery expression, all made up of bold metaphors and daring figures of Speech.

The conclusion is, that Poetry, _pure Poetry_, is the proper language of _Passion_, whether we chuse to consider it as ennobling, or debasing the human character.

There is, as I have said, an obvious distinction to be made (and to that the poet’s rule, as explained in this note, refers) between the soft and tender, and the more vigorous passions. When the former prevail, the mind is in a weak languid state; and though all allusion and imagery be not improper here, yet as that fire and energy of the soul is wanting, which gives a facility of ranging over our ideas and of seizing such as may be turned to any resemblance of our own condition, it will for that reason be less _frequent_ in this state of the mind than any other. Such imagery, too, will for the same reason be less _striking_, because the same languid affections lead to, and make us acquiesce in a simpler and plainer expression. But universally in the stronger passions the _poetical character_ prevails, and rises only in proportion to the force and activity of those passions.

To draw the whole then of what has been said on this subject into a standing RULE for the observance of the dramatic Poet.

“MAN is so formed that whether he be in joy, or grief; in confidence or despair; in pleasure or pain; in prosperity or distress; in security or danger; or torn and distracted by all the various modifications of Love, Hate, and Fear: The Imagination is incessantly presenting to the mind an infinite variety of images or pictures, conformable to his Situation: And these Pictures receive their various coloring from the habits, which his birth and condition, his education, profession and pursuits have induced. The _representation_ of these is the POETRY, and a _just_ representation, in a great measure, the ART, of dramatic writing.”

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95. ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] Dr. Bentley connects this with the following line:

[_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
Telephus aut Peleus_

for the sake, as he says, of _preserving the opposition_. _In comædiâ iratus Chremes tumido, in tragædiâ Telephus pauper humili sermone utitur._ This is specious; but, if the reader attends, he will perceive, that the opposition is better preserved without his connection. For it will stand thus: The poet first asserts of comedy at large, _that it sometimes raises its voice_,

_Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit_.

Next, he confirms this general remark, by appealing to a particular instance,

_Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore_.

Exactness of _opposition_ will require the same method to be observed in speaking of _tragedy_; which accordingly is the case, if we follow the vulgar reading. For, first, it is said of _tragedy_, that, when grief is to be expressed, it generally condescends to an humbler strain,

_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri_.

And then the general truth, as before, is illustrated by a particular instance,

_Telephus aut Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas, &c._

There is no absurdity, as the Doctor pretends, in taking _tragicus_ for _tragædiarum scriptor_. For the poet, by a common figure, is made to do that, which he represents his persons, as doing.

But this is not the whole, that will deserve the reader’s regard in this place. A strict attention to the scope and turn of the passage [from v. 96 to 114] will lead him to conclude, 1. “That some real tragedy of Telephus and Peleus was intended in v. 96, in which the characters were duly preserved and set forth in proper language.” This the opposition to the _Chremes_ of Terence absolutely demands. Let us inquire what this might be. _Euripides_, we know, composed tragedies under these names; but it is unlikely, the poet should contrast the instance of a _Greek_ tragedy to a _Latin_ comedy. Nor need it be supposed. The subject was familiar to the Roman poets. For we find a _Telephus_ ascribed to no less than three of them, _Ennius_, _Accius_, and _Nævius_[12]. One of these then I doubt not, is here intended. But the Roman, in those times, were little more than translations of the Greek plays. Hence it is most likely, that the tragedy of _Telephus_ (and probably of _Peleus_, though we have not so direct authority for this) was, in fact, the tragedy of _Euripides_, translated into Latin, and accommodated to the Roman stage, by one of these writers. It remains only to enquire, if the _Telephus_ itself of _Euripides_ answered to this character. Which, I think, it manifestly did, from considering what his enemy, the buffoon Aristophanes, hath said concerning it. Every body knows, that the BATRAXOI of this poet contains a direct satyr, and Burlesque upon _Euripides_. Some part of it is particularly levelled against his _Telephus_: whence we may certainly learn the objections, that were made to it. Yet the amount of them is only this, “That he had drawn the character of _Telephus_ in too many circumstances of distress and humiliation.” His fault was, that he had represented him more like a beggar, than an unfortunate prince. Which, in more candid hands, would, I suppose, amount only to this, “That the poet had painted his distress in the most natural, and affecting manner.” He had stripped him of his royalty, and, together with it of the pomp and ostentation of the regal language, the very beauty, which Horace applauds and admires in his _Telephus_.

