{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7148/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7148","id":"gutenberg_7148","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7148","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Drama -- History and criticism","Drama -- Technique"],"text":"Produced by Anne Soulard, Tiffany Vergon\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\"Were I to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every\nvariety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to\nme during life, and a shield against its ills, however things might go\namiss and the world frown upon me, it would he a taste for reading....\nGive a man this taste, and the means of gratifying it, and you can hardly\nfail of making him a happy man; unless, indeed, you put into his hands a\nmost perverse selection of Books. You place him in contact with the best\nsociety in every period of history,--with the wisest, the wittiest, the\ntenderest, the bravest, and the purest characters who have adorned\nhumanity. You make him a denizen of all nations, a contemporary of all\nages. The world has been created for him.\"--SIR JOHN HERSCHEL. _Address\non the opening of the Eton Library_, 1833.\n\n\nLECTURES ON DRAMATIC ART AND LITERATURE\n\nBY\nAUGUST WILHELM SCHLEGEL.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nPreface of the Translator.\n\nAuthor's Preface.\n\nMemoir of the Life of Augustus William Schlegel.\n\nLECTURE I.\n\nIntroduction--Spirit of True Criticism--Difference of Taste between the\nAncients and Moderns--Classical and Romantic Poetry and Art--Division of\nDramatic Literature; the Ancients, their Imitators, and the Romantic Poets.\n\nLECTURE II.\n\nDefinition of the Drama--View of the Theatres of all Nations--Theatrical\nEffect--Importance of the Stage--Principal Species of the Drama.\n\nLECTURE III.\n\nEssence of Tragedy and Comedy--Earnestness and Sport--How far it is\npossible to become acquainted with the Ancients without knowing Original\nLanguages--Winkelmann.\n\nLECTURE IV.\n\nStructure of the Stage among the Greeks--Their Acting--Use of Masks--False\ncomparison of Ancient Tragedy to the Opera--Tragical Lyric Poetry.\n\nLECTURE V.\n\nEssence of the Greek Tragedies--Ideality of the Representation--Idea of\nFate--Source of the Pleasure derived from Tragical Representations--Import\nof the Chorus--The materials of Greek Tragedy derived from Mythology--\nComparison with the Plastic Arts.\n\nLECTURE VI.\n\nProgress of the Tragic Art among the Greeks--Various styles of Tragic Art\n--Aeschylus--Connexion in a Trilogy of Aeschylus--His remaining Works.\n\nLECTURE VII.\n\nLife and Political Character of Sophocles--Character of his different\nTragedies.\n\nLECTURE VIII.\n\nEuripides--His Merits and Defects--Decline of Tragic Poetry through him.\n\nLECTURE IX.\n\nComparison between the _Choephorae_ of Aeschylus, the _Electra_ of\nSophocles, and that of Euripides.\n\nLECTURE X.\n\nCharacter of the remaining Works of Euripides--The Satirical Drama--\nAlexandrian Tragic Poets.\n\nLECTURE XI.\n\nThe Old Comedy proved to be completely a contrast to Tragedy--Parody--\nIdeality of Comedy the reverse of that of Tragedy--Mirthful Caprice--\nAllegoric and Political Signification--The Chorus and its Parabases.\n\nLECTURE XII.\n\nAristophanes--His Character as an Artist--Description and Character of his\nremaining Works--A Scene, translated from the _Acharnae_, by way of\nAppendix.\n\nLECTURE XIII.\n\nWhether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species--Origin of the New\nComedy--A mixed species--Its prosaic character--Whether versification is\nessential to Comedy--Subordinate kinds--Pieces of Character, and of\nIntrigue--The Comic of observation, of self-consciousness, and arbitrary\nComic--Morality of Comedy.\n\nLECTURE XIV.\n\nPlautus and Terence as Imitators of the Greeks, here examined and\ncharacterized in the absence of the Originals they copied--Motives of the\nAthenian Comedy from Manners and Society--Portrait-Statues of two\nComedians.\n\nLECTURE XV.\n\nRoman Theatre--Native kinds: Atellane Fables, Mimes, Comoedia Togata--\nGreek Tragedy transplanted to Rome--Tragic Authors of a former Epoch, and\nof the Augustan Age--Idea of a National Roman Tragedy--Causes of the want\nof success of the Romans in Tragedy--Seneca.\n\nLECTURE XVI.\n\nThe Italians--Pastoral Dramas of Tasso and Guarini--Small progress in\nTragedy--Metastasio and Alfieri--Character of both--Comedies of Ariosto,\nAretin, Porta--Improvisatore Masks--Goldoni--Gozzi--Latest state.\n\nLECTURE XVII.\n\nAntiquities of the French Stage--Influence of Aristotle and the Imitation\nof the Ancients--Investigation of the Three Unities--What is Unity of\nAction?--Unity of Time--Was it observed by the Greeks?--Unity of Place as\nconnected with it.\n\nLECTURE XVIII.\n\nMischief resulting to the French Stage from too narrow Interpretation of\nthe Rules of Unity--Influence of these rules on French Tragedy--Manner of\ntreating Mythological and Historical Materials--Idea of Tragical Dignity--\nObservation of Conventional Rules--False System of Expositions.\n\nLECTURE XIX.\n\nUse at first made of the Spanish Theatre by the French--General Character\nof Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire--Review of the principal Works of\nCorneille and of Racine--Thomas Corneille and Crebillon.\n\nLECTURE XX.\n\nVoltaire--Tragedies on Greek Subjects: _Oedipe_, _Merope_, _Oreste_--\nTragedies on Roman Subjects: _Brute_, _Mort de C\u00e9sar_, _Catiline_, _Le\nTriumvirat_--Earlier Pieces: _Zaire_, _Alzire_, _Mahomet_, _Semiramis_,\nAnd _Tancred_.\n\nLECTURE XXI.\n\nFrench Comedy--Moli\u00e8re--Criticism of his Works--Scarron, Boursault,\nRegnard; Comedies in the Time of the Regency; Marivaux and Destouches;\nPiron and Gresset--Later Attempts--The Heroic Opera: Quinault--Operettes\nand Vaudevilles--Diderot's attempted Change of the Theatre--The Weeping\nDrama--Beaumarchais--Melo-Dramas--Merits and Defects of the Histrionic Art.\n\nLECTURE XXII.\n\nComparison of the English and Spanish Theatres--Spirit of the Romantic\nDrama--Shakspeare--His Age and the Circumstances of his Life.\n\nLECTURE XXIII.\n\nIgnorance or Learning of Shakspeare--Costume as observed by Shakspeare,\nand how far necessary, or may be dispensed with, in the Drama--Shakspeare\nthe greatest drawer of Character--Vindication of the genuineness of his\npathos--Play on Words--Moral Delicacy--Irony-Mixture of the Tragic and\nComic--The part of the Fool or Clown--Shakspeare's Language and\nVersification.\n\nLECTURE XXIV.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Comedies.\n\nLECTURE XXV.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Tragedies.\n\nLECTURE XXVI.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Historical Dramas.\n\nLECTURE XXVII.\n\nTwo Periods of the English Theatre: the first the most important--The\nfirst Conformation of the Stage, and its Advantages--State of the\nHistrionic Art in Shakspeare's Time--Antiquities of Dramatic Literature--\nLilly, Marlow, Heywood--Ben Jonson; Criticism of his Works--Masques--\nBeaumont and Fletcher--General Characterization of these Poets, and\nRemarks on some of their Pieces--Massinger and other Contemporaries of\nCharles I.\n\nLECTURE XXVIII.\n\nClosing of the Stage by the Puritans--Revival of the Stage under Charles\nII.--Depravity of Taste and Morals--Dryden, Otway, and others--\nCharacterization of the Comic Poets from Wycherley and Congreve to the\nMiddle of the Eighteenth Century--Tragedies of the same Period--Rowe--\nAddison's _Cato_--Later Pieces--Familiar Tragedy: Lillo--Garrick--\nLatest State.\n\nLECTURE XXIX.\n\nSpanish Theatre--Its three Periods: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon--\nSpirit of the Spanish Poetry in general--Influence of the National History\non it--Form, and various Species of the Spanish Drama--Decline since the\nbeginning of the Eighteenth Century.\n\nLECTURE XXX.\n\nOrigin of the German Theatre--Hans Sachs--Gryphius--The Age of Gottsched--\nWretched Imitation of the French--Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller--Review of\ntheir Works--Their Influence on Chivalrous Dramas, Affecting Dramas, and\nFamily Pictures--Prospect for Futurity.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR.\n\n\nThe Lectures of A. W. SCHLEGEL on Dramatic Poetry have obtained high\ncelebrity on the Continent, and been much alluded to of late in several\npublications in this country. The boldness of his attacks on rules which\nare considered as sacred by the French critics, and on works of which the\nFrench nation in general have long been proud, called forth a more than\nordinary degree of indignation against his work in France. It was amusing\nenough to observe the hostility carried on against him in the Parisian\nJournals. The writers in these Journals found it much easier to condemn M.\nSCHLEGEL than to refute him: they allowed that what he said was very\ningenious, and had a great appearance of truth; but still they said it was\nnot truth. They never, however, as far as I could observe, thought proper\nto grapple with him, to point out anything unfounded in his premises, or\nillogical in the conclusions which he drew from them; they generally\nconfined themselves to mere assertions, or to minute and unimportant\nobservations by which the real question was in no manner affected.\n\nIn this country the work will no doubt meet with a very different\nreception. Here we have no want of scholars to appreciate the value of his\nviews of the ancient drama; and it will be no disadvantage to him, in our\neyes, that he has been unsparing in his attack on the literature of our\nenemies. It will hardly fail to astonish us, however, to find a stranger\nbetter acquainted with the brightest poetical ornament of this country\nthan any of ourselves; and that the admiration of the English nation for\nShakspeare should first obtain a truly enlightened interpreter in a critic\nof Germany.\n\nIt is not for me, however, to enlarge on the merits of a work which has\nalready obtained so high a reputation. I shall better consult my own\nadvantage in giving a short extract from the animated account of M.\nSCHLEGEL'S Lectures in the late work on Germany by Madame de Sta\u00ebl:--\n\n\"W. SCHLEGEL has given a course of Dramatic Literature at Vienna, which\ncomprises every thing remarkable that has been composed for the theatre,\nfrom the time of the Grecians to our own days. It is not a barren\nnomenclature of the works of the various authors: he seizes the spirit of\ntheir different sorts of literature with all the imagination of a poet. We\nare sensible that to produce such consequences extraordinary studies are\nrequired: but learning is not perceived in this work, except by his\nperfect knowledge of the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of composition. In a few\npages we reap the fruit of the labour of a whole life; every opinion\nformed by the author, every epithet given to the writers of whom he\nspeaks, is beautiful and just, concise and animated. He has found the art\nof treating the finest pieces of poetry as so many wonders of nature, and\nof painting them in lively colours, which do not injure the justness of\nthe outline; for we cannot repeat too often, that imagination, far from\nbeing an enemy to truth, brings it forward more than any other faculty of\nthe mind; and all those who depend upon it as an excuse for indefinite\nterms or exaggerated expressions, are at least as destitute of poetry as\nof good sense.\n\n\"An analysis of the principles on which both Tragedy and Comedy are\nfounded, is treated in this course with much depth of philosophy. This\nkind of merit is often found among the German writers; but SCHLEGEL has no\nequal in the art of inspiring his own admiration; in general, be shows\nhimself attached to a simple taste, sometimes bordering on rusticity; but\nhe deviates from his usual opinions in favour of the inhabitants of the\nSouth. Their play on words is not the object of his censure; he detests\nthe affectation which owes its existence to the spirit of society: but\nthat which is excited by the luxury of imagination pleases him, in poetry,\nas the profusion of colours and perfumes would do in nature. SCHLEGEL,\nafter having acquired a great reputation by his translation of Shakspeare,\nbecame also enamoured of Calderon, but with a very different sort of\nattachment from that with which Shakspeare had inspired him; for while the\nEnglish author is deep and gloomy in his knowledge of the human heart, the\nSpanish poet gives himself up with pleasure and delight to the beauty of\nlife, to the sincerity of faith, and to all the brilliancy of those\nvirtues which derive their colouring from the sunshine of the soul.\n\n\"I was at Vienna when W. SCHLEGEL gave his public course of Lectures. I\nexpected only good sense and instruction, where the object was merely to\nconvey information: I was astonished to hear a critic as eloquent as an\norator, and who, far from falling upon defects, which are the eternal food\nof mean and little jealousy, sought only the means of reviving a creative\ngenius.\"\n\nThus far Madame de Sta\u00ebl. In taking upon me to become the interpreter of a\nwork of this description to my countrymen, I am aware that I have incurred\nno slight degree of responsibility. How I have executed my task it is not\nfor me to speak, but for the reader to judge. This much, however, I will\nsay,--that I have always endeavoured to discover the true meaning of the\nauthor, and that I believe I have seldom mistaken it. Those who are best\nacquainted with the psychological riches of the German language, will be\nthe most disposed to look on my labour with an eye of indulgence.\n\n\n\n\nAUTHOR'S PREFACE.\n\n\nFrom the size of the present work, it will not be expected that it should\ncontain either a course of Dramatic Literature bibliographically complete,\nor a history of the theatre compiled with antiquarian accuracy. Of books\ncontaining dry accounts and lists of names there are already enough. My\npurpose was to give a general view, and to develope those ideas which\nought to guide us in our estimate of the value of the dramatic productions\nof various ages and nations.\n\nThe greatest part of the following Lectures, with the exception of a few\nobservations of a secondary nature, the suggestion of the moment, were\ndelivered orally as they now appear in print. The only alteration consists\nin a more commodious distribution, and here and there in additions, where\nthe limits of the time prevented me from handling many matters with\nuniform minuteness. This may afford a compensation for the animation of\noral delivery which sometimes throws a veil over deficiencies of\nexpression, and always excites a certain degree of expectation.\n\nI delivered these Lectures, in the spring of 1808, at Vienna, to a\nbrilliant audience of nearly three hundred individuals of both sexes. The\ninhabitants of Vienna have long been in the habit of refuting the\ninjurious descriptions which many writers of the North of Germany have\ngiven of that capital, by the kindest reception of all learned men and\nartists belonging to these regions, and by the most disinterested zeal for\nthe credit of our national literature, a zeal which a just sensibility has\nnot been able to cool. I found here the cordiality of better times united\nwith that amiable animation of the South, which is often denied to our\nGerman seriousness, and the universal diffusion of a keen taste for\nintellectual amusement. To this circumstance alone I must attribute it\nthat not a few of the men who hold the most important places at court, in\nthe state, and in the army, artists and literary men of merit, women of\nthe choicest social cultivation, paid me not merely an occasional visit,\nbut devoted to me an uninterrupted attention.\n\nWith joy I seize this fresh opportunity of laying my gratitude at the feet\nof the benignant monarch who, in the permission to deliver these Lectures\ncommunicated to me by way of distinction immediately from his own hand,\ngave me an honourable testimony of his gracious confidence, which I as a\nforeigner who had not the happiness to be born under his sceptre, and\nmerely felt myself bound as a German and a citizen of the world to wish\nhim every blessing and prosperity, could not possibly have merited.\n\nMany enlightened patrons and zealous promoters of everything good and\nbecoming have merited my gratitude for the assistance which they gave to\nmy undertaking, and the encouragement which they afforded me during its\nexecution.\n\nThe whole of my auditors rendered my labour extremely agreeable by their\nindulgence, their attentive participation, and their readiness to\ndistinguish, in a feeling manner, every passage which seemed worthy of\ntheir applause.\n\nIt was a flattering moment, which I shall never forget, when, in the last\nhour, after I had called up recollections of the old German renown sacred\nto every one possessed of true patriotic sentiment, and when the minds of\nmy auditors were thus more solemnly attuned, I was at last obliged to take\nmy leave powerfully agitated by the reflection that our recent relation,\nfounded on a common love for a nobler mental cultivation, would be so soon\ndissolved, and that I should never again see those together who were then\nassembled around me. A general emotion was perceptible, excited by so much\nthat I could not say, but respecting which our hearts understood each\nother. In the mental dominion of thought and poetry, inaccessible to\nworldly power, the Germans, who are separated in so many ways from each\nother, still feel their unity: and in this feeling, whose interpreter the\nwriter and orator must be, amidst our clouded prospects we may still\ncherish the elevating presage of the great and immortal calling of our\npeople, who from time immemorial have remained unmixed in their present\nhabitations.\n\nGENEVA, _February_, 1809.\n\n\nOBSERVATION PREFIXED TO PART OF THE WORK PRINTED IN 1811.\n\nThe declaration in the Preface that these Lectures were, with some\nadditions, printed as they were delivered, is in so far to be corrected,\nthat the additions in the second part are much more considerable than in\nthe first. The restriction, in point of time in the oral delivery,\ncompelled me to leave more gaps in the last half than in the first. The\npart respecting Shakspeare and the English theatre, in particular, has\nbeen, almost altogether re-written. I have been prevented, partly by the\nwant of leisure and partly by the limits of the work, from treating of the\nSpanish theatre with that fulness which its importance deserves.\n\n\n\n\nMEMOIR OF THE LITERARY LIFE OF AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL\n\n\nAUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL, the author of the following Lectures, was,\nwith his no-less distinguished brother, Frederick, the son of John Adolph\nSchlegel, a native of Saxony, and descended from a noble family. Holding a\nhigh appointment in the Lutheran church, Adolph Schlegel distinguished\nhimself as a religious poet, and was the friend and associate of Rabener,\nGellert, and Klopstock. Celebrated for his eloquence in the pulpit, and\nstrictly diligent in the performance of his religious duties, he died in\n1792, leaving an example to his children which no doubt had a happy\ninfluence on them.\n\nOf these, the seventh, Augustus William, was born in Hanover, September\n5th, 1767. In his early childhood, he evinced a genuine susceptibility for\nall that was good and noble; and this early promise of a generous and\nvirtuous disposition was carefully nurtured by the religious instruction\nof his mother, an amiable and highly-gifted woman. Of this parent's pious\nand judicious teaching, Augustus William had to the end of his days a\ngrateful remembrance, and he cherished for her throughout life a sincere\nand affectionate esteem, whose ardour neither time nor distance could\ndiminish. The filial affection of her favourite son soothed the declining\nyears of his mother, and lightened the anxieties with which the critical\nand troubled state of the times alarmed her old age. His further education\nwas carried on by a private tutor, who prepared him for the grammar-school\nat Hanover, where he was distinguished both for his unremitting\napplication, to which he often sacrificed the hours of leisure and\nrecreation, and for the early display of a natural gift for language,\nwhich enabled him immediately on the close of his academic career to\naccept a tutorial appointment, which demanded of its holder a knowledge\nnot only of the classics but also of English and French. He also displayed\nat a very early age a talent for poetry, and some of his juvenile\nextempore effusions were remarkable for their easy versification and\nrhythmical flow. In his eighteenth year he was called upon to deliver in\nthe Lyceum of his native city, the anniversary oration in honour of a\nroyal birthday. His address on this occasion excited an extraordinary\nsensation both by the graceful elegance of the style and the interest of\nthe matter, written in hexameters. It embraced a short history of poetry\nin Germany, and was relieved and animated with many judicious and striking\nillustrations from the earliest Teutonic poets.