Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

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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.

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.

—Μακάριόν ἐστιν ἡ τραγῳδία
Ποίημα κατὰ πάντ’. εἴγε πρῶτον οἱ λόγοι
Ὑπὸ τῶν θεατῶν εἰσὶν ἐγνωρισμένοι,
Πρὶν καί τιν’ εἰπεῖν, ὡς ὑπομνῆσαι μόνον
Δεῖ τὸν ποιητήν. Οἰδίπουν γάρ ἄν γε φῶ,
Τὰ δ’ ἄλλα πάντ’ ἴσασιν· Ὁ πατὴρ Λάïος,
Μήτηρ Ἰοκάστη, θυγατέρες, παῖδες τίνες·
Τὶ πείσεθ’ οὗτος, τί πεποίηκεν····
Ἡμῖν δὲ ταῦτ’ οὐκ ἔστιν· ἀλλὰ πάντα δεῖ
Εὑρεῖν ὀνόματα καινὰ, τὰ διῳκημένα
Πρότερον, τὰ νῦν παρόντα, τὴν καταστροφὴν,
Τὴν ἐσβολήν. ἀν ἕν τι τούτων παραλίπῃ,
Χρέμης τις, ἢ Φείδων τις ἐκσυρίττεται,
Πηλεῖ δὲ ταῦτ’ ἔξεστι καὶ Τεύκρῳ ποιεῖν.

One sees, then, the reason why Tragedy prefers real _subjects_, and even old ones; and, on the contrary, why comedy delights in feigned subjects, and new.

The same genius in the two dramas is observable, in their draught of _characters_. Comedy makes all its Characters _general_; Tragedy, _particular_. The _Avare_ of Moliere is not so properly the picture of a _covetous man_, as of _covetousness_ itself. Racine’s _Nero_, on the other hand, is not a picture of _cruelty_, but of a _cruel man_.

Yet here it will be proper to guard against two mistakes, which the principles now delivered may be thought to countenance.

The _first_ is with regard to _tragic_ characters, which I say are _particular_. My meaning is, they are _more_ particular than those of comedy. That is, the _end_ of tragedy does not require or permit the poet to draw together so many of those characteristic circumstances which shew the manners, as Comedy. For, in the former of these dramas, no more of _character_ is shewn, than what the course of the action necessarily calls forth. Whereas, all or most of the features, by which it is usually distinguished, are sought out and industriously displayed in the _latter_.

The case is much the same as in _portrait painting_; where, if a great master be required to draw a _particular face_, he gives the very lineaments he finds in it; yet so far resembling to what he observes of the same turn in other faces, as not to affect any minute circumstance of peculiarity. But if the same artist were to design a _head_ in general, he would assemble together all the customary traits and features, any where observable through the species, which should best express the idea, whatever it was, he had conceived in his own mind and wanted to exhibit in the picture.

There is much the same difference between the two sorts of _dramatic_ portraits. Whence it appears that in calling the tragic character _particular_, I suppose it only _less representative_ of the kind than the comic; not that the draught of so much character as it is concerned to represent should not be _general_: the contrary of which I have asserted and explained at large elsewhere [_Notes on the A. P._ v. 317.]

_Next_, I have said, the characters of just comedy are _general_. And this I explain by the instance of the _Avare_ of Moliere, which conforms more to the idea of _avarice_, than to that of the real _avaricious man_. But here again, the reader will not understand me, as saying this in the strict sense of the words. I even think Moliere faulty in the instance given; though, with some necessary explanation, it may well enough serve to express my meaning.

The view of the comic scene being to delineate characters, this end, I suppose, will be attained most perfectly, by making those characters as _universal_ as possible. For thus the person shewn in the drama being the representative of all characters of the same kind, furnishes in the highest degree the entertainment of _humour_. But then this universality must be such as agrees not to our idea of the _possible_ effects of the character as conceived in the abstract, but to the _actual_ exertion of its powers; which experience justifies, and common life allows. Moliere, and before him Plautus, had offended in this; that for a picture of the _avaricious man_, they presented us with a fantastic unpleasing draught of the _passion of avarice_. I call this a _fantastic_ draught, because it hath no archetype in nature. And it is, farther, an _unpleasing_ one, for, being the delineation of a _simple passion unmixed_, it wanted all those

—Lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
Gives all the strength and colour of our life.