2. Next, I think it as clear from what follows, “That some real tragedy of _Telephus_, and _Peleus_, was also glanced at, of a different stamp from the other, and in which the characters were not supported by such propriety of language.” Let the reader judge. Having quoted a _Telephus_ and _Peleus_, as examples to the rule concerning the style of tragedy, and afterwards enlarged [from v. 98 to 103] on the reasons of their excellence, he returns, with an air of insult, to the same names, apostrophizing them in the following manner:

_Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loquêris,
Aut dormitabo aut ridebo_:

But why this address to _characters_, which he had before alleged, as examples of true dramatical _drawing_? Would any tolerable writer, after having applauded Shakespear’s King _Lear_, as an instance of the kingly character in distress, naturally painted, apostrophize it, with such pointed vehemence, on the contrary supposition? But let this pass. The Poet, as though a notorious violation of the critic’s rules was to be thoroughly exposed, goes on, in the seven following lines, to search into the bottom of this affair, laying open the source and ground of his judgment; and concludes upon the whole,

_Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta_,
ROMANI TOLLENT EQUITESQUE PATRESQUE CACHINNUM.

Can any thing be plainer, than that this last line points at some well-known instance of a Latin play, which had provoked, upon this account, the contempt and laughter of the best judges? It may further be observed, that this way of understanding the passage before us, as it is more conformable to what is here shewn to be the general scope of the epistle, so doth it, in its turn, likewise countenance, or rather clearly shew, the truth and certainty of this method of interpretation.

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99. NON SATIS EST PULCHRA, etc.] Dr. Bentley objects to _pulchra_, because this, he says, is a general term, including under it every species of beauty, and therefore that of _dulcis_ or the _affecting_. But the great critic did not sufficiently attend to the connexion, which, as F. Robortellus, in his paraphrase on the epistle, well observes, stands thus: “It is not enough, that tragedies have that kind of beauty, which arises from a pomp and splendor of diction, they must also be pathetic or affecting.” _Objiciat se mihi hoc loco aliquis et dicat, si id fiat_ [_i. e._ si projiciantur ampullæ] _corrumpi omnem venustatem et gravitatem poëmatis tragici, quod nihil nisi grande et elatum recipit. Huic ego ita respondendum puto, non satis esse, ut poëmata venusta sint et dignitatem suam servent: nam dulcedine quoque et suavitate quâdam sunt conspergenda, ut possint auditoris animum inflectere in quamcunque voluerint partem._

But a very ingenious person, who knows how to unite philosophy with criticism; and to all that is elegant in _taste_, to add what is most just and accurate in _science_, hath, in the following note, shewn the very foundation of Dr. Bentley’s criticism to be erroneous.

“There are a multitude of words in every language, which are sometimes used in a _wider_, sometimes in a _more restrained_ sense. Of this kind are καλὸν of the Greeks, the _pulchrum_ of the Romans, and the words by which they are translated in modern languages. To whatever subjects these epithets are applied, we always intend to signify that they give us _pleasure_: and we seldom apply them to any subjects, but those which please by means of impressions made on the fancy: _including_ under this name the reception of images conveyed directly by the sight itself. As Poetry therefore always addresses itself to the imagination, every species of _poetical excellence_ obtains the name of _Beauty_: and, among the rest, the power of pleasing us by affecting the _passions_; an effect which intirely depends on the various images presented to our view. In this sense of the word _beautiful_, it cannot be opposed to _pathetic_. _Pulchrum enim quascunque carminis virtutes, etiam ipsam_ dulcedinem, _in se continere meritò videatur._