\n\nHe now proceeded to the University of G\u00f6ttingen as a student of theology,\nwhich science, however, he shortly abandoned for the more congenial one of\nphilology. The propriety of this charge he amply attested by his Essay on\nthe Geography of Homer, which displayed both an intelligent and\ncomprehensive study of this difficult branch of classical archaeology.\n\nAt G\u00f6ttingen he lived in the closest intimacy with Heyne, for whose\n_Virgil_, in 1788 he completed an index; he also became acquainted\nwith the celebrated Michaelis. It was here too that he formed the\nfriendship of B\u00fcrger, to whose _Academie der Sch\u00f6nen Redek\u00fcnste_, he\ncontributed his _Ariadne_, and an essay on _Dante_. The kindred genius of\nB\u00fcrger favourably influenced his own mind and tastes, and moved him to\nmake the first known attempt to naturalize the Italian sonnet in Germany.\n\nTowards the end of his university career he combined his own studies with\nthe private instruction of a rich young Englishman, born in the East\nIndies, and at the close of it accepted the post of tutor to the only son\nof Herr Muilmann, the celebrated Banker of Amsterdam. In this situation he\ngained universal respect and esteem, but after three years he quitted it\nto enter upon a wider sphere of literary activity. On his return to his\nnative country he was elected Professor in the University of Jena.\nSchlegel's residence in this place, which may truly be called the classic\nsoil of German literature, as it gained him the acquaintance of his\neminent contemporaries Schiller and Goethe, marks a decisive epoch in the\nformation of his intellectual character. At this date he contributed\nlargely to the _Horen_, and also to Schiller's _Musen-Almanach_, and\ndown to 1799 was one of the most fertile writers in the _Allgemeinen\nLiteratur-Zeitung_ of Jena. It was here, also, that he commenced his\ntranslations of Shakspeare, (9 vols., Berlin, 1797-1810,) which produced a\nsalutary effect on the taste and judgment of his countrymen, and also on\nDramatic Art and theatrical representation in Germany. Notwithstanding the\nfavourable reception of this work he subsequently abandoned it, and on the\npublication of a new edition, in 1825, he cheerfully consigned to Tieck\nthe revision of his own labours, and the completion of the yet\nuntranslated pieces.\n\nContinuing attached to the University of Jena, where the dignity of\nProfessorship was associated with that of Member of the Council, he now\ncommenced a course of lectures on Aesthetics, and joined his brother\nFrederick in the editorship of the _Athenaeum_, (3 vols., Berlin,\n1796-1800,) an Aesthetico-critical journal, intended, while observing a\nrigorous but an impartial spirit of criticism, to discover and foster\nevery grain of a truly vital development of mind. It was also during his\nresidence at Jena that he published the first edition of his Poems, among\nwhich the religious pieces and the Sonnets on Art were greatly admired and\nhad many imitators. To the latter years of his residence at Jena, which\nmay be called the political portion of Schlegel's literary career, belongs\nthe _Gate of Honour for the Stage-President Von-Kotzebue_, (_Ehrenpforte\nfur den Theater Pr\u00e4sidenten von Kotzebue_, 1800,) an ill-natured and much-\ncensured satire in reply to Kotzebue's attack, entitled the _Hyperborean\nAss_ (_Hyperboreischen Esee_). At this time he also collected several of\nhis own and brother Frederick's earlier and occasional contributions to\nvarious periodicals, and these, together with the hitherto unpublished\ndissertations on B\u00fcrger's works, make up the _Characteristiken u Kritiken_\n(2 vols., Koenigsberg, 1801). Shortly afterwards he undertook with Tieck\nthe editorship of _Musen-Almanack_ for 1802. The two brothers were now\nleading a truly scientific and poetic life, associating and co-operating\nwith many minds of a kindred spirit, who gathered round Tieck and Novalis\nas their centre.\n\nHis marriage with the daughter of Michaelis was not a happy one, and was\nquickly followed by a separation, upon which Schlegel proceeded to Berlin.\nIn this city, towards the end of 1802, he delivered his _Lectures on the\nPresent State of Literature and the Fine Arts_, which were afterwards\nprinted in the _Europa_, under his brother's editorship. The publication\nin 1803 of his _Ion_, a drama in imitation of the ancients, but as a\ncomposition unmarked by any peculiar display of vigour, led to an\ninteresting argument between himself, Bernhardi, and Schilling. This\ndiscussion, which extended from its original subject to Euripides and\nDramatic Representation in general, was carried on in the _Journal for\nthe Polite World_ (_Zeitung fur die elegante Welt_,) which Schlegel\nsupported by his advice and contributions. In this periodical he also\nentered the lists in opposition to Kotzebue and Merkel in the\n_Freim\u00fcthige_ (_The Liberal_), and the merits of the so-called modern\nschool and its leaders, was the subject of a paper war, waged with the\nbitterest acrimony of controversy, which did not scruple to employ the\nsharpest weapons of personal abuse and ridicule.\n\nAt this date Schlegel was engaged upon his _Spanish Theatre_, (2\nvols., Berlin, 1803-1809). In the execution of this work, much was\nnaturally demanded of the translator of Shakspeare, nor did he disappoint\nthe general expectator, although he had here far greater difficulties to\ncontend with. Not content with merely giving a faithful interpretation of\nhis author's meaning, he laid down and strictly observed the law of\nadhering rigorously to all the measures, rhythms, and assonances of the\noriginal. These two excellent translations, in each of which he has\nbrought to bear both the great command of his own, and a wonderful\nquickness in catching the spirit of a foreign language, have earned for\nSchlegel the foremost place among successful and able translators, while\nhis _Flowers of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese Poetry_ (_Blumenstr\u00e4usse\nd. Ital. Span. u. Portug. Poesie_, Berlin, 1804), furnish another proof\nboth of his skill in this pursuit and of the extent of his acquaintance\nwith European literature. Moreover, the merit of having by these\ntranslations made Shakspeare and Calderon more widely known and better\nappreciated in Germany would, in default of any other claim, alone entitle\nhim to take high rank in the annals of modern literature.\n\nBut a new and more important career was now open to him by his\nintroduction to Madame de Sta\u00ebl. Making a tour in Germany, this\ndistinguished woman arrived at Berlin in 1805, and desirous of acquainting\nherself more thoroughly with German literature she selected Schlegel to\ndirect her studies of it, and at the same time confided to his charge the\ncompletion of her children's education. Quitting Berlin he accompanied\nthis lady on her travels through Italy and France, and afterwards repaired\nwith her to her paternal seat at Coppet, on the Lake of Geneva, which now\nbecame for some time his fixed abode. It was here that in 1807 he wrote in\nFrench his _Parallel between the Phaedra of Euripides and the Ph\u00e8dre of\nRacine_, which produced a lively sensation in the literary circles of\nParis. This city had peculiar attractions for Schlegel, both in its\ninvaluable literary stores and its re-union of men of letters, among whom\nhis own views and opinions found many enthusiastic admirers and partisans,\nnotwithstanding that in his critical analysis of Racine's _Ph\u00e8dre_ he\nhad presumed to attack what Frenchmen deemed the chiefest glory of their\nliterature, and had mortified their national vanity in its most sensitive\npoint.\n\nIn the spring of 1808 he visited Vienna, and there read to a brilliant\naudience his _Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_, which, on their\npublication, were hailed throughout Europe with marked approbation, and\nwhich will, unquestionably, transmit his name to the latest posterity.\nHis object in these Lectures is both to take a rapid survey of dramatic\nproductions of different ages and nations, and to develope and determine\nthe general ideas by which their true artistic value must be judged. In\nhis travels with Madame de Sta\u00ebl he was introduced to the present King,\nthen the Crown Prince, of Bavaria, who bestowed on him many marks of his\nrespect and esteem, and about this time he took a part in the _German\nMuseum_ (_Deutsche Museum_), of his brother Frederick, contributing some\nlearned and profound dissertations on the _Lay of the Nibelungen_. In\n1812, when the subjugated South no longer afforded an asylum to the\nliberal-minded De Sta\u00ebl, with whose personal fortunes he felt himself\ninseparably linked by that deep feeling of esteem and friendship which\nspeaks so touchingly and pathetically in some of his later poems, he\naccompanied that lady on a visit to Stockholm, where he formed the\nacquaintance of the Crown Prince.\n\nThe great political events of this period were not without their effect on\nSchlegel's mind, and in 1813 he came forward as a political writer, when\nhis powerful pen was not without its effect in rousing the German mind\nfrom the torpor into which it had sunk beneath the victorious military\ndespotism of France. But he was called upon to take a more active part in\nthe measures of these stirring times, and in this year entered the service\nof the Crown Prince of Sweden, as secretary and counsellor at head\nquarters. For this Prince he had a great personal regard, and estimated\nhighly both his virtues as a man and his talents as a general. The\nservices he rendered the Swedish Prince were duly appreciated and\nrewarded, among other marks of distinction by a patent of nobility, in\nvirtue of which he prefixed the \"Von\" to his paternal name of Schlegel.\nThe Emperor Alexander, of whose religious elevation of character he always\nspoke with admiration, also honoured him with his intimacy and many tokens\nof esteem.\n\nUpon the fall of Napoleon he returned to Coppet with Madame de Sta\u00ebl, and\nin 1815 published a second volume of his _Poetical Works_, (Heildelberg,\n1811-1815, 2nd edit., 2 vols., 1820). These are characterized not merely\nby the brilliancy and purity of the language, but also by the variety and\nrichness of the imagery. Among these the _Arion_, _Pygmalion_, and _Der\nHeilige Lucas_ (St. Luke,) the Sonnets, and the sublime elegy, _Rhine_,\ndedicated to Madame de Sta\u00ebl, deserve especial mention, and give him a\njust claim to a poet's crown.\n\nOn the death of his friend and patroness in 1819, he accepted the offer of\na professor's chair in Bonn, where he married a daughter of Professor\nPaulus. This union, as short-lived as the first, was followed by a\nseparation in 1820. In his new position of academic tutor, while he\ndiligently promoted the study of the fine arts and sciences, both of the\nAncient and the Moderns, he applied himself with peculiar ardour to\nOriental literature, and particularly to the Sanscrit. As a fruit of these\nstudies, he published his _Indian Library_, (2 vols., Bonn, 1820-26);\nhe also set up a press for printing the great Sanscrit work, the\n_R\u00e2m\u00e2jana_ (Bonn, 1825). He also edited the Sanscrit text, with a\nLatin translation, of the Bhagavad-Gita, an episode of the great Indian\nEpos, the _Mah\u00e2bh\u00e2rata_ (Bonn, 1829). About this period his Oriental\nstudies took, him to France, and afterwards to England, where, in London\nand in the college libraries of Oxford and Cambridge, and the East India\nCollege at Hailesbury, he carefully examined the various collections of\nOriental MSS. On his return he was appointed Superintendent of the Museum\nof Antiquities, and in 1827 delivered at Berlin a course of Lectures on\nthe _Theory and History of the Fine Arts_, (Berlin, 1827). These were\nfollowed by his _Criticisms_, (Berlin, 1828), and his _R\u00e9flexion sur\nl'Etude des Langues Asiatiques_, addressed to Sir James Mackintosh. Being\naccused of a secret leaning to Roman Catholicism, (Kryptocatholicisme,) he\nably defended himself in a reply entitled _Explication de quelques\nMalentendus_, (Berlin, 1828.)\n\nA. W. Von Schlegel, besides being a Member of the Legion of Honour, was\ninvested with the decorations of several other Orders. He wrote French\nwith as much facility as his native language, and many French journals\nwere proud to number him among their contributors. He also assisted Madame\nde Sta\u00ebl in her celebrated work _De l'Allemagne_, and superintended\nthe publication of her posthumous _Consid\u00e9rations sur la R\u00e9volution\nFran\u00e7aise_.\n\nAfter this long career of successful literary activity, A. W. Von Schlegel\ndied at Bonn, 12 May, 1845. His death was thus noticed in the\n_Athenaeum_:--\n\n\"This illustrious writer was, in conjunction with his brother Frederick,\nas most European readers well know, the founder of the modern romantic\nschool of German literature, and as a critic fought many a hard battle for\nhis faith. The clearness of his insight into poetical and dramatic truth,\nEnglishmen will always be apt to estimate by the fact that it procured for\nhimself and for his countrymen the freedom of Shakspeare's enchanted\nworld, and the taste of all the marvellous things that, like the treasures\nof Aladdin's garden, are fruit and gem at once upon its immortal boughs:--\nFrenchmen will not readily forget that he disparaged Moli\u00e8re. The merit of\nSchlegel's dramatic criticism ought not, however, to be thus limited.\nEnglishmen themselves are deeply indebted to him. His Lectures, translated\nby Black, excited great interest here when first published, some thirty\nyears since, and have worthily taken a permanent place in our libraries.\"\n\nHis collection of books, which was rather extensive, and rich in Oriental,\nespecially Sanscrit literature, was sold by auction in Bonn, December,\n1845. It appears by a chronological list prefixed to the catalogue, that\nreckoning both his separate publications and those contributed to\nperiodicals, his printed works number no fewer than 126. Besides these he\nleft many unpublished manuscripts, which, says the _Athenaeum_, \"he\nbequeathed to the celebrated archaeologist, Welcker, professor at the\nRoyal University of Bonn, with a request that he would cause them to be\npublished.\"\n\n\n\n\nDRAMATIC LITERATURE.\n\n\nLECTURE I.\n\nIntroduction--Spirit of True Criticism--Difference of Taste between the\nAncients and Moderns--Classical and Romantic Poetry and Art--Division of\nDramatic Literature; the Ancients, their Imitators, and the Romantic\nPoets.\n\n\nThe object of the present series of Lectures will be to combine the theory\nof Dramatic Art with its history, and to bring before my auditors at once\nits principles and its models.\n\nIt belongs to the general philosophical theory of poetry, and the other\nfine arts, to establish the fundamental laws of the beautiful. Every art,\non the other hand, has its own special theory, designed to teach the\nlimits, the difficulties, and the means by which it must be regulated in\nits attempt to realize those laws. For this purpose, certain scientific\ninvestigations are indispensable to the artist, although they have but\nlittle attraction for those whose admiration of art is confined to the\nenjoyment of the actual productions of distinguished minds. The general\ntheory, on the other hand, seeks to analyze that essential faculty of\nhuman nature--the sense of the beautiful, which at once calls the fine\narts into existence, and accounts for the satisfaction which arises from\nthe contemplation of them; and also points out the relation which subsists\nbetween this and all other sentient and cognizant faculties of man. To the\nman of thought and speculation, therefore, it is of the highest\nimportance, but by itself alone it is quite inadequate to guide and direct\nthe essays and practice of art.\n\nNow, the history of the fine arts informs us what has been, and the theory\nteaches what ought to be accomplished by them. But without some\nintermediate and connecting link, both would remain independent and\nseparate from one and other, and each by itself, inadequate and defective.\nThis connecting link is furnished by criticism, which both elucidates the\nhistory of the arts, and makes the theory fruitful. The comparing\ntogether, and judging of the existing productions of the human mind,\nnecessarily throws light upon the conditions which are indispensable to\nthe creation of original and masterly works of art.\n\nOrdinarily, indeed, men entertain a very erroneous notion of criticism,\nand understand by it nothing more than a certain shrewdness in detecting\nand exposing the faults of a work of art. As I have devoted the greater\npart of my life to this pursuit, I may be excused if, by way of preface, I\nseek to lay before my auditors my own ideas of the true genius of\ncriticism.\n\nWe see numbers of men, and even whole nations, so fettered by the\nconventions of education and habits of life, that, even in the\nappreciation of the fine arts, they cannot shake them off. Nothing to them\nappears natural, appropriate, or beautiful, which is alien to their own\nlanguage, manners, and social relations. With this exclusive mode of\nseeing and feeling, it is no doubt possible to attain, by means of\ncultivation, to great nicety of discrimination within the narrow circle to\nwhich it limits and circumscribes them. But no man can be a true critic or\nconnoisseur without universality of mind, without that flexibility which\nenables him, by renouncing all personal predilections and blind habits, to\nadapt himself to the peculiarities of other ages and nations--to feel\nthem, as it were, from their proper central point, and, what ennobles\nhuman nature, to recognise and duly appreciate whatever is beautiful and\ngrand under the external accessories which were necessary to its\nembodying, even though occasionally they may seem to disguise and distort\nit. There is no monopoly of poetry for particular ages and nations; and\nconsequently that despotism in taste, which would seek to invest with\nuniversal authority the rules which at first, perhaps, were but\narbitrarily advanced, is but a vain and empty pretension. Poetry, taken in\nits widest acceptation, as the power of creating what is beautiful, and\nrepresenting it to the eye or the ear, is a universal gift of Heaven,\nbeing shared to a certain extent even by those whom we call barbarians and\nsavages. Internal excellence is alone decisive, and where this exists, we\nmust not allow ourselves to be repelled by the external appearance.\nEverything must be traced up to the root of human nature: if it has sprung\nfrom thence, it has an undoubted worth of its own; but if, without\npossessing a living germ, it is merely externally attached thereto, it\nwill never thrive nor acquire a proper growth. Many productions which\nappear at first sight dazzling phenomena in the province of the fine arts,\nand which as a whole have been honoured with the appellation of works of a\ngolden age, resemble the mimic gardens of children: impatient to witness\nthe work of their hands, they break off here and there branches and\nflowers, and plant them in the earth; everything at first assumes a noble\nappearance: the childish gardener struts proudly up and down among his\nshowy beds, till the rootless plants begin to droop, and hang their\nwithered leaves and blossoms, and nothing soon remains but the bare twigs,\nwhile the dark forest, on which no art or care was ever bestowed, and\nwhich towered up towards heaven long before human remembrance, bears every\nblast unshaken, and fills the solitary beholder with religious awe.\n\nLet us now apply the idea which we have been developing, of the\nuniversality of true criticism, to the history of poetry and the fine\narts. This, like the so-called universal history, we generally limit (even\nthough beyond this range there may be much that is both remarkable and\nworth knowing) to whatever has had a nearer or more remote influence on\nthe present civilisation of Europe: consequently, to the works of the\nGreeks and Romans, and of those of the modern European nations, who first\nand chiefly distinguished themselves in art and literature. It is well\nknown that, three centuries and a-half ago, the study of ancient\nliterature received a new life, by the diffusion of the Grecian language\n(for the Latin never became extinct); the classical authors were brought\nto light, and rendered universally accessible by means of the press; and\nthe monuments of ancient art were diligently disinterred and preserved.\nAll this powerfully excited the human mind, and formed a decided epoch in\nthe history of human civilisation; its manifold effects have extended to\nour times, and will yet extend to an incalculable series of ages. But the\nstudy of the ancients was forthwith most fatally perverted. The learned,\nwho were chiefly in the possession of this knowledge, and who were\nincapable of distinguishing themselves by works of their own, claimed for\nthe ancients an unlimited authority, and with great appearance of reason,\nsince they are models in their kind. Maintaining that nothing could be\nhoped for the human mind but from an imitation of antiquity, in the works\nof the moderns they only valued what resembled, or seemed to bear a\nresemblance to, those of the ancients. Everything else they rejected as\nbarbarous and unnatural. With the great poets and artists it was quite\notherwise. However strong their enthusiasm for the ancients, and however\ndetermined their purpose of entering into competition with them, they were\ncompelled by their independence and originality of mind, to strike out a\npath of their own, and to impress upon their productions the stamp of\ntheir own genius. Such was the case with Dante among the Italians, the\nfather of modern poetry; acknowledging Virgil for his master, he has\nproduced a work which, of all others, most differs from the Aeneid, and in\nour opinion far excels its pretended model in power, truth, compass, and\nprofundity. It was the same afterwards with Ariosto, who has most\nunaccountably been compared to Homer, for nothing can be more unlike. So\nin art with Michael Angelo and Raphael, who had no doubt deeply studied\nthe antique. When we ground our judgment of modern painters merely on\ntheir greater or less resemblance to the ancients, we must necessarily be\nunjust towards them, as Winkelmann undoubtedly has in the case of Raphael.\nAs the poets for the most part had their share of scholarship, it gave\nrise to a curious struggle between their natural inclination and their\nimaginary duty. When they sacrificed to the latter, they were praised by\nthe learned; but by yielding to the former, they became the favourites of\nthe people. What preserves the heroic poems of a Tasso and a Camo\u00ebns to\nthis day alive in the hearts and on the lips of their countrymen, is by no\nmeans their imperfect resemblance to Virgil, or even to Homer, but in\nTasso the tender feeling of chivalrous love and honour, and in Camo\u00ebns the\nglowing inspiration of heroic patriotism.\n\nThose very ages, nations, and ranks, who felt least the want of a poetry\nof their own, were the most assiduous in their imitation of the ancients;\naccordingly, its results are but dull school exercises, which at best\nexcite a frigid admiration. But in the fine arts, mere imitation is always\nfruitless; even what we borrow from others, to assume a true poetical\nshape, must, as it were, be born again within us. Of what avail is all\nforeign imitation? Art cannot exist without nature, and man can give\nnothing to his fellow-men but himself.\n\nGenuine successors and true rivals of the ancients, who, by virtue of\ncongenial talents and cultivation have walked in their path and worked in\ntheir spirit, have ever been as rare as their mechanical spiritless\ncopyists are common. Seduced by the form, the great body of critics have\nbeen but too indulgent to these servile imitators. These were held up as\ncorrect modern classics, while the great truly living and popular poets,\nwhose reputation was a part of their nations' glory, and to whose\nsublimity it was impossible to be altogether blind, were at best but\ntolerated as rude and wild natural geniuses. But the unqualified\nseparation of genius and taste on which such a judgment proceeds, is\naltogether untenable. Genius is the almost unconscious choice of the\nhighest degree of excellence, and, consequently, it is taste in its\nhighest activity.\n\nIn this state, nearly, matters continued till a period not far back, when\nseveral inquiring minds, chiefly Germans, endeavoured to clear up the\nmisconception, and to give the ancients their due, without being\ninsensible to the merits of the moderns, although of a totally different\nkind. The apparent contradiction did not intimidate them. The groundwork\nof human nature is no doubt everywhere the same; but in all our\ninvestigations, we may observe that, throughout the whole range of nature,\nthere is no elementary power so simple, but that it is capable of dividing\nand diverging into opposite directions. The whole play of vital motion\nhinges on harmony and contrast. Why, then, should not this phenomenon\nrecur on a grander scale in the history of man? In this idea we have\nperhaps discovered the true key to the ancient and modern history of\npoetry and the fine arts. Those who adopted it, gave to the peculiar\nspirit of _modern_ art, as contrasted with the _antique_ or _classical_,\nthe name of _romantic_. The term is certainly not inappropriate; the word\nis derived from _romance_--the name originally given to the languages\nwhich were formed from the mixture of the Latin and the old Teutonic\ndialects, in the same manner as modern civilisation is the fruit of the\nheterogeneous union of the peculiarities of the northern nations and the\nfragments of antiquity; whereas the civilisation of the ancients was much\nmore of a piece.\n\nThe distinction which we have just stated can hardly fail to appear well\nfounded, if it can be shown, so far as our knowledge of antiquity extends,\nthat the same contrast in the labours of the ancients and moderns runs\nsymmetrically, I might almost say systematically, throughout every branch\nof art--that it is as evident in music and the plastic arts as in poetry.\nThis is a problem which, in its full extent, still remains to be\ndemonstrated, though, on particular portions of it, many excellent\nobservations have been advanced already.\n\nAmong the foreign authors who wrote before this school can be said to have\nbeen formed in Germany, we may mention Rousseau, who acknowledged the\ncontrast in music, and showed that rhythm and melody were the prevailing\nprinciples of ancient, as harmony is that of modern music. In his\nprejudices against harmony, however, we cannot at all concur. On the\nsubject of the arts of design an ingenious observation was made by\nHemsterhuys, that the ancient painters were perhaps too much of sculptors,\nand the modern sculptors too much of painters. This is the exact point of\ndifference; for, as I shall distinctly show in the sequel, the spirit of\nancient art and poetry is _plastic_, but that of the moderns\n_p\u00eccturesque_.\n\nBy an example taken from another art, that of architecture, I shall\nendeavour to illustrate what I mean by this contrast. Throughout the\nMiddle Ages there prevailed, and in the latter centuries of that aera was\ncarried to perfection, a style of architecture, which has been called\nGothic, but ought really to have been termed old German. When, on the\ngeneral revival of classical antiquity, the imitation of Grecian\narchitecture became prevalent, and but too frequently without a due regard\nto the difference of climate and manners or to the purpose of the\nbuilding, the zealots of this new taste, passing a sweeping sentence of\ncondemnation on the Gothic, reprobated it as tasteless, gloomy, and\nbarbarous. This was in some degree pardonable in the Italians, among whom\na love for ancient architecture, cherished by hereditary remains of\nclassical edifices, and the similarity of their climate to that of the\nGreeks and Romans, might, in some sort, be said to be innate. But we\nNortherns are not so easily to be talked out of the powerful, solemn\nimpressions which seize upon the mind at entering a Gothic cathedral. We\nfeel, on the contrary, a strong desire to investigate and to justify the\nsource of this impression. A very slight attention will convince us, that\nthe Gothic architecture displays not only an extraordinary degree of\nmechanical skill, but also a marvellous power of invention; and, on a\ncloser examination, we recognize its profound significance, and perceive\nthat as well as the Grecian it constitutes in itself a complete and\nfinished system.\n\nTo the application!--The Pantheon is not more different from Westminster\nAbbey or the church of St. Stephen at Vienna, than the structure of a\ntragedy of Sophocles from a drama of Shakspeare. The comparison between\nthese wonderful productions of poetry and architecture might be carried\nstill farther. But does our admiration of the one compel us to depreciate\nthe other? May we not admit that each is great and admirable in its kind,\nalthough the one is, and is meant to be, different from the other? The\nexperiment is worth attempting. We will quarrel with no man for his\npredilection either for the Grecian or the Gothic. The world is wide, and\naffords room for a great diversity of objects. Narrow and blindly adopted\nprepossessions will never constitute a genuine critic or connoisseur, who\nought, on the contrary, to possess the power of dwelling with liberal\nimpartiality on the most discrepant views, renouncing the while all\npersonal inclinations.\n\nFor our present object, the justification, namely, of the grand division\nwhich we lay down in the history of art, and according to which we\nconceive ourselves equally warranted in establishing the same division in\ndramatic literature, it might be sufficient merely to have stated this\ncontrast between the ancient, or classical, and the romantic. But as there\nare exclusive admirers of the ancients, who never cease asserting that all\ndeviation from them is merely the whim of a new school of critics, who,\nexpressing themselves in language full of mystery, cautiously avoid\nconveying their sentiments in a tangible shape, I shall endeavour to\nexplain the origin and spirit of the _romantic_, and then leave the\nworld to judge if the use of the word, and of the idea which it is\nintended to convey, be thereby justified.\n\nThe mental culture of the Greeks was a finished education in the school of\nNature. Of a beautiful and noble race, endowed with susceptible senses and\na cheerful spirit under a mild sky, they lived and bloomed in the full\nhealth of existence; and, favoured by a rare combination of circumstances,\naccomplished all that the finite nature of man is capable of. The whole of\ntheir art and poetry is the expression of a consciousness of this harmony\nof all their faculties. They invented the poetry of joy.\n\nTheir religion was the deification of the powers of nature and of the\nearthly life: but this worship, which, among other nations, clouded the\nimagination with hideous shapes, and hardened the heart to cruelty,\nassumed, among the Greeks, a mild, a grand, and a dignified form.\nSuperstition, too often the tyrant of the human faculties, seemed to have\nhere contributed to their freest development. It cherished the arts by\nwhich it was adorned, and its idols became the models of ideal beauty.\n\nBut however highly the Greeks may have succeeded in the Beautiful, and\neven in the Moral, we cannot concede any higher character to their\ncivilisation than that of a refined and ennobled sensuality. Of course\nthis must be understood generally. The conjectures of a few philosophers,\nand the irradiations of poetical inspiration, constitute an occasional\nexception. Man can never altogether turn aside his thoughts from infinity,\nand some obscure recollections will always remind him of the home he has\nlost; but we are now speaking of the predominant tendency of his\nendeavours.\n\nReligion is the root of human existence. Were it possible for man to\nrenounce all religion, including that which is unconscious, independent of\nthe will, he would become a mere surface without any internal substance.\nWhen this centre is disturbed, the whole system of the mental faculties\nand feelings takes a new shape.\n\nAnd this is what has actually taken place in modern Europe through the\nintroduction of Christianity. This sublime and beneficent religion has\nregenerated the ancient world from its state of exhaustion and debasement;\nit is the guiding principle in the history of modern nations, and even at\nthis day, when many suppose they have shaken off its authority, they still\nfind themselves much more influenced by it in their views of human affairs\nthan they themselves are aware.\n\nAfter Christianity, the character of Europe has, since the commencement of\nthe Middle Ages, been chiefly influenced by the Germanic race of northern\nconquerors, who infused new life and vigour into a degenerated people. The\nstern nature of the North drives man back within himself; and what is lost\nin the free sportive development of the senses, must, in noble\ndispositions, be compensated by earnestness of mind. Hence the honest\ncordiality with which Christianity was welcomed by all the Teutonic\ntribes, so that among no other race of men has it penetrated more deeply\ninto the inner man, displayed more powerful effects, or become more\ninterwoven with all human feelings and sensibilities.\n\nThe rough, but honest heroism of the northern conquerors, by its admixture\nwith the sentiments of Christianity, gave rise to chivalry, of which the\nobject was, by vows which should be looked upon as sacred, to guard the\npractice of arms from every rude and ungenerous abuse of force into which\nit was so likely to sink.\n\nWith the virtues of chivalry was associated a new and purer spirit of\nlove, an inspired homage for genuine female worth, which was now revered\nas the acm\u00e8 of human excellence, and, maintained by religion itself under\nthe image of a virgin mother, infused into all hearts a mysterious sense\nof the purity of love.\n\nAs Christianity did not, like the heathen worship, rest satisfied with\ncertain external acts, but claimed an authority over the whole inward man\nand the most hidden movement of the heart; the feeling of moral\nindependence took refuge in the domain of honour, a worldly morality, as\nit were, which subsisting alongside of, was often at variance with that of\nreligion, but yet in so far resembling it that it never calculated\nconsequences, but consecrated unconditionally certain principles of\naction, which like the articles of faith, were elevated far beyond the\ninvestigation of a casuistical reasoning.\n\nChivalry, love, and honour, together with religion itself, are the\nsubjects of that poetry of nature which poured itself out in the Middle\nAges with incredible fulness, and preceded the more artistic cultivation\nof the romantic spirit. This age had also its mythology, consisting of\nchivalrous tales and legends; but its wonders and its heroism were the\nvery reverse of those of the ancient mythology.\n\nSeveral inquirers who, in other respects, entertain the same conception of\nthe peculiarities of the moderns, and trace them to the same source that\nwe do, have placed the essence of the northern poetry in melancholy; and\nto this, when properly understood, we have nothing to object.\n\nAmong the Greeks human nature was in itself all-sufficient; it was\nconscious of no defects, and aspired to no higher perfection than that\nwhich it could actually attain by the exercise of its own energies. We,\nhowever, are taught by superior wisdom that man, through a grievous\ntransgression, forfeited the place for which he was originally destined;\nand that the sole destination of his earthly existence is to struggle to\nregain his lost position, which, if left to his own strength, he can never\naccomplish. The old religion of the senses sought no higher possession\nthan outward and perishable blessings; and immortality, so far as it was\nbelieved, stood shadow-like in the obscure distance, a faint dream of this\nsunny waking life. The very reverse of all this is the case with the\nChristian view: every thing finite and mortal is lost in the contemplation\nof infinity; life has become shadow and darkness, and the first day of our\nreal existence dawns in the world beyond the grave. Such a religion must\nwaken the vague foreboding, which slumbers in every feeling heart, into a\ndistinct consciousness that the happiness after which we are here striving\nis unattainable; that no external object can ever entirely fill our souls;\nand that all earthly enjoyment is but a fleeting and momentary illusion.\nWhen the soul, resting as it were under the willows of exile, [Footnote:\n_Trauerweiden der verbannung_, literally _the weeping willows of\nbanishment_, an allusion, as every reader must know, to the 137th\nPsalm. Linnaeus, from this Psalm, calls the weeping willow _Salix\nBabylonica_.--TRANS.] breathes out its longing for its distant home,\nwhat else but melancholy can be the key-note of its songs? Hence the\npoetry of the ancients was the poetry of enjoyment, and ours is that of\ndesire: the former has its foundation in the scene which is present, while\nthe latter hovers betwixt recollection and hope. Let me not be understood\nas affirming that everything flows in one unvarying strain of wailing and\ncomplaint, and that the voice of melancholy is always loudly heard. As the\nausterity of tragedy was not incompatible with the joyous views of the\nGreeks, so that romantic poetry whose origin I have been describing, can\nassume every tone, even that of the liveliest joy; but still it will\nalways, in some indescribable way, bear traces of the source from which it\noriginated. The feeling of the moderns is, upon the whole, more inward,\ntheir fancy more incorporeal, and their thoughts more contemplative. In\nnature, it is true, the boundaries of objects run more into one another,\nand things are not so distinctly separated as we must exhibit them in\norder to convey distinct notions of them.\n\nThe Grecian ideal of human nature was perfect unison and proportion\nbetween all the powers,--a natural harmony. The moderns, on the contrary,\nhave arrived at the consciousness of an internal discord which renders\nsuch an ideal impossible; and hence the endeavour of their poetry is to\nreconcile these two worlds between which we find ourselves divided, and to\nblend them indissolubly together. The impressions of the senses are to be\nhallowed, as it were, by a mysterious connexion with higher feelings; and\nthe soul, on the other hand, embodies its forebodings, or indescribable\nintuitions of infinity, in types and symbols borrowed from the visible\nworld.\n\nIn Grecian art and poetry we find an original and unconscious unity of\nform and matter; in the modern, so far as it has remained true to its own\nspirit, we observe a keen struggle to unite the two, as being naturally in\nopposition to each other. The Grecian executed what it proposed in the\nutmost perfection; but the modern can only do justice to its endeavours\nafter what is infinite by approximation; and, from a certain appearance of\nimperfection, is in greater danger of not being duly appreciated.\n\nIt would lead us too far, if in the separate arts of architecture, music,\nand painting (for the moderns have never had a sculpture of their own), we\nshould endeavour to point out the distinctions which we have here\nannounced, to show the contrast observable in the character of the same\narts among the ancients and moderns, and at the same time to demonstrate\nthe kindred aim of both.\n\nNeither can we here enter into a more particular consideration of the\ndifferent kinds and forms of romantic poetry in general, but must return\nto our more immediate subject, which is dramatic art and literature. The\ndivision of this, as of the other departments of art, into the antique and\nthe romantic, at once points out to us the course which we have to pursue.\n\nWe shall begin with the ancients; then proceed to their imitators, their\ngenuine or supposed successors among the moderns; and lastly, we shall\nconsider those poets of later times, who, either disregarding the\nclassical models, or purposely deviating from them, have struck out a path\nfor themselves.\n\nOf the ancient dramatists, the Greeks alone are of any importance. In this\nbranch of art the Romans were at first mere translators of the Greeks, and\nafterwards imitators, and not always very successful ones. Besides, of\ntheir dramatic labours very little has been preserved. Among modern\nnations an endeavour to restore the ancient stage, and, where possible, to\nimprove it, has been shown in a very lively manner by the Italians and the\nFrench. In other nations, also, attempts of the same kind, more or less\nearnest, have at times, especially of late, been made in tragedy; for in\ncomedy, the form under which it appears in Plautus and Terence has\ncertainly been more generally prevalent. Of all studied imitations of the\nancient tragedy the French is the most brilliant essay, has acquired the\ngreatest renown, and consequently deserves the most attentive\nconsideration. After the French come the modern Italians; viz., Metastasio\nand Alfieri. The romantic drama, which, strictly speaking, can neither be\ncalled tragedy nor comedy in the sense of the ancients, is indigenous only\nto England and Spain. In both it began to flourish at the same time,\nsomewhat more than two hundred years ago, being brought to perfection by\nShakspeare in the former country, and in the latter by Lope de Vega.