But nothing, I think, can be plainer, than that this epithet is often used more _determinately_. Visible forms are not merely occasions of pleasure, in common with other objects, but they produce a pleasure of a singular kind. And the power they have of producing it, is properly denominated by the name of _Beauty_. Whether Regularity and Variety have been rightly assigned, as the circumstances on which it depends, is a question, which in this place we need not consider. It cannot at least be denied, that we make a distinction among the objects of sight, when the things themselves are removed from our view: and that we annex the names of Beauty and Deformity to different objects and different pictures, in consequence of these perceptions. I ask then, what is meant, when the words are thus applied? Is it only that we are _pleased_ or _displeased_? This surely cannot be said. For the epithets would then be applied with equal propriety to the objects of different senses: and the fragrance of a flower, for instance, would be a species of beauty; the bitterness of wormwood a species of deformity.—Do we then mean, that we receive pleasure and pain by means of the _Imagination_? We may indeed mean _this_: but we certainly mean _more_ than this. For the same names are used and applied, in a manner perfectly similar, by numbers of persons who never once thought of this artificial method of distinguishing their ideas. There is then some kind of perception, common to them and us, which has occasioned this uniformity in our ways of speaking: and whether you will chuse to consider the perceptive faculty as resulting only from habit, or allow it the name of a _Sense_ of Beauty; whether these perceptions can, or cannot, be resolved into some _general_ principle, imagination of private advantage, or sympathy with others, are, in the present case, circumstances wholly indifferent.

If it be admitted that the epithets, of which we are speaking, were originally used in this restrained sense, it is easy to see that they would readily obtain the more _extended_ signification. For the species of pleasure to which they were first confined, was found always to arise from images impressed on the fancy: what then more natural, than to apply the same words to every species of pleasure resulting from the imagination, and to every species of images productive of pleasure? Thus the _beauty_ of a human person might originally signify such combinations of figure and colour, as produced the _peculiar_ perception above-mentioned. _Pulchritudo corporis_ (says Cicero) _aptâ compositione membrorum movet oculos, et eo ipso delectat, &c._—But from this signification to the other the transition was easy and obvious. If every beautiful form gave pleasure, every pleasing form might come to be called beautiful: not because the same perceptions are excited by _all_ (the pleasures being apparently different) but because they are all excited in the same manner. And this is confirmed by a distinction which every one understands between beauties of the _regular_ and _irregular_ kind. When we would distinguish these from each other, we call the latter _agreeable_, and leave to the former only the name of _beautiful_: that is, we confine the latter term to its proper and original sense.—In much the same manner objects _not visible_ may sometimes obtain the name of beauty, for no other reason than because the imagination is agreeably employed about them; and we may speak of a beautiful _character_, as well as a beautiful _person_: by no means intending that we have the same _feeling_ from the one as the other, but that in both cases we are _pleased_, and that in both the _imagination_ contributes to the pleasure.

Now as every _representative art_ is capable of affording us pleasure, and this pleasure is occasioned by images impressed on the fancy; every pleasing production of art, will of course obtain the name of beautiful. Yet this hinders us not from considering beauty as a _distinct_ excellence in such productions. For we may distinguish, either in a picture or poem, between the pleasures we receive directly from the imitation of _visible forms_, and those which principally depend on _other_ kinds of imitation: And we may consider visible forms themselves either as _occasions_ of pleasure, in _common_ with other objects; or as yielding us that _peculiar_ delight which they alone are capable of yielding. If we use the word _beautiful_ in this _limited_ sense, it is very intelligibly opposed to _pathetic_. Images of Groves, Fields, Rocks and Water, afford us a pleasure extremely different from that which we find in the indulgence of our _tender affections_: nor can there be any danger of confounding the agreeable perception received from a masterly statue of an Apollo or a Venus, with that which arises from a representation of the _terrors_ men feel under a storm or a plague.

It is no objection to what has been said, that the objects we call _beautiful_ may also in some cases be occasions of _passion_. The sight, for instance, of a beautiful person may give birth to the passion of Love: yet to perceive the beauty and to feel the passion are two different things. For every beautiful object does not produce love in every observer, and the same passion is sometimes excited by objects not beautiful; I mean not called beautiful by the persons themselves who are affected by them. And the distinction between these feelings, would receive further confirmation (if indeed there could be any doubt of it) from observing that people frequently speak of beauty, and as far as appears intelligibly, in persons of their _own sex_; who feel perhaps no _passion_ but that of _envy_: which will not surely be thought the same with the perception of _beauty_.

There is then no room for an objection to the text of Horace, as it stood before Dr. B.’s emendation: unless it should be thought an impropriety to oppose two epithets which are _capable_ of being understood in senses _not opposite_. But there is not the least ground for this imagination. For when a word of uncertain signification is _opposed_ to another whose signification is certain; the opposition itself _determines_ the sense. The word _day_ in one of its senses includes the whole space of twenty-four hours: yet it is not surely an impropriety to oppose _day_ to _night_.—In like manner the words _pulchra poëmata_, if we were not directed by the context, might signify _good poems_ in general: but when the beauty of a poem is _distinguished_ from other excellences, this distinction will lead us to confine our idea to _beautiful imagery_; and, we know it is agreeable to the sentiments which Horace expresses in other places, to declare that this kind of merit is _insufficient_ in _dramatic_ writers, from whom we expect a pleasure of very different kind. Indeed the most exquisite painting, if it is not constantly subordinate to this higher end, becomes not only insufficient, but _impertinent_: serving only to divert the attention, and interrupt the course of the passions.

It may seem perhaps that the force of a _Latin_ expression cannot be ascertained from reflections of this sort, but must be gathered from citations of particular passages. And this indeed is true with regard to the _peculiarities_ of the language. But the question before us is of a different kind. It is a question of _Philosophy_ rather than _Criticism_: as depending on those differences of ideas, which are marked by similar forms of expression in _all_ languages.”

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102. SI VIS ME FLERE, DOLENDUM EST PRIMUM IPSI TIBI:] _Tragedy_, as[13] one said, who had a heart to feel its tenderest emotions, _shewed forth the ulcers that are covered with tissue_. In order to awaken and call forth in the spectator all those sympathies, which naturally await on the lively exhibition of such a scene, the writer must have a soul _tuned_ to the most exquisite sensibility, and susceptible of the same vibrations from his own created images, which are known to _shake_ the sufferer in real life. This is so uncommon a pitch of humanity, that ’tis no wonder, so few have succeeded in this _trying_ part of the drama. Euripides, of all the ancients, had most of this sympathetic tenderness in his nature, and accordingly we find him without a rival in this praise. Τραγικώτατος τῶν ποιητῶν, says Aristotle of him [Περὶ ποιητ. κ. ιγʹ.] and to the same purpose another great critic, _In affectibus cum omnibus mirus, tum in iis, qui_ MISERATIONE _constant, facile præcipuus_. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] They, who apply themselves to express the _pitiable_ ἐλεεινὸν in tragedy, would do well to examine their own hearts by this rule, before they presume to practise upon those of others. See, further, this remark applied by Cicero to the subject of oratory, and inforced with his usual elegance and good sense. [l. ii. c. xlv. _De oratore._]

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103. TUNC TUA ME INFORTUNIA LAEDENT.] This is expressed with accuracy. Yet the truth is, The more we are _hurt_ with representations of this sort, the more we are _pleased_ with them. Whence arises this strange _Pleasure_? The question hath been frequently asked, and various answers have been given to it.

But of all the solutions of this famous difficulty, that which we have just now received from Mr. Hume, is by far the most curious.

His account in short is, “That the force of imagination, the energy of expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation, are all naturally of themselves delightful to the mind; that these sentiments of beauty, being the _predominant_ emotions, seize the whole mind, and convert the uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In a word, that the sentiments of _beauty_, excited by a good tragedy, are the superior prevailing movements, and transform the subordinate impressions arising from _grief_, _compassion_, _indignation_, and _terror_, into one uniform and strong enjoyment.” [_See four Dissertations by_ D. Hume, _Esq. p. 185, &c._]