\n\nThe German stage is the last of all, and has been influenced in the\ngreatest variety of ways by all those which preceded it. It will be most\nappropriate, therefore, to enter upon its consideration last of all. By\nthis course we shall be better enabled to judge of the directions which it\nhas hitherto taken, and to point out the prospects which are still open to\nit.\n\nWhen I promise to go through the history of the Greek and Roman, of the\nItalian and French, and of the English and Spanish theatres, in the few\nhours which are dedicated to these Lectures, I wish it to be understood\nthat I can only enter into such an account of them as will comprehend\ntheir most essential peculiarities under general points of view. Although\nI confine myself to a single domain of poetry, still the mass of materials\ncomprehended within it is too extensive to be taken in by the eye at once,\nand this would be the case were I even to limit myself to one of its\nsubordinate departments. We might read ourselves to death with farces. In\nthe ordinary histories of literature the poets of one language, and one\ndescription, are enumerated in succession, without any further\ndiscrimination, like the Assyrian and Egyptian kings in the old universal\nhistories. There are persons who have an unconquerable passion for the\ntitles of books, and we willingly concede to them the privilege of\nincreasing their number by books on the titles of books. It is much the\nsame thing, however, as in the history of a war to give the name of every\nsoldier who fought in the ranks of the hostile armies. It is usual,\nhowever, to speak only of the generals, and those who may have performed\nactions of distinction. In like manner the battles of the human mind, if I\nmay use the expression, have been won by a few intellectual heroes. The\nhistory of the development of art and its various forms may be therefore\nexhibited in the characters of a number, by no means considerable, of\nelevated and creative minds.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE II.\n\nDefinition of the Drama--View of the Theatres of all Nations--Theatrical\nEffect--Importance of the Stage--Principal Species of the Drama.\n\n\nBefore, however, entering upon such a history as we have now described, it\nwill be necessary to examine what is meant by _dramatic_, _theatrical_,\n_tragic_, and _comic_.\n\nWhat is dramatic? To many the answer will seem very easy: where various\npersons are introduced conversing together, and the poet does not speak in\nhis own person. This is, however, merely the first external foundation of\nthe form; and that is dialogue. But the characters may express thoughts\nand sentiments without operating any change on each other, and so leave\nthe minds of both in exactly the same state in which they were at the\ncommencement; in such a case, however interesting the conversation may be,\nit cannot be said to possess a dramatic interest. I shall make this clear\nby alluding to a more tranquil species of dialogue, not adapted for the\nstage, the philosophic. When, in Plato, Socrates asks the conceited\nsophist Hippias, what is the meaning of the beautiful, the latter is at\nonce ready with a superficial answer, but is afterwards compelled by the\nironical objections of Socrates to give up his former definition, and to\ngrope about him for other ideas, till, ashamed at last and irritated at\nthe superiority of the sage who has convicted him of his ignorance, he is\nforced to quit the field: this dialogue is not merely philosophically\ninstructive, but arrests the attention like a drama in miniature. And\njustly, therefore, has this lively movement in the thoughts, this stretch\nof expectation for the issue, in a word, the dramatic cast of the\ndialogues of Plato, been always celebrated.\n\nFrom this we may conceive wherein consists the great charm of dramatic\npoetry. Action is the true enjoyment of life, nay, life itself. Mere\npassive enjoyments may lull us into a state of listless complacency, but\neven then, if possessed of the least internal activity, we cannot avoid\nbeing soon wearied. The great bulk of mankind merely from their situation\nin life, or from their incapacity for extraordinary exertions, are\nconfined within a narrow circle of insignificant operations. Their days\nflow on in succession under the sleepy rule of custom, their life advances\nby an insensible progress, and the bursting torrent of the first passions\nof youth soon settles into a stagnant marsh. From the discontent which\nthis occasions they are compelled to have recourse to all sorts of\ndiversions, which uniformly consist in a species of occupation that may be\nrenounced at pleasure, and though a struggle with difficulties, yet with\ndifficulties that are easily surmounted. But of all diversions the theatre\nis undoubtedly the most entertaining. Here we may see others act even when\nwe cannot act to any great purpose ourselves. The highest object of human\nactivity is man, and in the drama we see men, measuring their powers with\neach other, as intellectual and moral beings, either as friends or foes,\ninfluencing each other by their opinions, sentiments, and passions, and\ndecisively determining their reciprocal relations and circumstances. The\nart of the poet accordingly consists in separating from the fable whatever\ndoes not essentially belong to it, whatever, in the daily necessities of\nreal life, and the petty occupations to which they give rise, interrupts\nthe progress of important actions, and concentrating within a narrow space\na number of events calculated to attract the minds of the hearers and to\nfill them with attention and expectation. In this manner he gives us a\nrenovated picture of life; a compendium of whatever is moving and\nprogressive in human existence.\n\nBut this is not all. Even in a lively oral narration, it is not unusual to\nintroduce persons in conversation with each other, and to give a\ncorresponding variety to the tone and the expression. But the gaps, which\nthese conversations leave in the story, the narrator fills up in his own\nname with a description of the accompanying circumstances, and other\nparticulars. The dramatic poet must renounce all such expedients; but for\nthis he is richly recompensed in the following invention. He requires each\nof the characters in his story to be personated by a living individual;\nthat this individual should, in sex, age, and figure, meet as near as may\nbe the prevalent conceptions of his fictitious original, nay, assume his\nentire personality; that every speech should be delivered in a suitable\ntone of voice, and accompanied by appropriate action and gesture; and that\nthose external circumstances should be added which are necessary to give\nthe hearers a clear idea of what is going forward. Moreover, these\nrepresentatives of the creatures of his imagination must appear in the\ncostume belonging to their assumed rank, and to their age and country;\npartly for the sake of greater resemblance, and partly because, even in\ndress, there is something characteristic. Lastly, he must see them placed\nin a locality, which, in some degree, resembles that where, according to\nhis fable, the action took place, because this also contributes to the\nresemblance: he places them, _i.e._, on a scene. All this brings us to the\nidea of the _theatre_. It is evident that the very form of dramatic\npoetry, that is, the exhibition of an action by dialogue without the aid\nof narrative, implies the theatre as its necessary complement. We allow\nthat there are dramatic works which were not originally designed for\nthe stage, and not calculated to produce any great effect there, which\nnevertheless afford great pleasure in the perusal. I am, however, very\nmuch inclined to doubt whether they would produce the same strong\nimpression, with which they affect us, upon a person who had never seen or\nheard a description of a theatre. In reading dramatic works, we are\naccustomed ourselves to supply the representation.\n\nThe invention of dramatic art, and of the theatre, seems a very obvious\nand natural one. Man has a great disposition to mimicry; when he enters\nvividly into the situation, sentiments, and passions of others, he\ninvoluntarily puts on a resemblance to them in his gestures. Children are\nperpetually going out of themselves; it is one of their chief amusements\nto represent those grown people whom they have had an opportunity of\nobserving, or whatever strikes their fancy; and with the happy pliancy of\ntheir imagination, they can exhibit all the characteristics of any dignity\nthey may choose to assume, be it that of a father, a schoolmaster, or a\nking. But one step more was requisite for the invention of the drama,\nnamely, to separate and extract the mimetic elements from the separate\nparts of social life, and to present them to itself again collectively in\none mass; yet in many nations it has not been taken. In the very minute\ndescription of ancient Egypt given by Herodotus and other writers, I do\nnot recollect observing the smallest trace of it. The Etruscans, on the\ncontrary, who in many respects resembled the Egyptians, had theatrical\nrepresentations; and what is singular enough, the Etruscan name for an\nactor _histrio_, is preserved in living languages even to the present\nday. The Arabians and Persians, though possessed of a rich poetical\nliterature, are unacquainted with the drama. It was the same with Europe\nin the Middle Ages. On the introduction of Christianity, the plays handed\ndown from the Greeks and Romans were set aside, partly because they had\nreference to heathen ideas, and partly because they had degenerated into\nthe most shameless immorality; nor were they again revived till after the\nlapse of nearly a thousand years. Even in the fourteenth century, in that\ncomplete picture which Boccacio gives us of the existing frame of society,\nwe do not find the smallest trace of plays. In place of them they had\nsimply their _conteurs_, _menestriers_, _jongleurs_. On the other hand we\nare by no means entitled to assume that the invention of the drama was\nmade once for all in the world, to be afterwards borrowed by one people\nfrom another. The English circumnavigators tell us, that among the\nislanders of the South Seas, who in every mental qualification and\nacquirement are at the lowest grade of civilization, they yet observed a\nrude drama in which a common incident in life was imitated for the sake of\ndiversion. And to pass to the other extremity of the world, among the\nIndians, whose social institutions and mental cultivation descend\nunquestionably from a remote antiquity, plays were known long before they\ncould have experienced any foreign influence. It has lately been made\nknown to Europe that they possess a rich dramatic literature, which goes\nbackward through nearly two thousand years. The only specimen of their\nplays (nataks) hitherto known to us in the delightful Sakontala, which,\nnotwithstanding the foreign colouring of its native climate, bears in its\ngeneral structure such a striking resemblance to our own romantic drama,\nthat we might be inclined to suspect we owe this resemblance to the\npredilection for Shakspeare entertained by the English translator (Sir\nWilliam Jones), if his fidelity were not attested by other learned\norientalists. The drama, indeed, seems to have been a favourite amusement\nof the Native Princes; and to owe to this circumstance that tone of\nrefined society which prevails in it. Uggargini (Oude?) is specially named\nas a seat of this art. Under the Mahommedan rulers it naturally fell into\ndecay: the national tongue was strange to them, Persian being the language\nof the court; and moreover, the mythology which was so intimately\ninterwoven with poetry was irreconcilable with their religious notions.\nGenerally, indeed, we know of no Mahommedan nation that has accomplished\nany thing in dramatic poetry, or even had any notion of it. The Chinese\nagain have their standing national theatre, standing perhaps in every\nsense of the word; and I do not doubt, that in the establishment of\narbitrary rules, and the delicate observance of insignificant\nconventionalities, they leave the most correct Europeans very far behind\nthem. When the new European stage sprung up in the fifteenth century, with\nits allegorical and religious pieces called Moralities and Mysteries, its\nrise was uninfluenced by the ancient dramatists, who did not come into\ncirculation till some time afterwards. In those rude beginnings lay the\ngerm of the romantic drama as a peculiar invention.\n\nIn this wide diffusion of theatrical entertainments, the great difference\nin dramatic talent which subsists between nations equally distinguished\nfor intellect, is something remarkable; so that theatrical talent would\nseem to be a peculiar quality, essentially distinct from the poetical gift\nin general. We do not wonder at the contrast in this respect between the\nGreeks and the Romans, for the Greeks were altogether a nation of artists,\nand the Romans a practical people. Among the latter the fine arts were\nintroduced as a corrupting article of luxury, both betokening and\naccelerating the degeneracy of the times. They carried this luxury so far\nwith respect to the theatre itself, that the perfection in essentials was\nsacrificed to the accessories of embellishment. Even among the Greeks\ndramatic talent was far from universal. The theatre was invented in\nAthens, and in Athens alone was it brought to perfection. The Doric dramas\nof Epicharmus form only a slight exception to the truth of this remark.\nAll the great creative dramatists of the Greeks were born in Attica, and\nformed their style in Athens. Widely as the Grecian race was spread,\nsuccessfully as everywhere almost it cultivated the fine arts, yet beyond\nthe bounds of Attica it was content to admire, without venturing to rival,\nthe productions of the Athenian stage.\n\nEqually remarkable is the difference in this respect between the Spaniards\nand their neighbours the Portuguese, though related to them both by\ndescent and by language. The Spaniards possess a dramatic literature of\ninexhaustible wealth; in fertility their dramatists resemble the Greeks,\namong whom more than a hundred pieces can frequently be assigned by name\nto a single author. Whatever judgment may be pronounced on them in other\nrespects, the praise of invention has never yet been denied to them; their\nclaim to this has in fact been but too well established, since Italian,\nFrench, and English writers have all availed themselves of the ingenious\ninventions of the Spaniards, and often without acknowledging the source\nfrom which they derived them. The Portuguese, on the other hand, while in\nthe other branches of poetry they rival the Spaniards, have in this\ndepartment accomplished hardly anything, and have never even possessed a\nnational theatre; visited from time to time by strolling players from\nSpain, they chose rather to listen to a foreign dialect, which, without\nprevious study, they could not perfectly understand, than to invent, or\neven to translate and imitate, for themselves.\n\nOf the many talents for art and literature displayed by the Italians, the\ndramatic is by no means pre-eminent, and this defect they seem to have\ninherited from the Romans, in the same manner as their great talent for\nmimicry and buffoonery goes back to the most ancient times. The\nextemporary compositions called _Fabulae Atellanae_, the only original and\nnational form of the Roman drama, in respect of plan, were not perhaps\nmore perfect than the so-called _Commedia dell' Arte_, in which, the parts\nbeing fixed and invariable, the dialogue is extemporised by masked actors.\nIn the ancient Saturnalia we have probably the germ of the present\ncarnival, which is entirely an Italian invention. The Opera and the Ballet\nwere also the invention of the Italians: two species of theatrical\namusement, in which the dramatic interest is entirely subordinate to music\nand dancing.\n\nIf the German mind has not developed itself in the drama with the same\nfulness and ease as in other departments of literature, this defect is\nperhaps to be accounted for by the peculiar character of the nation. The\nGermans are a speculative people; in other words, they wish to discover by\nreflection and meditation, the principle of whatever they engage in. On\nthat very account they are not sufficiently practical; for if we wish to\nact with skill and determination, we must make up our minds that we have\nsomehow or other become masters of our subject, and not be perpetually\nrecurring to an examination of the theory on which it rests; we must, as\nit were, have settled down and contented ourselves with a certain partial\napprehension of the idea. But now in the invention and conduct of a drama\nthe practical spirit must prevail: the dramatic poet is not allowed to\ndream away under his inspiration, he must take the straightest road to his\nend; but the Germans are only too apt to lose sight of the object in the\ncourse of their way to it. Besides, in the drama the nationality does\nusually, nay, must show itself in the most marked manner, and the national\ncharacter of the Germans is modest and retiring: it loves not to make a\nnoisy display of itself; and the noble endeavour to become acquainted\nwith, and to appropriate to itself whatever is excellent in others, is not\nseldom accompanied with an undervaluing of its own worth. For these\nreasons the German stage has often, in form and matter, been more than\nduly affected by foreign influence. Not indeed that the Germans propose to\nthemselves no higher object than the mere passive repetition of the\nGrecian, the French, the Spanish, or the English theatre; but, as it\nappears to me, they are in search of a more perfect form, which, excluding\nall that is merely local or temporary, may combine whatever is truly\npoetical in all these theatres. In the matter, however, the German\nnational features ought certainly to predominate.\n\nAfter this rapid sketch of what may be called the map of dramatic\nliterature, we return to the examination of its fundamental ideas. Since,\nas we have already shown, visible representation is essential to the very\nform of the drama; a dramatic work may always be regarded from a double\npoint of view,--how far it is _poetical_, and how far it is _theatrical_.\nThe two are by no means inseparable. Let not, however, the expression\n_poetical_ be misunderstood: I am not now speaking of the versification\nand the ornaments of language; these, when not animated by some higher\nexcellence, are the least effective on the stage; but I speak of the\npoetry in the spirit and design of a piece; and this may exist in as high\na degree when the drama is written in prose as in verse. What is it, then,\nthat makes a drama poetical? The very same, assuredly, that makes other\nworks so. It must in the first place be a connected whole, complete and\nsatisfactory within itself. But this is merely the negative definition of\na work of art, by which it is distinguished from the phenomena of nature,\nwhich run into each other, and do not possess in themselves a complete and\nindependent existence. To be poetical it is necessary that a composition\nshould be a mirror of ideas, that is, thoughts and feelings which in their\ncharacter are necessary and eternally true, and soar above this earthly\nlife, and also that it should exhibit them embodied before us. What the\nideas are, which in this view are essential to the different departments\nof the drama, will hereafter be the subject of our investigation. We shall\nalso, on the other hand, show that without them a drama becomes altogether\nprosaic and empirical, that is to say, patched together by the\nunderstanding out of the observations it has gathered from literal\nreality.\n\nBut how does a dramatic work become theatrical, or fitted to appear with\nadvantage on the stage? In single instances it is often difficult to\ndetermine whether a work possesses such a property or not. It is indeed\nfrequently the subject of great controversy, especially when the self-love\nof authors and actors comes into collision; each shifts the blame of\nfailure on the other, and those who advocate the cause of the author\nappeal to an imaginary perfection of the histrionic art, and complain of\nthe insufficiency of the existing means for its realization. But in\ngeneral the answer to this question is by no means so difficult. The\nobject proposed is to produce an impression on an assembled multitude, to\nrivet their attention, and to excite their interest and sympathy. In this\nrespect the poet's occupation coincides with that of the orator. How then\ndoes the latter attain his end? By perspicuity, rapidity, and energy.\nWhatever exceeds the ordinary measure of patience or comprehension he must\ndiligently avoid. Moreover, when a number of men are assembled together,\nthey mutually distract each other's attention whenever their eyes and ears\nare not drawn to a common object without and beyond themselves.