I have but two objections to this ingenious theory. ONE is, that it supposes the impression of grief or terror, excited by a well-written tragedy, to be weaker than that which arises from our observation of the faculties of the writer, the power of numbers, and imitation. Which to me is much the same thing as saying, That the sight of a precipice hanging over our heads makes a fainter impression on the eye, than the shrubs and wild flowers with which it happens to be covered. The fact is so far otherwise, that, if the tragedy be well-written, I will venture to say, the faculties of the writer, the charms of poetry, or even the thought of imitation, never come into the spectator’s head. But he may feel the effect of them, it will be said, for all that. True: But unluckily the whole effect of these things is (and that was my OTHER objection) to deepen the impressions of grief and terror. They are out of place, and altogether impertinent, if they contribute to any other end. So that to say, The impression of grief and terror from a tragic story, strong as it is in itself, and made still stronger by the art of the poet, is a weaker impression, than the mere pleasure arising from that _art_, is methinks to account for one mystery by another ten times greater, and to make the poet a verier _magician_ than Horace ever intended to represent him.

This ingenious solution then, being so evidently founded on the supposition of a _false fact_, deserves no further notice. As to the _difficulty_ itself, the following hints may, perhaps, enable the reader, in some measure, to account for it.

1. It is not to be doubted but that we love to have our _attention_ raised, and our _curiosity_ gratified. So far the ABBÉ DU BOS’ system may be admitted.

2. The representation, however distressful, is still seen to be a representation. We find our hearts affected, and even pained, by a good tragedy. But we instantly recollect that the scene is fictitious; and the _recollection_ not only abates our uneasiness, but diffuses a secret joy upon the mind in the discovery we make that the _occasion_ of our uneasiness is not real. Just as our awaking from a frightful dream, and sometimes a secret consciousness of the illusion during the dream itself, is attended with pleasure. That so much of M. DE FONTENELLE’S notion must be admitted, is clear, because children, who take the sufferings on the stage for realities, are so afflicted by them that they don’t care to repeat the experiment.

But still, all this is by no means a full account of the matter. For,

3. It should be considered, that ALL the uneasy Passions, in the very time that we are distressed by them, nay, though the occasions be instant and real, have a secret complacency mixed with them. It seems as if Providence, in compassion to human feeling, had, together with our sorrows, infused a kind of balm into the mind, to temper and qualify, as it were, these bitter ingredients. But,

4. Besides this _general_ provision, the nature of the _peculiar_ passions, excited by tragedy, is such as, in a more eminent degree, must produce pleasure. For what are these, but indignation at prosperous vice, or the commiseration of suffering virtue? And the agitation of these passions is even, in real life, accompanied with a certain delight, which was, no doubt, intended to quicken us in the exercise of those social offices. Still further.

5. To the pleasure _directly_ springing from these passions we may add another which naturally, but imperceptibly almost steals in upon us from _reflexion_. We are conscious to our own humanity on these tender occasions. We understand and feel that it is _right_ for us to be affected by the distresses of others. Our pain is softened by a secret exultation in the rectitude of these sympathies. ’Tis true, this reflex act of the mind is prevented, or suspended at least for a time, when the sufferings are real, and concern those for whom we are most interested. But the fictions of the stage do not press upon us so closely.

Putting all these things together, the conclusion is, That though the impressions of the theatre are, in their immediate effect, painful to us, yet they must, on the whole, afford an extreme pleasure, and that in proportion to the degree of the first painful impression. For not only our attention is rouzed, but our moral instincts are gratified; we reflect with joy that they are so, and we reflect too that the sorrows which call them forth and give this exercise to our humanity, are but fictitious. We are occupied, in a word, by a _great_ event; we are melted into tears by a _distressful_ one; the heart is relieved by this burst of sorrow; is cheared and animated by the finest moral feelings; exults in the consciousness of its own sensibility; and finds, in conclusion, that the whole is but an illusion.

The sum is, that we are not so properly delighted _by_ the Passions, as _through_ them. They give _occasion_ to the most pleasing movements and gratulations. The art of the poet indeed consists in giving _pain_. But nature and reflexion fly to our relief; and though they do not convert our pain into joy (for that methinks would be little less than a new kind of _Transubstantiation_) they have an equivalent effect in producing an exquisite joy out of our preceding sorrows.

* * * * *

119. AUT FAMAM SEQUERE, &c.] The connexion lies thus: _Language_ must agree with _character_; _character_ with _fame_, or at least with _itself_.