\n\nHence the dramatic poet, as well as the orator, must from the very\ncommencement, by strong impressions, transport his hearers out of\nthemselves, and, as it were, take bodily possession of their attention.\nThere is a species of poetry which gently stirs a mind attuned to solitary\ncontemplation, as soft breezes elicit melody from the Aeolian harp.\nHowever excellent this poetry may be in itself, without some other\naccompaniments its tones would be lost on the stage. The melting\n_harmonica_ is not calculated to regulate the march of an army, and\nkindle its military enthusiasm. For this we must have piercing\ninstruments, but above all a strongly-marked rhythm, to quicken the\npulsation and give a more rapid movement to the animal spirits. The grand\nrequisite in a drama is to make this rhythm perceptible in the onward\nprogress of the action. When this has once been effected, the poet may all\nthe sooner halt in his rapid career, and indulge the bent of his own\ngenius. There are points, when the most elaborate and polished style, the\nmost enthusiastic lyrics, the most profound thoughts and remote allusions,\nthe smartest coruscations of wit, and the most dazzling flights of a\nsportive or ethereal fancy, are all in their place, and when the willing\naudience, even those who cannot entirely comprehend them, follow the whole\nwith a greedy ear, like music in unison with their feelings. Here the\npoet's great art lies in availing himself of the effect of contrasts,\nwhich enable him at one time to produce calm repose, profound\ncontemplation, and even the self-abandoned indifference of exhaustion, or\nat another, the most tumultuous emotions, the most violent storm of the\npassions. With respect to theatrical fitness, however, it must not be\nforgotten that much must always depend on the capacities and humours of\nthe audience, and, consequently, on the national character in general, and\nthe particular degree of mental culture. Of all kinds of poetry the\ndramatic is, in a certain sense, the most secular; for, issuing from the\nstillness of an inspired mind, it yet fears not to exhibit itself in the\nmidst of the noise and tumult of social life. The dramatic poet is, more\nthan any other, obliged to court external favour and loud applause. But of\ncourse it is only in appearance that he thus lowers himself to his\nhearers; while, in reality, he is elevating them to himself.\n\nIn thus producing an impression on an assembled multitude the following\ncircumstance deserves to be weighed, in order to ascertain the whole\namount of its importance. In ordinary intercourse men exhibit only the\noutward man to each other. They are withheld by mistrust or indifference\nfrom allowing others to look into what passes within them; and to speak\nwith any thing like emotion or agitation of that which is nearest our\nheart is considered unsuitable to the tone of polished society. The orator\nand the dramatist find means to break through these barriers of\nconventional reserve. While they transport their hearers into such lively\nemotions that the outward signs thereof break forth involuntarily, every\nman perceives those around him to be affected in the same manner and\ndegree, and those who before were strangers to one another, become in a\nmoment intimately acquainted. The tears which the dramatist or the orator\ncompels them to shed for calumniated innocence or dying heroism, make\nfriends and brothers of them all. Almost inconceivable is the power of a\nvisible communion of numbers to give intensity to those feelings of the\nheart which usually retire into privacy, or only open themselves to the\nconfidence of friendship. The faith in the validity of such emotions\nbecomes irrefragable from its diffusion; we feel ourselves strong among so\nmany associates, and all hearts and minds flow together in one great and\nirresistible stream. On this very account the privilege of influencing an\nassembled crowd is exposed to most dangerous abuses. As one may\ndisinterestedly animate them, for the noblest and best of purposes, so\nanother may entangle them in the deceitful meshes of sophistry, and dazzle\nthem by the glare of a false magnanimity, whose vainglorious crimes may be\npainted as virtues and even as sacrifices. Beneath the delightful charms\nof oratory and poetry, the poison steals imperceptibly into ear and heart.\nAbove all others must the comic poet (seeing that his very occupation\nkeeps him always on the slippery brink of this precipice,) take heed, lest\nhe afford an opportunity for the lower and baser parts of human nature to\ndisplay themselves without restraint. When the sense of shame which\nordinarily keeps these baser propensities within the bounds of decency, is\nonce weakened by the sight of others' participation in them, our inherent\nsympathy with what is vile will soon break out into the most unbridled\nlicentiousness.\n\nThe powerful nature of such an engine for either good or bad purposes has\nin all times justly drawn the attention of the legislature to the drama.\nMany regulations have been devised by different governments, to render it\nsubservient to their views and to guard against its abuse. The great\ndifficulty is to combine such a degree of freedom as is necessary for the\nproduction of works of excellence, with the precautions demanded by the\ncustoms and institutions of the different states. In Athens the theatre\nenjoyed up to its maturity, under the patronage of religion, almost\nunlimited freedom, and the public morality preserved it for a time from\ndegeneracy. The comedies of Aristophanes, which with our views and habits\nappear to us so intolerably licentious, and in which the senate and the\npeople itself are unmercifully turned to ridicule, were the seal of\nAthenian freedom. To meet this abuse, Plato, who lived in the very same\nAthens, and either witnessed or foresaw the decline of art, proposed the\nentire banishment of dramatic poets from his ideal republic. Few states,\nhowever, have conceived it necessary to subscribe to this severe sentence\nof condemnation; but few also have thought proper to leave the theatre to\nitself without any superintendence. In many Christian countries the\ndramatic art has been honoured by being made subservient to religion, in\nthe popular treatment and exhibition of religious subjects; and in Spain\nmore especially competition in this department has given birth to many\nworks which, neither devotion nor poetry will disown. In other states and\nunder other circumstances this has been thought both objectionable and\ninexpedient. Wherever, however, the subsequent responsibility of the poet\nand actor has been thought insufficient, and it has been deemed advisable\nto submit every piece before its appearance on the stage to a previous\ncensorship, it has been generally found to fail in the very point which is\nof the greatest importance: namely, the spirit and general impression of a\nplay. From the nature of the dramatic art, the poet must put into the\nmouths of his characters much of which he does not himself approve, while\nwith respect to his own sentiments he claims to be judged by the spirit\nand connexion of the whole. It may again happen that a piece is perfectly\ninoffensive in its single speeches, and defies all censorship, while as a\nwhole it is calculated to produce the most pernicious effect. We have in\nour own times seen but too many plays favourably received throughout\nEurope, over-flowing with ebullitions of good-heartedness and traits of\nmagnanimity, and in which, notwithstanding, a keener eye cannot fail to\ndetect the hidden purpose of the writer to sap the foundations of moral\nprinciple, and the veneration for whatever ought to be held sacred by man;\nwhile all this sentimentality is only to bribe to his purpose the\neffeminate soft-heartedness of his contemporaries [Footnote: The author it\nis supposed alludes to Kotzebue.--TRANS.]. On the other hand, if any\nperson were to undertake the moral vindication of poor Aristophanes, who\nhas such a bad name, and whose licentiousness in particular passages, is\nto our ideas quite intolerable, he will find good grounds for his defence\nin the general object of his pieces, in which he at least displays the\nsentiments of a patriotic citizen.\n\nThe purport of these observations is to evince the importance of the\nsubject we are considering. The theatre, where many arts are combined to\nproduce a magical effect; where the most lofty and profound poetry has for\nits interpreter the most finished action, which is at once eloquence and\nan animated picture; while architecture contributes her splendid\ndecorations, and painting her perspective illusions, and the aid of music\nis called in to attune the mind, or to heighten by its strains the\nemotions which already agitate it; the theatre, in short, where the whole\nof the social and artistic enlightenment, which a nation possesses, the\nfruit of many centuries of continued exertion, are brought into play\nwithin the representation of a few short hours, has an extraordinary charm\nfor every age, sex, and rank, and has ever been the favourite amusement of\nevery cultivated people. Here, princes, statesmen, and generals, behold\nthe great events of past times, similar to those in which they themselves\nare called upon to act, laid open in their inmost springs and motives;\nhere, too, the philosopher finds subject for profoundest reflection on the\nnature and constitution of man; with curious eye the artist follows the\ngroups which pass rapidly before him, and from them impresses on his fancy\nthe germ of many a future picture; the susceptible youth opens his heart\nto every elevating feeling; age becomes young again in recollection; even\nchildhood sits with anxious expectation before the gaudy curtain, which is\nsoon to be drawn up with its rustling sound, and to display to it so many\nunknown wonders: all alike are diverted, all exhilarated, and all feel\nthemselves for a time raised above the daily cares, the troubles, and the\nsorrows of life. As the drama, with the arts which are subservient to it,\nmay, from neglect and the mutual contempt of artists and the public, so\nfar degenerate, as to become nothing better than a trivial and stupid\namusement, and even a downright waste of time, we conceive that we are\nattempting something more than a passing entertainment, if we propose to\nenter on a consideration of the works produced by the most distinguished\nnations in their most brilliant periods, and to institute an inquiry into\nthe means of ennobling and perfecting so important an art.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE III.\n\nEssence of Tragedy and Comedy--Earnestness and Sport--How far it is\npossible to become acquainted with the Ancients without knowing Original\nLanguages--Winkelmann.\n\n\nThe importance of our subject is, I think, fully proved. Let us now enter\nupon a brief consideration of the two kinds into which all dramatic poetry\nis divided, the _tragic_ and _comic_, and examine the meaning and import\nof each.\n\nThe three principal kinds of poetry in general are the epic, the lyric,\nand the dramatic. All the other subordinate species are either derived\nfrom these, or formed by combination from them. If we would consider these\nthree leading kinds in their purity, we must go back to the forms in which\nthey appeared among the Greeks. For the theory of poetical art is most\nconveniently illustrated by the history of Grecian poetry; for the latter\nis well entitled to the appellation of systematical, since it furnishes\nfor every independent idea derived from experience the most distinct and\nprecise manifestation.\n\nIt is singular that epic and lyric poetry admit not of any such precise\ndivision into two opposite species, as the dramatic does. The ludicrous\nepopee has, it is true, been styled a peculiar species, but it is only an\naccidental variety, a mere parody of the epos, and consists in applying\nits solemn staidness of development, which seems only suitable to great\nobjects, to trifling and insignificant events. In lyric poetry there are\nonly intervals and gradations between the song, the ode, and the elegy,\nbut no proper contrast.\n\nThe spirit of epic poetry, as we recognise it in its father, Homer, is\nclear self-possession. The epos is the calm quiet representation of an\naction in progress. The poet relates joyful as well as mournful events,\nbut he relates them with equanimity, and considers them as already past,\nand at a certain remoteness from our minds.\n\nThe lyric poem is the musical expression of mental emotions by language.\nThe essence of musical feeling consists in this, that we endeavour with\ncomplacency to dwell on, and even to perpetuate in our souls, a joyful or\npainful emotion. The feeling must consequently be already so far mitigated\nas not to impel us by the desire of its pleasure or the dread of its pain,\nto tear ourselves from it, but such as to allow us, unconcerned at the\nfluctuations of feeling which time produces, to dwell upon and be absorbed\nin a single moment of existence.\n\nThe dramatic poet, as well as the epic, represents external events, but he\nrepresents them as real and present. In common with the lyric poet he also\nclaims our mental participation, but not in the same calm composedness;\nthe feeling of joy and sorrow which the dramatist excites is more\nimmediate and vehement. He calls forth all the emotions which the sight of\nsimilar deeds and fortunes of living men would elicit, and it is only by\nthe total sum of the impression which he produces that he ultimately\nresolves these conflicting emotions into a harmonious tone of feeling. As\nhe stands in such close proximity to real life, and endeavours to endue\nhis own imaginary creations with vitality, the equanimity of the epic poet\nwould in him be indifference; he must decidedly take part with one or\nother of the leading views of human life, and constrain his audience also\nto participate in the same feeling.\n\nTo employ simpler and more intelligible language: the _tragic_ and\n_comic_ bear the same relation to one another as _earnest_ and _sport_.\nEvery man, from his own experience, is acquainted with both these states\nof mind; but to determine their essence and their source would demand deep\nphilosophical investigation. Both, indeed, bear the stamp of our common\nnature; but earnestness belongs more to its moral, and mirth to its animal\npart. The creatures destitute of reason are incapable either of earnest or\nof sport. Animals seem indeed at times to labour as if they were earnestly\nintent upon some aim, and as if they made the present moment subordinate\nto the future; at other times they seem to sport, that is, they give\nthemselves up without object or purpose to the pleasure of existence: but\nthey do not possess consciousness, which alone can entitle these two\nconditions to the names of earnest and sport. Man alone, of all the\nanimals with which we are acquainted, is capable of looking back towards\nthe past, and forward into futurity; and he has to purchase the enjoyment\nof this noble privilege at a dear rate. Earnestness, in the most extensive\nsignification, is the direction of our mental powers to some aim. But as\nsoon as we begin to call ourselves to account for our actions, reason\ncompels us to fix this aim higher and higher, till we come at last to the\nhighest end of our existence: and here that longing for the infinite which\nis inherent in our being, is baffled by the limits of our finite\nexistence. All that we do, all that we effect, is vain and perishable;\ndeath stands everywhere in the back ground, and to it every well or ill-\nspent moment brings us nearer and closer; and even when a man has been so\nsingularly fortunate as to reach the utmost term of life without any\ngrievous calamity, the inevitable doom still awaits him to leave or to be\nleft by all that is most dear to him on earth. There is no bond of love\nwithout a separation, no enjoyment without the grief of losing it. When,\nhowever, we contemplate the relations of our existence to the extreme\nlimit of possibilities: when we reflect on its entire dependence on a\nchain of causes and effects, stretching beyond our ken: when we consider\nhow weak and helpless, and doomed to struggle against the enormous powers\nof nature, and conflicting appetites, we are cast on the shores of an\nunknown world, as it were, shipwrecked at our very birth; how we are\nsubject to all kinds of errors and deceptions, any one of which may\nbe our ruin; that in our passions we cherish an enemy in our bosoms; how\nevery moment demands from us, in the name of the most sacred duties, the\nsacrifice of our dearest inclinations, and how at one blow we may be\nrobbed of all that we have acquired with much toil and difficulty; that\nwith every accession to our stores, the risk of loss is proportionately\nincreased, and we are only the more exposed to the malice of hostile\nfortune: when we think upon all this, every heart which is not dead to\nfeeling must be overpowered by an inexpressible melancholy, for which\nthere is no other counter-poise than the consciousness of a vocation\ntranscending the limits of this earthly life. This is the tragic tone of\nmind; and when the thought of the possible issues out of the mind as a\nliving reality, when this tone pervades and animates a visible\nrepresentation of the most striking instances of violent revolutions in a\nman's fortunes, either prostrating his mental energies or calling forth\nthe most heroic endurance--then the result is _Tragic Poetry_. We thus see\nhow this kind of poetry has its foundation in our nature, while to a\ncertain extent we have also answered the question, why we are fond of\nsuch mournful representations, and even find something consoling and\nelevating in them? This tone of mind we have described is inseparable from\nstrong feeling; and although poetry cannot remove these internal\ndissonances, she must at least endeavour to effect an ideal reconciliation\nof them.\n\nAs earnestness, in the highest degree, is the essence of tragic\nrepresentation; so is sport of the comic. The disposition to mirth is a\nforgetfulness of all gloomy considerations in the pleasant feeling of\npresent happiness. We are then inclined to view every thing in a sportive\nlight, and to allow nothing to disturb or ruffle our minds. The\nimperfections and the irregularities of men are no longer an object of\ndislike and compassion, but serve, by their strange inconsistencies, to\nentertain the understanding and to amuse the fancy. The comic poet must\ntherefore carefully abstain from whatever is calculated to excite moral\nindignation at the conduct, or sympathy with the situations of his\npersonages, because this would inevitably bring us back again into\nearnestness. He must paint their irregularities as springing out of the\npredominance of the animal part of their nature, and the incidents which\nbefal them as merely ludicrous distresses, which will be attended with no\nfatal consequences. This is uniformly what takes place in what we call\nComedy, in which, however, there is still a mixture of seriousness, as I\nshall show in the sequel. The oldest comedy of the Greeks was, however,\nentirely sportive, and in that respect formed the most complete contrast\nto their tragedy. Not only were the characters and situations of\nindividuals worked up into a comic picture of real life, but the whole\nframe of society, the constitution, nature, and the gods, were all\nfantastically painted in the most ridiculous and laughable colours.\n\nWhen we have formed in this manner a pure idea of the tragic and comic, as\nexhibited to us in Grecian examples, we shall then be enabled to analyze\nthe various corruptions of both, which the moderns have invented, to\ndiscriminate their incongruous additions, and to separate their several\ningredients.\n\nIn the history of poetry and the fine arts among the Greeks, their\ndevelopment was subject to an invariable law. Everything heterogeneous was\nfirst excluded, and then all homogeneous elements were combined, and each\nbeing perfected in itself, at last elevated into an independent and\nharmonious unity. Hence with them each species is confined within its\nnatural boundaries, and the different styles distinctly marked. In\nbeginning, therefore, with the history of the Grecian art and poetry, we\nare not merely observing the order of time, but also the order of ideas.\n\nIn the case of the majority of my hearers, I can hardly presume upon a\ndirect acquaintance with the Greeks, derived from the study of their\npoetical works in the original language. Translations in prose, or even in\nverse, in which they are but dressed up again in the modern taste, can\nafford no true idea of the Grecian drama. True and faithful translations,\nwhich endeavour in expression and versification to rise to the height of\nthe original, have as yet been attempted only in Germany. But although our\nlanguage is extremely flexible, and in many respects resembling the Greek,\nit is after all a battle with unequal weapons; and stiffness and harshness\nnot unfrequently take the place of the easy sweetness of the Greek. But we\nare even far from having yet done all that can perhaps be accomplished: I\nknow of no translation of a Greek tragedian deserving of unqualified\npraise. But even supposing the translation as perfect as possible, and\ndeviating very slightly from the original, the reader who is unacquainted\nwith the other works of the Greeks, will be perpetually disturbed by the\nforeign nature of the subject, by national peculiarities and numerous\nallusions (which cannot be understood without some scholarship), and thus\nunable to comprehend particular parts, he will be prevented from forming a\nclear idea of the whole. So long as we have to struggle with difficulties\nit is impossible to have any true enjoyment of a work of art. To feel the\nancients as we ought, we must have become in some degree one of\nthemselves, and breathed as it were the Grecian air.\n\nWhat is the best means of becoming imbued with the spirit of the Greeks,\nwithout a knowledge of their language? I answer without hesitation,--the\nstudy of the antique; and if this is not always possible through the\noriginals, yet, by means of casts, it is to a certain extent within the\npower of every man. These models of the human form require no\ninterpretation; their elevated character is imperishable, and will always\nbe recognized through all vicissitudes of time, and in every region under\nheaven, wherever there exists a noble race of men akin to the Grecian (as\nthe European undoubtedly is), and wherever the unkindness of nature has\nnot degraded the human features too much below the pure standard, and, by\nhabituating them to their own deformity, rendered them insensible to\ngenuine corporeal beauty. Respecting the inimitable perfection of the\nantique in its few remains of a first-rate character, there is but one\nvoice throughout the whole of civilized Europe; and if ever their merit\nwas called in question, it was in times when the modern arts of design had\nsunk to the lowest depths of mannerism. Not only all intelligent artists,\nbut all men of any degree of taste, bow with enthusiastic adoration before\nthe masterly productions of ancient sculpture.\n\nThe best guide to conduct us to this sanctuary of the beautiful, with deep\nand thoughtful contemplation, is the History of Art by our immortal\nWinkelmann. In the description of particular works it no doubt leaves much\nto be desired; nay, it even abounds in grave errors, but no man has so\ndeeply penetrated into the innermost spirit of Grecian art. Winkelmann\ntransformed himself completely into an ancient, and seemingly lived in his\nown century, unmoved by its spirit and influences.\n\nThe immediate subject of his work is the plastic arts, but it contains\nalso many important hints concerning other branches of Grecian\ncivilisation, and is very useful as a preparation for the understanding of\ntheir poetry, and especially their dramatic poetry. As the latter was\ndesigned for visible representation before spectators, whose eye must have\nbeen as difficult to please on the stage as elsewhere, we have no better\nmeans of feeling the whole dignity of their tragic exhibitions, and of\ngiving it a sort of theatrical animation, than to keep these forms of gods\nand heroes ever present to our fancy. The assertion may appear somewhat\nstrange at present, but I hope in the sequel to demonstrate its justice:\nit is only before the groups of Niobe or Laoco\u00f6n that we first enter into\nthe spirit of the tragedies of Sophocles.\n\nWe are yet in want of a work in which the entire poetic, artistic,\nscientific, and social culture of the Greeks should be painted as one\ngrand and harmonious whole, as a true work of nature, prevaded by the most\nwondrous symmetry and proportion of the parts, and traced through its\nconnected development in the same spirit which Winkelmann has executed in\nthe part which he attempted. An attempt has indeed been made in a popular\nwork, which is in everybody's hands, I mean the _Travels of the Younger\nAnacharsis_. This book is valuable for its learning, and may be very\nuseful in diffusing a knowledge of antiquities; but, without censuring the\nerror of the dress in which it is exhibited, it betrays more good-will to\ndo justice to the Greeks, than ability to enter deeply into their spirit.\nIn this respect the work is in many points superficial, and even\ndisfigured with modern views. It is not the travels of a young Scythian,\nbut of an old Parisian.\n\nThe superior excellence of the Greeks in the fine arts, as I have already\nsaid, is the most universally acknowledged. An enthusiasm for their\nliterature is in a great measure confined to the English and Germans,\namong whom also the study of the Grecian language is the most zealously\nprosecuted. It is singular that the French critics of all others, they who\nso zealously acknowledge the remains of the theoretical writings of the\nancients on literature, Aristotle, Horace, Quinctilian, &c., as infallible\nstandards of taste, should yet distinguish themselves by the contemptuous\nand irreverent manner in which they speak of their poetical compositions,\nand especially of their dramatic literature. Look, for instance, into a\nbook very much read,--La Harpe's _Cours de Litt\u00e9rature_. It contains\nmany acute remarks on the French Theatre; but whoever should think to\nlearn the Greeks from it must be very ill advised: the author was as\ndeficient in a solid knowledge of their literature as in a sense for\nappreciating it. Voltaire, also, often speaks most unwarrantably on this\nsubject: he elevates or lowers them at the suggestions of his caprice, or\naccording to the purpose of the moment to produce such or such an effect\non the mind of the public. I remember too to have read a cursory critique\nof Metastasio's on the Greek tragedians, in which he treats them like so\nmany school-boys. Racine is much more modest, and cannot be in any manner\ncharged with this sort of presumption: even because he was the best\nacquainted of all of them with the Greeks. It is easy to see into the\nmotives of these hostile critics. Their national and personal vanity has\nmuch to do with the matter; conceiting themselves that they have far\nsurpassed the ancients, they venture to commit such observations to the\npublic, knowing that the works of the ancient poets have come down to us\nin a dead language, accessible only to the learned, without the animating\naccompaniment of recitation, music, ideal and truly plastic impersonation,\nand scenic pomp; all which, in every respect worthy of the poetry, was on\nthe Athenian stage combined in such wonderful harmony, that if only it\ncould be represented to our eye and ear, it would at once strike dumb the\nwhole herd of these noisy and interested critics. The ancient statues\nrequire no commentary; they speak for themselves, and everything like\ncompetition on the part of a modern artist would be regarded as ridiculous\npretension. In respect of the theatre, they lay great stress on the\ninfancy of the art; and because these poets lived two thousand years\nbefore us, they conclude that we must have made great progress since. In\nthis way poor Aeschylus especially is got rid of. But in sober truth, if\nthis was the infancy of dramatic art, it was the infancy of a Hercules,\nwho strangled serpents in his cradle.\n\nI have already expressed my opinion on that blind partiality for the\nancients, which regards their excellence as a frigid faultlessness, and\nwhich exhibits them as models, in such a way as to put a stop to\neverything like improvement, and reduce us to abandon the exercise of art\nas altogether fruitless. I, for my part, am disposed to believe that\npoetry, as the fervid expression of our whole being, must assume new and\npeculiar forms in different ages. Nevertheless, I cherish an enthusiastic\nveneration for the Greeks, as a people endowed, by the peculiar favour of\nNature, with the most perfect genius for art; in the consciousness of\nwhich, they gave to all the nations with which they were acquainted,\ncompared with themselves, the appellation of barbarians,--an appellation\nin the use of which they were in some degree justified. I would not wish\nto imitate certain travellers, who, on returning from a country which\ntheir readers cannot easily visit, give such exaggerated accounts of it,\nand relate so many marvels, as to hazard their own character for veracity.\nI shall rather endeavour to characterize them as they appear to me after\nsedulous and repeated study, without concealing their defects, and to\nbring a living picture of the Grecian stage before the eyes of my hearers.\n\nWe shall treat first of the Tragedy of the Greeks, then of their\n_Old_ Comedy, and lastly of the _New_ Comedy which arose out of it.\n\nThe same theatrical accompaniments were common to all the three kinds. We\nmust, therefore, give a short preliminary view of the theatre, its\narchitecture and decorations, that we may have a distinct idea of their\nrepresentation.\n\nThe histrionic art of the ancients had also many peculiarities: the use of\nmasks, for example, although these were quite different in tragedy and\ncomedy; in the former, _ideal_, and in the latter, at least in the Old\nComedy, somewhat caricatured.\n\nIn tragedy, we shall first consider what constituted its most distinctive\npeculiarity among the ancients: the ideality of the representation, the\nprevailing idea of destiny, and the chorus; and we shall lastly treat of\ntheir mythology, as the materials of tragic poetry. We shall then proceed\nto characterize, in the three tragedians of whom alone entire works still\nremain, the different styles--that is, the necessary epochs in the history\nof the tragic art.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE IV.\n\nStructure of the Stage among the Greeks--Their Acting--Use of Masks--False\ncomparison of Ancient Tragedy to the Opera--Tragical Lyric Poetry.\n\n\nWhen we hear the word \"theatre,\" we naturally think of what with us bears\nthe same name; and yet nothing can be more different from our theatre, in\nits entire structure, than that of the Greeks. If in reading the Grecian\npieces we associate our own stage with them, the light in which we shall\nview them must be false in every respect.\n\nThe leading authority on this subject, and one, too, whose statements are\nmathematically accurate, is Vitruvius, who also distinctly points out the\ngreat difference between the Greek and Roman theatres. But these and\nsimilar passages of the ancient writers have been most incorrectly\ninterpreted by architects unacquainted with the ancient dramatists\n[Footnote: We have a remarkable instance of this in the pretended ancient\ntheatre of Palladio, at Vicenza. Herculaneum, it is true, had not then\nbeen discovered; and it is difficult to understand the ruins of the\nancient theatre without having seen a complete one.]; and philologists, in\ntheir turn, from ignorance of architecture, have also egregiously erred.\nThe ancient dramatists are still, therefore, greatly in want of that\nillustration which a right understanding of their scenic arrangements is\ncalculated to throw upon them. In many tragedies I think that I have a\ntolerably clear notion of the matter; but others, again, present\ndifficulties which are not easily solved. But it is in figuring the\nrepresentation of Aristophanes' comedies that I find myself most at a\nloss: the ingenious poet must have brought his wonderful inventions before\nthe eyes of his audience in a manner equally bold and astonishing. Even\nBarth\u00e9lemy's description of the Grecian stage is not a little confused,\nand his subjoined plan extremely incorrect; where he attempts to describe\nthe acting of a play, the _Antigone_ or the _Ajax_, for instance, he goes\naltogether wrong. For this reason the following explanation will appear\nthe less superfluous [Footnote: I am partly indebted for them to the\nelucidations of a learned architect, M. Genelli, of Berlin, author of the\ningenious _Letters on Vitruvius_. We have compared several Greek tragedies\nwith our interpretation of Vitruvius's description, and endeavoured to\nfigure to ourselves the manner in which they were represented; and I\nafterwards found our ideas confirmed by an examination of the theatre of\nHerculaneum, and the two very small ones at Pompeii.].\n\nThe theatres of the Greeks were quite open above, and their dramas were\nalways acted in day, and beneath the canopy of heaven. The Romans, indeed,\nat an after period, may have screened the audience, by an awning, from the\nsun; but luxury was scarcely ever carried so far by the Greeks. Such a\nstate of things appears very uncomfortable to us; but the Greeks had\nnothing of effeminacy about them; and we must not forget, too, the\nmildness of their climate. When a storm or a shower came on, the play was\nof course interrupted, and the spectators sought shelter in the lofty\ncolonnade which ran behind their seats; but they were willing rather to\nput up with such occasional inconveniences, than, by shutting themselves\nup in a close and crowded house, entirely to forfeit the sunny brightness\nof a religious solemnity--for such, in fact, their plays were [Footnote:\nThey carefully made choice of a beautiful situation. The theatre at\nTauromenium, at present Taormino, in Sicily, of which the ruins are still\nvisible, was, according to Hunter's description, situated in such a manner\nthat the audience had a view of Etna over the back-ground of the\ntheatre.]. To have covered in the scene itself, and imprisoned gods and\nheroes in a dark and gloomy apartment, artificially lighted up, would have\nappeared still more ridiculous to them. An action which so gloriously\nattested their affinity with heaven, could fitly be exhibited only beneath\nthe free heaven, and, as it were, under the very eyes of the gods, for\nwhom, according to Seneca, the sight of a brave man struggling with\nadversity is a suitable spectacle. With respect to the supposed\ninconvenience, which, according to the assertion of many modern critics,\nhence accrued, compelling the poets always to lay the scene of their\npieces out of doors, and consequently often forcing them to violate\nprobability, it was very little felt by Tragedy and the Older Comedy. The\nGreeks, like many southern nations of the present day, lived much more in\nthe open air than we do, and transacted many things in public places which\nwith us usually take place within doors. Besides, the theatre did not\nrepresent the street, but a front area belonging to the house, where the\naltar stood on which sacrifices were offered to the household gods. Here,\ntherefore, the women, notwithstanding the retired life they led among the\nGreeks, even those who were unmarried, might appear without any\nimpropriety. Neither was it impossible for them, if necessary, to give a\nview of the interior of the house; and this was effected, as we shall\npresently see; by means of the _Encyclema_.\n\nBut the principal ground of this practice was that publicity which,\naccording to the republican notion of the Greeks, was essential to all\ngrave and important transactions. This was signified by the presence of\nthe chorus, whose presence during many secret transactions has been judged\nof according to rules of propriety inapplicable to the country, and so\nmost undeservedly censured.\n\nThe theatres of the ancients were, in comparison with the small scale of\nours, of colossal magnitude, partly for the sake of containing the whole\nof the people, with the concourse of strangers who flocked to the\nfestivals, and partly to correspond with the majesty of the dramas\nrepresented in them, which required to be seen at a respectful distance.\nThe seats of the spectators were formed by ascending steps which rose\nround the semicircle of the orchestra, (called by us the pit,) so that all\ncould see with equal convenience. The diminution of effect by distance was\ncounteracted to the eye and ear by artificial contrivances consisting in\nthe employment of masks, and of an apparatus for increasing the loudness\nof the voice, and of the cothurnus to give additional stature. Vitruvius\nspeaks also of vehicles of sound, distributed throughout the building; but\ncommentators are much at variance with respect to their nature. In general\nit may be assumed, that the theatres of the ancients were constructed on\nexcellent acoustic principles.\n\nEven the lowest tier of the amphitheatre was raised considerably above the\norchestra, and opposite to it was the stage, at an equal degree of\nelevation. The hollow semicircle of the orchestra was unoccupied by\nspectators, and was designed for another purpose. However, it was\notherwise with the Romans, though indeed the arrangement of their theatres\ndoes not at present concern us.\n\nThe stage consisted of a strip which stretched from one end of the\nbuilding to the other, and of which the depth bore little proportion to\nthis breadth. This was called the _logeum_, in Latin _pulpitum_, and the\nmiddle of it was the usual place for the persons who spoke. Behind\nthis middle part, the scene went inwards in a quadrangular form, with less\ndepth, however, than breadth. The space thus enclosed was called the\n_proscenium_. The front of the logeum towards the orchestra was ornamented\nwith pilasters and small statues between them. The stage, erected on a\nfoundation of stonework, was a wooden platform resting on rafters. The\nsurrounding appurtenances of the stage, together with the rooms required\nfor the machinery, were also of wood. The wall of the building, directly\nopposite to the seats of the spectators, was raised to a level with the\nuppermost tier.\n\nThe scenic decoration was contrived in such a manner, that the principal\nand nearest object covered the background, and the prospects of distance\nwere given at the two sides; the very reverse of the mode adopted by us.\nThe latter arrangement had also its rules: on the left, was the town to\nwhich the palace, temple, or whatever occupied the middle, belonged; on\nthe right, the open country, landscape, mountains, sea-coast, &c. The\nside-scenes were composed of triangles which turned on a pivot beneath;\nand in this manner the change of scene was effected. According to an\nobservation on Virgil, by Servius, the change of scene was partly produced\nby revolving, and partly by withdrawing. The former applies to the lateral\ndecorations, and the latter to the middle of the background. The partition\nin the middle opened, disappeared at both sides, and exhibited to view a\nnew picture. But all the parts of the scene were not always changed at the\nsame time. In the back or central scene, it is probable, that much which\nwith us is only painted was given bodily. If this represented a palace or\ntemple, there was usually in the proscenium an altar, which in the\nperformance answered a number of purposes.\n\nThe decoration was for the most part architectural, but occasionally also\na painted landscape, as of Caucasus in the _Prometheus_, or in the\n_Philoctetes_, of the desert island of Lemnos, and the rocks with its\ncavern. From a passage of Plato it is clear, that the Greeks carried the\nillusions of theatrical perspective much farther than, judging from some\nwretched landscapes discovered in Herculaneum, we should be disposed to\nallow.\n\nIn the back wall of the stage there was one main entrance, and two side\ndoors. It has been maintained, that from them it might be discovered\nwhether an actor played a principal or under part, as in the first case he\ncame in by the main entrance, but in the second, entered from either of\nthe sides. But this should be understood with the proviso, that this must\nhave varied according to the nature of the piece. As the middle scene was\ngenerally a palace, in which the principal characters generally of royal\ndescent resided, they naturally came on the stage through the great door,\nwhile the servants dwelt in the wings. But besides these three entrances,\nwhich were directly opposite to the spectators, and were real doors, with\nappropriate architectural decorations, there were also four side\nentrances, to which the name of doors cannot properly apply: two, namely,\non the stage on the right and the left, towards the inner angles of the\nproscenium, and two farther off, in the orchestra, also right and left.\nThe latter were intended properly for the chorus, but were likewise not\nunfrequently used by the actors, who in such cases ascended to the stage\nby one or other of the double flight of steps which ran from the orchestra\nto the middle of the logeum. The entering from the right or the left of\nitself indicated the place from which the dramatic personages must be\nsupposed to come. The situation of these entrances serves to explain many\npassages in the ancient dramas, where the persons standing in the middle\nsee some one advancing, long before he approaches them.