* * * * *

123. SIT MEDEA FEROX INVICTAQUE.] Horace took this instance from Euripides, where the _unconquered fierceness_ of this character is preserved in that due mediocrity, which nature and just writing demand. The poet, in giving her character, is content to say of her,

Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶς
Πάσχους’

And

Δεινὴ γάρ. οὖ τοι ῥᾳδίως γε συμβαλὼν
Ἐχθράν τις αὐτῇ, καλλίνικον οἴσεται.

And she herself, when opening to the chorus her last horrid purpose, says, fiercely indeed, but not frantically:

Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτω
Μηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.

And this is _nature_, which Seneca not perceiving, and yet willing to write up to the critic’s rule, hath outraged her character beyond all bounds, and, instead of a resolute, revengeful woman, hath made of her a downright fury. Hence her passion is wrought up to a greater height in the very first scene of the Latin play, than it ever reaches in the Greek poet. The tenor of her language throughout is,

_invadam deos,
Et cuncta quatiam_.

And hence, in particular, the third and fourth acts expose to our view all the horrors of sorcery (and those too _imaged_ to an extravagance) which Euripides, with so much better judgment, thought fit entirely to conceal.

* * * * *

126. SERVETUR AD IMUM QUALIS AB INCEPTO PROCESSERIT, ET SIBI CONSTET.] The rule is, as appears from the reason of the thing, and from Aristotle, “Let an _uniformity_ of character be preserved, or at least a _consistency_:” i. e. either let the manners be exactly the same from the beginning to the end of the play, as those of Medea, for instance, and Orestes; or, if any change be necessary, let it be such as may consist with, and be easily reconciled to, the manners formerly attributed; as is seen in the case of Electra and Iphigenia. We should read then, it is plain,

_servetur ad imum
Qualis ab incepto processerit_, AUT _sibi constet_.

The mistake arose from imagining, that a character could no other way _consist_ with itself, but by being _uniform_. A mistake however, which, as I said, not the reason of the thing only, but Aristotle’s rule might have set right. It is expressed thus: Τέταρτον δὲ τὸ ὁμαλόν. Κᾂν γὰρ ἀνώμαλός τις ᾖ, ὁ τὴν μίμησιν παρέχων καὶ τοιοῦτον ἦθος ὑποτιθεὶς, ὅμως ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον δεῖ εἶναι. Ποιητ. κ. ιεʹ. which last words, having been not at all understood, have kept his interpreters from seeing the true sense and scope of the precept. For they have been explained of such characters, as that of _Tigellius_ in Horace; which, however proper for satyr, or for farcical comedy, are of too fantastic and whimsical a nature to be admitted into tragedy; of which Aristotle must there be chiefly understood to speak, and to which Horace, in this place, alone confines himself. “’Tis true, indeed, it may be said, that though a _whimsical_ or _fantastic_ character be improper for tragedy, an _irresolute_ one is not. Nothing is finer than a struggle between different passions; and it is perfectly natural, that in such a circumstance, each should prevail by turns.” But then there is the widest difference between the two cases. _Tigellius_, with all his fantastic irresolution, is as _uniform_ a character as that of _Mitio_. If the expression may be allowed, its very _inconsistency_ is of the essence of its _uniformity_. On the other hand, Electra, torn with sundry conflicting passions, is most apparently, and in the properest notion of the word, _ununiform_. One of the strongest touches in her character is that of a high, heroic spirit, sensible to her own, and her family’s injuries, and determined, at any rate, to revenge them. Yet no sooner is this revenge perpetrated, than she softens, relents, and pities. Here is a manifest _ununiformity_, which can, in no proper sense of the expression lay claim to the critic’s ὁμαλὸν, but may be so managed, by the poet’s skill, as to become consistent with the basis or foundation of her character, that is, to be ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον. And that this, in fact, was the meaning of the critic, is plain from the similar example to his own rule, given in the case of Iphigenia: which he specifies (how justly will be considered hereafter) as an instance of the ἀνωμάλου, _irregular_, or _ununiform_, character, ill-expressed, or made _inconsistent_. So that the genuine sense of the precept is, “Let the manners be uniform; or, if ununiform, yet consistently so, or uniformly ununiform:” exactly copied, according to the reading, here given by Horace. Whereas in the other way, it stands thus: “Let your characters be uniform, or unchanged; or, if you paint an ununiform character (such as Tigellius) let it be ununiform all the way; _i. e._ such an irregular character to the end of the play, as it was at the beginning; which is, in effect, to say, let it be _uniform_:” which apparently destroys the latter part of the precept, and makes it an unmeaning tautology with the former.