\n\nSomewhere beneath the seats of the spectators, a flight of stairs was\nconstructed, which was called the Charonic, and by which, unseen by the\naudience, the shadows of the departed, ascended into the orchestra, and\nthence to the stage. The furthermost brink of the logeum must sometimes\nhave represented the sea shore. Moreover the Greeks in general skilfully\navailed themselves even of extra-scenic matters, and made them subservient\nto the stage effect. Thus, I doubt not, but that in the _Eumenides_\nthe spectators were twice addressed as an assembled people; first, as the\nGreeks invited by the Pythoness to consult the oracle; and a second time\nas the Athenian multitude, when Pallas, by the herald, commands silence\nduring the trial about to commence. So too the frequent appeals to heaven\nwere undoubtedly addressed to the real heaven; and when Electra on her\nfirst appearance exclaims: \"O holy light, and thou air co-expansive with\nearth!\" she probably turned towards the actual sun ascending in the\nheavens. The whole of this procedure is highly deserving of praise; and\nthough modern critics have censured the mixture of reality and imitation,\nas destructive of theatrical illusion, this only proves that they have\nmisunderstood the essence of the illusion which a work of art aims at\nproducing. If we are to be truly deceived by a picture, that is, if we are\nto believe in the reality of the object which we see, we must not perceive\nits limits, but look at it through an opening; the frame at once declares\nit for a picture. Now in stage-scenery we cannot avoid the use of\narchitectural contrivances, productive of the same effect on dramatic\nrepresentation as frames on pictures. It is consequently much better not\nto attempt to disguise this fact, but leaving this kind of illusion for\nthose cases where it can be advantageously employed, to take it as a\npermitted licence occasionally to step out of the limits of mere scenic\ndecoration. It was, generally speaking, a principle of the Greeks, with\nrespect to stage imitation, either to require a perfect representation,\nand where this could not be accomplished, to be satisfied with merely\nsymbolical allusions.\n\nThe machinery for the descent of gods through the air, or the withdrawing\nof men from the earth, was placed aloft behind the walls of the two sides\nof the scene, and consequently removed from the sight of the spectators.\nEven in the time of Aeschylus, great use was already made of it, as in the\n_Prometheus_ he not only brings Oceanus through the air on a griffin,\nbut also in a winged chariot introduces the whole choir of ocean nymphs,\nat least fifteen in number. There were also hollow places beneath the\nstage into which, when necessary, the personages could disappear, and\ncontrivances for thunder and lightning, for the apparent fall or burning\nof a house, &c.\n\nTo the hindmost wall of the scene an upper story could be added; whenever,\nfor instance, it was wished to represent a tower with a wide prospect, or\nthe like. Behind the great middle entrance there was a space for the\nExostra, a machine of a semicircular form, and covered above, which\nrepresented the objects contained in it as in a house. This was used for\ngrand strokes of theatrical effect, as we may see from many pieces. On\nsuch occasions the folding-doors of the entrance would naturally be open,\nor the curtain which covered it withdrawn.\n\nA stage curtain, which, we clearly see from a description of Ovid, was not\ndropped, but drawn upwards, is mentioned both by Greek and Roman writers,\nand the Latin appellation, _aulaeum_, is even borrowed from the Greeks. I\nsuspect, however, that the curtain was not much used at first on the Attic\nstage. In the pieces of Aeschylus and Sophocles, the scene is evidently\nempty at the opening as well as the conclusion, and seems therefore to\nhave required no preparation which needed to be shut out from the view of\nthe spectators. However, in many of the pieces of Euripides, and perhaps\nalso in the _Oedipus Tyrannus_, the stage is filled from the very first,\nand presents a standing group which could not well have been assembled\nunder the very eyes of the spectators. It must, besides, be remembered,\nthat it was only the comparatively small proscenium, and not the logeum,\nwhich was covered by the curtain which disappeared through a narrow\nopening between two of the boards of the flooring, being wound up on a\nroller beneath the stage.\n\nThe entrances of the chorus were beneath in the orchestra, in which it\ngenerally remained, and in which also it performed its solemn dance,\nmoving backwards and forwards during the choral songs. In the front of the\norchestra, opposite to the middle of the scene, there was an elevation\nwith steps, resembling an altar, as high as the stage, which was called\nthe _Thymele_. This was the station of the chorus when it did not\nsing, but merely looked on as an interested spectator of the action. At\nsuch times the choragus, or leader of the chorus, took his station on the\ntop of the thymele, to see what was passing on the stage, and to converse\nwith the characters there present. For though the choral song was common\nto the whole, yet when it took part in the dialogue, one usually spoke for\nall the rest; and hence we may account for the shifting from _thou_\nto _ye_ in addressing them. The thymele was situated in the very centre of\nthe building; all the measurements were made from it, and the semicircle\nof the amphitheatre was described round it as the centre. It was,\ntherefore, an excellent contrivance to place the chorus, who were the\nideal representatives of the spectators, in the very spot where all the\nradii converged.\n\nThe tragical imitation of the ancients was altogether ideal and\nrhythmical; and in forming a judgment of it, we must always keep this in\nview. It was ideal, in so far as it aimed at the highest grace and\ndignity; and rhythmical, insomuch as the gestures and inflections of voice\nwere more solemnly measured than in real life. As the statuary of the\nGreeks, setting out, with almost scientific strictness, with the most\ngeneral conception, sought to embody it again in various general\ncharacters which were gradually invested with the charms of life, so that\nthe individual was the last thing to which they descended; in like manner\nin the mimetic art, they began with the idea (the delineation of persons\nwith heroical grandeur, more than human dignity, and ideal beauty), then\npassed to character, and made passion the last of all; which, in the\ncollision with the requisitions of either of the others, was forced to\ngive way. Fidelity of representation was less their object than beauty;\nwith us it is exactly the reverse. On this principle, the use of masks,\nwhich appears astonishing to us, was not only justifiable, but absolutely\nessential; far from considering them as a makeshift, the Greeks would\ncertainly, and with justice too, have looked upon it as a makeshift to be\nobliged to allow a player with vulgar, ignoble, or strongly marked\nfeatures, to represent an Apollo or a Hercules; nay, rather they would\nhave deemed it downright profanation. How little is it in the power of the\nmost finished actor to change the character of his features! How\nprejudicial must this be to the expression of passion, as all passion is\ntinged more or less strongly by the character. Nor is there any need to\nhave recourse to the conjecture that they changed the masks in the\ndifferent scenes, for the purpose of exhibiting a greater degree of joy or\nsorrow. I call it conjecture, though Barth\u00e9lemy, in his _Anacharsis_,\nconsiders it a settled point. He cites no authorities, and I do not\nrecollect any. For the expedient would by no means have been sufficient,\nas the passions often change in the same scene, and this has reduced\nmodern critics to suppose, that the masks exhibited different appearances\non the two sides; and that now this, now that side was turned towards the\nspectators, according to circumstances. Voltaire, in his Essay on the\nTragedy of the Ancients and Moderns, prefixed to _Semiramis_, has\nactually gone this length. Amidst a multitude of supposed improprieties\nwhich he heaps together to confound the admirers of ancient tragedy, he\nurges the following: _Aucune nation_ (that is to say, excepting the\nGreeks) _ne fait para\u00eetre ses acteurs sur des esp\u00e8ces d'\u00e9chasses, le\nvisage couvert d'un masque, qui exprime la douleur d'un c\u00f4t\u00e9 et la joie de\nl'autre._ After a conscientious inquiry into the authorities for an\nassertion so very improbable, and yet so boldly made, I can only find one\npassage in Quinctilian, lib. xi. cap. 3, and an allusion of Platonius\nstill more vague. (Vide _Aristoph. ed. K\u00fcster, prolegom._ p. x.) Both\npassages refer only to the new comedy, and only amount to this, that in\nsome characters the eyebrows were dissimilar. As to the intention of this,\nI shall say a word or two hereafter, when I come to consider the new Greek\ncomedy. Voltaire, however, is without excuse, as the mention of the\ncothurnus leaves no doubt that he alluded to tragic masks. But his error\nhad probably no such learned origin. In most cases, it would be a\nfruitless task to trace the source of his mistakes. The whole description\nof the Greek tragedy, as well as that of the cothurnus in particular, is\nworthy of the man whose knowledge of antiquity was such, that in his Essay\non Tragedy, prefixed to _Brutus_, he boasts of having introduced the\nRoman Senate on the stage in _red mantles_. No; the countenance remained\nfrom beginning to end the very same, as we may see from the ancient masks\ncut out in stone. For the expression of passion, the glances of the eye,\nthe motion of the arms and hands, the attitudes, and, lastly, the tones of\nthe voice, remained there. We complain of the loss of the play of the\nfeatures, without reflecting, that at such a great distance, its effect\nwould have been altogether lost.\n\nWe are not now inquiring whether, without the use of masks, it may not be\npossible to attain a higher degree of separate excellence in the mimetic\nart. This we would very willingly allow. Cicero, it is true, speaks of the\nexpression, the softness, and delicacy of the acting of Roscius, in the\nsame terms that a modern critic would apply to Garrick or Schr\u00f6der. But I\nwill not lay any stress on the acting of this celebrated player, the\nexcellence of which has become proverbial, because it appears from a\npassage in Cicero that he frequently played without a mask, and that this\nwas preferred: by his contemporaries. I doubt, however, whether this was\never the case among the Greeks. But the same writer relates, that actors\nin general, for the sake of acquiring the most perfect purity and\nflexibility of voice (and not merely the musical voice, otherwise the\nexample would not have been applicable to the orator), submitted to such a\ncourse of uninterrupted exercises, as our modern players, even the French,\nwho of all follow the strictest training, would consider a most\nintolerable oppression. For the display of dexterity in the mimetic art,\nwithout the accompaniment of words, was carried by the ancients in their\npantomimes, to a degree of perfection quite unknown to the moderns. In\ntragedy, however, the great object in the art was the due subordination of\nevery element; the whole was to appear animated by one and the same\nspirit, and hence, not merely the poetry, but the musical accompaniment,\nthe scenical decoration, and training of the actors, all issued from the\npoet. The player was a mere instrument in his hands, and his merit\nconsisted in the accuracy with which he filled his part, and by no means\nin arbitrary bravura, or ostentatious display of his own skill.\n\nAs from the nature of their writing materials, they had not a facility of\nmaking many copies, the parts were learnt from the repeated recitation of\nthe poet, and the chorus was exercised in the same manner. This was called\n_teaching a play_. As the poet was also a musician, and for the most\npart a player likewise, this must have greatly contributed to the\nperfection of the performance.\n\nWe may safely allow that the task of the modern player, who must change\nhis person without concealing it, is much more difficult; but this\ndifficulty affords no just criterion for deciding which of the two the\npreference must be awarded, as a skilful representation of the noble and\nthe beautiful.\n\nAs the features of the player acquired a more decided expression from the\nmask, as his voice was strengthened by a contrivance attached to the mask,\nso the cothurnus, consisting of several soles of considerable thickness,\nas may be seen in the ancient statues of Melpomene, raised his figure\nconsiderably above the usual standard. The female parts were also played\nby men, as the voice and general carriage of women would have been\ninadequate to the energy of tragic heroines.\n\nThe forms of the masks, [Footnote: We have obtained a knowledge of them\nfrom the imitations in stone which have come down to us. They display both\nbeauty and variety. That great variety must have taken place in the\ntragical department (in the comic we can have no doubt about the matter)\nis evident from the rich store of technical expressions in the Greek\nlanguage, for every gradation of the age, and character of masks. See the\n_Onomasticon_ of Jul. Pollux. In the marble masks, however, we can\nneither see the thinness of the mass from which the real masks were\nexecuted, the more delicate colouring, nor the exquisite mechanism of the\nfittings. The abundance of excellent workmen possessed by Athens, in\neverything which had a reference to the plastic arts, will warrant the\nconjecture that they were in this respect inimitable. Those who have seen\nthe masks of wax in the grand style, which in some degree contain the\nwhole head, lately contrived at the Roman carnival, may form to themselves\na pretty good idea of the theatrical masks of the ancients. They imitate\nlife, even to its movements, in a most masterly manner, and at such a\ndistance as that from which the ancient players were seen, the deception\nis most perfect. They always contain the white of the eye, as we see it in\nthe ancient masks, and the person covered sees merely through the aperture\nleft for the iris. The ancients must sometimes have gone still farther,\nand contrived also an iris for the masks, according to the anecdote of the\nsinger Thamyris, who, in a piece which was probably of Sophocles, made his\nappearance with a black eye. Even accidental circumstances were imitated;\nfor instance, the cheeks of Tyro, streaming blood from the cruel conduct\nof his stepmother. The head from the mask must no doubt have appeared\nsomewhat large for the rest of the figure; but this disproportion, in\ntragedy at least, would not be perceived from the elevation of the\ncothurnus.] and the whole appearance of the tragic figures, we may easily\nsuppose, were sufficiently beautiful and dignified. We should do well to\nhave the ancient sculpture always present to our minds; and the most\naccurate conception, perhaps, that we can possibly have, is to imagine\nthem so many statues in the grand style endowed with life and motion. But,\nas in sculpture, they were fond of dispensing as much as possible with\ndress, for the sake of exhibiting the more essential beauty of the figure;\non the stage they would endeavour, from an opposite principle, to clothe\nas much as they could well do, both from a regard to decency, and because\nthe actual forms of the body would not correspond sufficiently with the\nbeauty of the countenance. They would also exhibit their divinities, which\nin sculpture we always observe either entirely naked, or only half\ncovered, in a complete dress. They had recourse to a number of means for\ngiving a suitable strength to the forms of the limbs, and thus restoring\nproportion to the increased height of the player.\n\nThe great breadth of the theatre in proportion to its depth must have\ngiven to the grouping of the figures the simple and distinct order of the\nbas-relief. We moderns prefer on the stage, as elsewhere, groups of a\npicturesque description, with figures more closely crowded together, and\npartly concealing one another, and partly retiring into the distance; but\nthe ancients were so little fond of foreshortening, that even in their\npainting they generally avoided it. Their movement kept time with the\nrhythmus of the declamation, and in this accompaniment the utmost grace\nand beauty were aimed at. The poetical conception required a certain\ndegree of repose in the action, and the keeping together certain masses,\nso as to exhibit a succession of _statuesque_ situations, and it is\nnot improbable that the player remained for some time motionless in one\nattitude. But we are not to suppose from this, that the Greeks were\ncontented with a cold and feeble representation of the passions. How could\nwe reconcile such a supposition with the fact, that whole lines of their\ntragedies are frequently dedicated to inarticulate exclamations of pain,\nwith which we have nothing to correspond in any of our modern languages?\n\nIt has been often conjectured that the delivery of their dialogue\nresembled the modern recitative. For such a conjecture there is no other\nfoundation than the fact that the Greek, like almost all southern\nlanguages, was pronounced with a greater musical inflexion than ours of\nthe North. In other respects their tragic declamation must, I conceive,\nhave been altogether unlike recitative, being both much more measured, and\nalso far removed from its studied and artificial modulation.\n\nSo, again, the ancient tragedy, because it was accompanied with music and\ndancing, [Footnote: Even Barth\u00e9lemy falls into this error in a note to the\n70th Chapter of _Anacharsis_.] has also been frequently compared with\nthe opera. But this comparison betrays an utter ignorance of the spirit of\nclassical antiquity. Their dancing and music had nothing but the name in\ncommon with ours. In tragedy the primary object was the poetry, and\neverything else was strictly and truly subordinate to it. But in the opera\nthe poetry is merely an accessory, the means of connecting the different\nparts together; and it is almost lost amidst its many and more favoured\naccompaniments. The best prescription for the composition of an opera is,\ntake a rapid poetical sketch and then fill up and colour the outlines by\nthe other arts. This anarchy of the arts, where music, dancing, and\ndecoration are seeking to outvie each other by the profuse display of\ntheir most dazzling charms, constitutes the very essence of the opera.\nWhat sort of opera-music would it be, which should set the words to a mere\nrhythmical accompaniment of the simplest modulations? The fantastic magic\nof the opera consists altogether in the revelry of emulation between the\ndifferent means, and in the medley of their profusion. This charm would at\nonce be destroyed by any approximation to the severity of the ancient\ntaste in any one point, even in that of the costume; for the contrast\nwould render the variety in all the other departments even the more\ninsupportable. Gay, tinselled, spangled draperies suit best to the opera;\nand hence many things which have been censured as unnatural, such as\nexhibiting heroes warbling and trilling in the excess of despondency, are\nperfectly justifiable. This fairy world is not peopled by real men, but by\na singular kind of singing creatures. Neither is it any disadvantage that\nthe opera is brought before us in a language which we do not generally\nunderstand; the words are altogether lost in the music, and the language\nwhich is most harmonious and musical, and contains the greatest number of\nopen vowels for the airs, and distinct accents for recitative, is\ntherefore the best. It would be as incongruous to attempt to give to the\nopera the simplicity of the Grecian Tragedy, as it is absurd to think of\ncomparing them together.\n\nIn the syllabic composition, which then at least prevailed universally in\nGrecian music, the solemn choral song, of which we may form to ourselves\nsome idea from our artless national airs, and more especially from our\nchurch-tunes, had no other instrumental accompaniment than a single flute,\nwhich was such as not in the slightest degree to impair the distinctness\nof the words. Otherwise it must hare increased the difficulty of the\nchoruses and lyrical songs, which, in general, are the part which\n_we_ find it the hardest to understand of the ancient tragedy, and as\nit must also have been for contemporary auditors. They abound in the most\ninvolved constructions, the most unusual expressions, and the boldest\nimages and recondite allusions. Why then should the poets have lavished\nsuch labour and art upon them, if it were all to be lost in the delivery?\nSuch a display of ornament without an object would have been very unlike\nGrecian ways of thinking.