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127. AUT SIBI CONSTET.] The ELECTRA and IPHIGENIA of Euripides have been quoted, in the preceding note, as instances of _ununiform_ characters, justly sustained, or what Aristotle calls, _uniformly ununiform_: And this, though the general opinion condemns the one, and the great critic himself, the other; the reader will expect some account to be given of this singularity.

1. The objection to Electra, is, that her character is drawn with such heightenings of implacability and resentment, as make it utterly incredible, she should, immediately on the murder of Clytæmnestra, fall into the same excess of grief and regret, as Orestes. In confutation of this censure I observe, 1. That the objection proceeds on a mistaken presumption, that the distress of Electra is equally violent with that of Orestes. On the contrary, it is discriminated from it by two plain marks. 1. Orestes’s grief is expressed in stronger and more emphatic terms—_he accuses the Gods—he reproaches his sister—he dwells upon every horrid circumstance, that can inhance the guilt of the murder_. Electra, in the mean time, _confesses the scene to be mournful—is apprehensive of bad consequences—calmly submits to the just reproaches of her brother_. 2. He labours as much as possible, to clear himself from the imputation of the act. She takes it wholly on herself, but, regarding it rather as her fate, than her fault, comforts herself in reflecting on the justice of it.

πατρὸς δ’ ἔτισας φόνον δικαίως.
Act v.

This last circumstance puts the widest difference between the two cases. The one shews a perfect distraction of mind, which cannot even bear the consciousness of its crimes: the other, a firm and steddy spirit, sensible indeed to its misery, but not oppressed or astonished by it.

2. But this measure of grief, so delicately marked, and, with such truth of character, ascribed to Electra, ought not, it is further insisted, to have shewn itself, immediately, on the murder of Clytæmnestra. But why not? There is nothing in the _character of Electra_, _the maxims of those times_, or _in the disposition of the drama itself_, to render this change improper or incredible. On the contrary, there is much under each of these heads, to lead one to expect it.

1. _Electra’s character_ is indeed that of a fierce, and determined, but withal of a generous and virtuous woman. Her motives to revenge were, principally, a strong sense of justice, and superior affection for a father; not a rooted, unnatural aversion to a mother. She acted, as appears, not from the perturbation of a tumultuous revenge (in that case indeed the objection had been of weight) but from a fixed abhorrence of wrong, and a virtuous sense of duty. And what should hinder a person of this character from being instantly touched with the distress of such a spectacle?

2. _The maxims of those times also favour this conduct._ For, 1. The notions of strict remunerative justice were then carried very high. This appears from the _Lex talionis_, which, we know, was in great credit in elder Greece; from whence it was afterwards transferred into the Law of the XII Tables. Hence _blood for blood_ [αἷμα δ’ αἵματος δανεισμὸς,—as the messenger, in his account of the death of Ægysthus, expresses it, Act iv.] was the command and rule of justice. This the Chorus, as well as the parricides, frequently insist upon, as the ground and justification of the murder. 2. This severe vengeance on enormous offenders was believed, not only consonant to the rules of _human_, but to be the object, and to make the especial care of the _divine_, justice. And thus the ancients conceived of this very case. _Juvenal_, speaking of Orestes,

_Quippe ille_ DEIS AUCTORIBUS _ultor
Patris erat cæsi media inter pocula_.
Sat. viii.

And to this opinion agrees that tradition, or rather fiction, of the poets, who, though they represent the judges of the Areopagus as divided in their sentiments of this matter, yet make no scruple of bringing in Minerva herself to pronounce his absolution. _Hoc etiam fictis fabulis doctissimi homines memoriæ prodiderunt, eum, qui patris ulciscendi causâ matrem necavisset, variatis hominum sententiis, non solum divinâ, sed etiam sapientissimæ Deæ sententiâ absolutum_ [CIC. pro MILON.] The venerable council of Areopagus, when judging by the severe rules of _written_ justice, it seems, did not condemn the criminal; and the _unwritten_ law of equity, which the fable calls the _wisdom of Pallas_, formally _acquitted_ him. The murder then was not against _human_, and directly agreeable to the determinations of _divine_, justice. Of this too the Chorus takes care to inform us:

Νέμει τοι δίκαν θεὸς ὅταν τύχῃ.
Act. iv.

This explains the reason of Electra’s question to Orestes, who had pleaded the impiety of murdering a mother,

Καὶ μὲν ἀμύνων πατρὶ, δυσσεβὴς ἔσῃ;

the force of which lies in this, that a father’s death revenged upon the guilty mother, was equally _pious_ as just. 3. This vengeance was, of course, to be executed by the nearest relations of the deceased. This the law prescribed in judicial prosecutions. Who then so fit instruments of fate, when that justice was precluded to them? This is expressed, in answer to the plea of Orestes, that he should suffer the vengeance of the Gods for the murder of his mother; Electra replies,

Τῷ δαὶ πατρῴαν διαμεθῇς τιμωρίαν;

i. e. Who then shall repay vengeance to our father? She owns the consequence, yet insists on the duty of incurring it. There was no other, to whom the right of vengeance properly belonged.

4. Further the pagan doctrine of fate was such, that, in order to discharge duty in one respect, it was unavoidable to incur guilt, in another. This was the case here, Phœbus commanded and fate had decreed: yet obedience was a crime, to be expiated by future punishment. This may seem strange to us, who have other notions of these matters, but was perfectly according to the pagan system. The result is, that they knowingly exposed themselves to vengeance, in order to fulfil their fate. All that remained was to lament their destiny, and revere the awful and mysterious providence of their Gods. And this is, exactly, what Orestes pleads, in vindication of himself, elsewhere:

Ἀλλ’ ὡς μὲν οὐκ εὖ, μὴ λεγ’, εἴργασται τάδε,
Ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς δράσασιν οὐκ εὐδαιμόνως.
Orest. Act. ii.

5. Lastly, it should be remembered, how heinous a crime adultery was esteemed in the old world; when, as well as murder, we find it punished with death. The law of the XII Tables expressly says, ADVLTERII CONVICTAM VIR ET COGNATI, VTI VELINT, NECANTO. Now, all these considerations put together, Electra might assist at the assassination of her mother, consistently with the strongest feelings of piety and affection. That these then should instantly break forth, so soon as the debt to justice, to duty, and to fate was paid, is nothing wonderful. And this, by the way, vindicates the Chorus from the inconsistency, by some charged upon it, in condemning the act, when done, which before they had laboured to justify. The common answer, “That the Chorus follows the character of the people,” is insufficient. For (besides that the Chorus always sustains a moral character) whence that inconsistency in the people themselves? The reason was, the popular creed of those times. It had been an omission of duty to have declined, it was criminal to execute, the murder.

3. The disposition of the drama (whether the most judicious, or not, is not the question) was calculated to introduce this change with the greatest probability. Electra’s principal resentment was to Ægysthus. From him chiefly proceeded her ill treatment, and from him was apprehended the main danger of the enterprize. Now, Ægysthus being taken off in the beginning of the preceding act, there was time to indulge all the movements and gratulations of revenge, which the objection supposes should precede, and for a while suspend the horrors of remorse, before they come to the murder of Clytæmnestra. This is rendered the more likely by the long parley, that goes before it; which rather tends to soften, than exasperate, her resentments, and seems artfully contrived to prepare the change, that follows.

On the whole, Electra’s concern, as managed by the poet, is agreeable to the tenor of her character, and the circumstances of her situation. To have drawn her otherwise, had been perhaps in the taste of modern tragedy, but had certainly been beside the line of nature, and practice of the ancients.