\n\nIn the syllabic measures of their tragedies, there generally prevails a\nhighly finished regularity, but by no means a stiff symmetrical\nuniformity. Besides the infinite variety of the lyrical strophes, which\nthe poet invented for each occasion, they have also a measure to suit the\ntransition in the tone of mind from the dialogue to the lyric, the\nanapest; and two for the dialogue itself, one of which, by far the most\nusual, the iambic trimeter, denoted the regular progress of the action,\nand the other, the trochaic tetrameter, was expressive of the\nimpetuousness of passion. It would lead us too far into the depths of\nmetrical science, were we to venture at present on a more minute account\nof the structure and significance of these measures. I merely wished to\nmake this remark, as so much has been said of the simplicity of the\nancient tragedy, which, no doubt, exists in the general plan, at least in\nthe two oldest poets; whereas in the execution and details the richest\nvariety of poetical ornament is employed. Of course it must be evident\nthat the utmost accuracy in the delivery of the different modes of\nversification was expected from the player, as the delicacy of the Grecian\near would not excuse, even in an orator, the false quantity of a single\nsyllable.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE V.\n\nEssence of the Greek Tragedies--Ideality of the Representation--Idea of\nFate--Source of the Pleasure derived from Tragical Representations--Import\nof the Chorus--The materials of Greek Tragedy derived from Mythology--\nComparison with the Plastic Arts.\n\n\nWe come now to the essence of Greek tragedy. That in conception it was\nideal, is universally allowed; this, however, must not be understood as\nimplying that all its characters were depicted as morally perfect. In such\na case what room could there be for that contrast and collision which the\nvery plot of a drama requires?--They have their weaknesses, errors, and\neven crimes, but the manners are always elevated above reality, and every\nperson is invested with as high a portion of dignity as was compatible\nwith his part in the action. But this is not all. The ideality of the\nrepresentation chiefly consisted in the elevation of every thing in it to\na higher sphere. Tragic poetry wished to separate the image of humanity\nwhich it presented to us, from the level of nature to which man is in\nreality chained down, like a slave of the soil. How was this to be\naccomplished? By exhibiting to us an image hovering in the air? But this\nwould have been incompatible with the law of gravitation and with the\nearthly materials of which our bodies are framed. Frequently, what is\npraised in art as _ideal_ is really nothing more. But this would give\nus nothing more than airy evanescent shadows incapable of making any\ndurable impression on the mind. The Greeks, however, in their artistic\ncreations, succeeded most perfectly, in combining the ideal with the real,\nor, to drop school terms, an elevation more than human with all the truth\nof life, and in investing the manifestation of an idea with energetic\ncorporeity. They did not allow their figures to flit about without\nconsistency in empty space, but they fixed the statue of humanity on the\neternal and immovable basis of moral liberty; and that it might stand\nthere unshaken, formed it of stone or brass, or some more massive\nsubstance than the bodies of living men, making an impression by its very\nweight, and from its very elevation and magnificence only the more\ncompletely subject to the laws of gravity.\n\nInward liberty and external necessity are the two poles of the tragic\nworld. It is only by contrast with its opposite that each of these ideas\nis brought into full manifestation. As the feeling of an internal power of\nself-determination elevates the man above the unlimited dominion of\nimpulse and the instincts of nature; in a word, absolves him from nature's\nguardianship, so the necessity, which alongside of her he must recognize,\nis no mere natural necessity, but one lying beyond the world of sense in\nthe abyss of infinitude; consequently it exhibits itself as the\nunfathomable power of Destiny. Hence this power extends also to the world\nof gods: for the Grecian gods are mere powers of nature; and although\nimmeasurably higher than mortal man, yet, compared with infinitude, they\nare on an equal footing with himself. In Homer and in the tragedians, the\ngods are introduced in a manner altogether different. In the former their\nappearance is arbitrary and accidental, and communicate to the epic poem\nno higher interest than the charm of the wonderful. But in Tragedy the\ngods either come forward as the servants of destiny, and mediate executors\nof its decrees; or else approve themselves godlike only by asserting their\nliberty of action, and entering upon the same struggles with fate which\nman himself has to encounter.\n\nThis is the essence of the tragical in the sense of the ancients. We are\naccustomed to give to all terrible or sorrowful events the appellation of\ntragic, and it is certain that such events are selected in preference by\nTragedy, though a melancholy conclusion is by no means indispensably\nnecessary; and several ancient tragedies, viz., the _Eumenides_,\n_Philoctetes_, and in some degree also the _Oedipus Coloneus_, without\nmentioning many of the pieces of Euripides, have a happy and cheerful\ntermination.\n\nBut why does Tragedy select subjects so awfully repugnant to the wishes\nand the wants of our sensuous nature? This question has often been asked,\nand seldom satisfactorily answered. Some have said that the pleasure of\nsuch representations arises from the comparison we make between the\ncalmness and tranquillity of our own situation, and the storms and\nperplexities to which the victims of passion are exposed. But when we take\na warm interest in the persons of a tragedy, we cease to think of\nourselves; and when this is not the case, it is the best of all proofs\nthat we take but a feeble interest in the exhibited story, and that the\ntragedy has failed in its effect. Others again have had recourse to a\nsupposed feeling for moral improvement, which is gratified by the view of\npoetical justice in the reward of the good and the punishment of the\nwicked. But he for whom the aspect of such dreadful examples could really\nbe wholesome, must be conscious of a base feeling of depression, very far\nremoved from genuine morality, and would experience humiliation rather\nthan elevation of mind. Besides, poetical justice is by no means\nindispensable to a good tragedy; it may end with the suffering of the just\nand the triumph of the wicked, if only the balance be preserved in the\nspectator's own consciousness by the prospect of futurity. Little does it\nmend the matter to say with Aristotle, that the object of tragedy is to\npurify the passions by pity and terror. In the first place commentators\nhave never been able to agree as to the meaning of this proposition, and\nhave had recourse to the most forced explanations of it. Look, for\ninstance, into the _Dramaturgie_ of Lessing. Lessing gives a new\nexplanation of his own, and fancies he has found in Aristotle a poetical\nEuclid. But mathematical demonstrations are liable to no misconception,\nand geometrical evidence may well be supposed inapplicable to the theory\nof the fine arts. Supposing, however, that tragedy does operate this moral\ncure in us, still she does so by the painful feelings of terror and\ncompassion: and it remains to be proved how it is that we take a pleasure\nin subjecting ourselves to such an operation.\n\nOthers have been pleased to say that we are attracted to theatrical\nrepresentations from the want of some violent agitation to rouse us out of\nthe torpor of our every-day life. Such a craving does exist; I have\nalready acknowledged the existence of this want, when speaking of the\nattractions of the drama; but to it we must equally attribute the fights\nof wild beasts among the Romans, nay, even the combats of the gladiators.\nBut must we, less indurated, and more inclined to tender feelings, require\ndemi-gods and heroes to descend, like so many desperate gladiators, into\nthe bloody arena of the tragic stage, in order to agitate our nerves by\nthe spectacle of their sufferings? No: it is not the sight of suffering\nwhich constitutes the charm of a tragedy, or even of the games of the\ncircus, or of the fight of wild beasts. In the latter we see a display of\nactivity, strength, and courage; splendid qualities these, and related to\nthe mental and moral powers of man. The satisfaction, therefore, which we\nderive from the representation, in a good tragedy, of powerful situations\nand overwhelming sorrows, must be ascribed either to the feeling of the\ndignity of human nature, excited in us by such grand instances of it as\nare therein displayed, or to the trace of a higher order of things,\nimpressed on the apparently irregular course of events, and mysteriously\nrevealed in them; or perhaps to both these causes conjointly.\n\nThe true reason, therefore, why tragedy need not shun even the harshest\nsubject is, that a spiritual and invisible power can only be measured by\nthe opposition which it encounters from some external force capable of\nbeing appreciated by the senses. The moral freedom of man, therefore, can\nonly be displayed in a conflict with his sensuous impulses: so long as no\nhigher call summons it to action, it is either actually dormant within\nhim, or appears to slumber, since otherwise it does but mechanically\nfulfil its part as a mere power of nature. It is only amidst difficulties\nand struggles that the moral part of man's nature avouches itself. If,\ntherefore, we must explain the distinctive aim of tragedy by way of\ntheory, we would give it thus: that to establish the claims of the mind to\na divine origin, its earthly existence must be disregarded as vain and\ninsignificant, all sorrows endured and all difficulties overcome.  With\nrespect to everything connected with this point, I refer my hearers to the\nSection on the Sublime in Kant's _Criticism of the Judgment_ (_Kritik der\nUrtheilskraft_), to the complete perfection of which nothing is wanting\nbut a more definite idea of the tragedy of the ancients, with which he\ndoes not seem to have been very well acquainted.\n\nI come now to another peculiarity which distinguishes the tragedy of the\nancients from ours, I mean the Chorus. We must consider it as a\npersonified reflection on the action which is going on; the incorporation\ninto the representation itself of the sentiments of the poet, as the\nspokesman of the whole human race. This is its general poetical character;\nand that is all that here concerns us, and that character is by no means\naffected by the circumstance that the Chorus had a local origin in the\nfeasts of Bacchus, and that, moreover, it always retained among the Greeks\na peculiar national signification; publicity being, as we have already\nsaid, according to their republican notions, essential to the completeness\nof every important transaction. If in their compositions they reverted to\nthe heroic ages, in which monarchical polity was yet in force, they\nnevertheless gave a certain republican cast to the families of their\nheroes, by carrying on the action in presence either of the elders of the\npeople, or of other persons who represented some correspondent rank or\nposition in the social body. This publicity does not, it is true, quite\ncorrespond with Homer's picture of the manners of the heroic age; but both\ncostume and mythology were handled by dramatic poetry with the same spirit\nof independence and conscious liberty.\n\nThese thoughts, then, and these modes of feeling led to the introduction\nof the Chorus, which, in order not to interfere with the appearance of\nreality which the whole ought to possess, must adjust itself to the ever-\nvarying requisitions of the exhibited stories. Whatever it might be and do\nin each particular piece, it represented in general, first the common mind\nof the nation, and then the general sympathy of all mankind. In a word,\nthe Chorus is the ideal spectator. It mitigates the impression of a heart-\nrending or moving story, while it conveys to the actual spectator a\nlyrical and musical expression of his own emotions, and elevates him to\nthe region of contemplation.\n\nModern critics have never known what to make of the Chorus; and this is\nthe less to be wondered at, as Aristotle affords no satisfactory solution\nof the matter. Its office is better painted by Horace, who ascribes to it\na general expression of moral sympathy, exhortation, instruction, and\nwarning. But the critics in question have either believed that its chief\nobject was to prevent the stage from ever being altogether empty, whereas\nin truth the stage was not at all the proper place for the Chorus; or else\nthey have censured it as a superfluous and cumbersome appendage,\nexpressing their astonishment at the alleged absurdity of carrying on\nsecret transactions in the presence of assembled multitudes. They have\nalso considered it as the principal reason with the Greek tragedians for\nthe strict observance of the unity of place, as it could not be changed\nwithout the removal of the Chorus; an act, which could not have been done\nwithout some available pretext. Or lastly, they have believed that the\nChorus owed its continuance from the first origin of Tragedy merely to\naccident; and as it is plain that in Euripides, the last of the three\ngreat tragic poets, the choral songs have frequently little or no\nconnexion with the fable, and are nothing better than a mere episodical\nornament, they therefore conclude that the Greeks had only to take one\nmore step in the progress of dramatic art, to explode the Chorus\naltogether. To refute these superficial conjectures, it is only necessary\nto observe that Sophocles wrote a Treatise on the Chorus, in prose, in\nopposition to the principles of some other poets; and that, far from\nfollowing blindly the practice which he found established, like an\nintelligent artist he was able to assign reasons for his own doings.\n\nModern poets of the first rank have often, since the revival of the study\nof the ancients, attempted to introduce the Chorus in their own pieces,\nfor the most part without a correct, and always without a vivid idea of\nits real import. They seem to have forgotten that we have neither suitable\nsinging or dancing, nor, as our theatres are constructed, any convenient\nplace for it. On these accounts it is hardly likely to become naturalized\nwith us.\n\nThe Greek tragedy, in its pure and unaltered state, will always for our\ntheatres remain an exotic plant, which we can hardly hope to cultivate\nwith any success, even in the hot-house of learned art and criticism. The\nGrecian mythology, which furnishes the materials of ancient tragedy, is as\nforeign to the minds and imaginations of most of the spectators, as its\nform and manner of representation. But to endeavour to force into that\nform materials of a wholly different nature, an historical one, for\nexample, to assume that form, must always be a most unprofitable and\nhopeless attempt.\n\nI have called mythology the chief materials of tragedy. We know, indeed,\nof two historical tragedies by Grecian authors: the _Capture of Miletus_,\nof Phrynichus, and the _Persians_, of Aeschylus, a piece which still\nexists; but these singular exceptions both belong to an epoch when the art\nhad not attained its full maturity, and among so many hundred examples of\na different description, only serve to establish more strongly the truth\nof the rule. The sentence passed by the Athenians on Phrynichus, in which\nthey condemned him to a pecuniary fine because he had painfully agitated\nthem by representing on the stage a contemporary calamity, which with due\ncaution they might, perhaps, have avoided; however hard and arbitrary it\nmay appear in a judicial point of view, displays, however, a correct\nfeeling of the proprieties and limits of art. Oppressed by the\nconsciousness of the proximity and reality of the represented story, the\nmind cannot retain that repose and self-possession which are necessary for\nthe reception of pure tragical impressions. The heroic fables, on the\nother hand, came to view at a certain remoteness; and surrounded with a\ncertain halo of the marvellous. The marvellous possesses the advantage\nthat it can, in some measure, be at once believed and disbelieved:\nbelieved in so far as it is supported by its connexion with other\nopinions; disbelieved while we never take such an immediate interest in it\nas we do in what wears the hue of the every-day life of our own\nexperience. The Grecian mythology was a web of national and local\ntraditions, held in equal honour as a sequence of religion, and as an\nintroduction to history; everywhere preserved in full vitality among the\npeople by ceremonies and monuments, already elaborated for the\nrequirements of art and the higher species of poetry by the diversified\nmanner in which it has been handled, and by the numerous epic or merely\nmythical poets. The tragedians had only, therefore, to engraft one species\nof poetry on another. Certain postulates, and those invariably serviceable\nto the air of dignity and grandeur, and the removing of all meanness of\nidea, were conceded to them at the very outset. Everything, down to the\nvery errors and weaknesses of that departed race of heroes who claimed\ntheir descent from the gods, was ennobled by the sanctity of legend. Those\nheroes were painted as beings endowed with more than human strength; but,\nso far from possessing unerring virtue and wisdom, they were even depicted\nas under the dominion of furious and unbridled passions. It was an age of\nwild effervescence; the hand of social order had not as yet brought the\nsoil of morality into cultivation, and it yielded at the same time the\nmost beneficent and poisonous productions, with the fresh luxuriant\nfulness of prolific nature. Here the occurrence of the monstrous and\nhorrible did not necessarily indicate that degradation and corruption out\nof which alone, under the development of law and order, they could arise,\nand which, in such a state of things, make them fill us with sentiments of\nhorror and aversion. The guilty beings of the fable are, if we may be\nallowed the expression, exempt from human jurisdiction, and amenable to a\nhigher tribunal alone. Some, indeed, have advanced the opinion, that the\nGreeks, as zealous republicans, took a particular pleasure in witnessing\nthe representation of the outrages and consequent calamities of the\ndifferent royal families, and are almost disposed to consider the ancient\ntragedy in general as a satire on monarchical government. Such a party-\nview, however, would have deadened the sympathy of the audience, and\nconsequently destroyed the effect which it was the aim of the tragedy to\nproduce.\n\nBesides, it must be remarked that the royal families, whose crimes and\nconsequent sufferings afforded the most abundant materials for affecting\ntragical pictures, were the Pelopidae of Mycenae, and the Labdacidae of\nThebes, families who had nothing to do with the political history of the\nAthenians, for whom the pieces were composed. We do not see that the Attic\npoets ever endeavoured to exhibit the ancient kings of their country in an\nodious light; on the contrary, they always hold up their national hero,\nTheseus, for public admiration, as a model of justice and moderation, the\nchampion of the oppressed, the first lawgiver, and even as the founder of\nliberty. It was also one of their favourite modes of flattering the\npeople, to show to them Athens, even in the heroic ages, as distinguished\nabove all the other states of Greece, for obedience to the laws, for\nhumanity, and acknowledgment of the national rights of the Hellenes. That\nuniversal revolution, by which the independent kingdoms of ancient Greece\nwere converted into a community of small free states, had separated the\nheroic age from the age of social cultivation, by a wide interval, beyond\nwhich a few families only attempted to trace their genealogy. This was\nextremely advantageous for the ideal elevation of the characters of Greek\ntragedy, as few human things will admit of a very close inspection without\nbetraying some imperfections. To the very different relations of the age\nin which those heroes lived, the standard of mere civil and domestic\nmorality is not applicable, and to judge of them the feeling must go back\nto the primary ingredients of human nature. Before the existence of\nconstitutions,--when as yet the notions of law and right were\nundeveloped,--the sovereigns were their own lawgivers, in a world which as\nyet was dependent on them; and the fullest scope was thus given to the\nenergetic will, either for good or for evil. Moreover, an age of\nhereditary kingdom naturally exhibited more striking instances of sudden\nchanges of fortune than the later times of political equality. It was in\nthis respect that the high rank of the principal characters was essential,\nor at least favourable to tragic impressiveness; and not, as some moderns\nhave pretended, because the changing fortunes of such persons exercise a\nmaterial influence on the happiness or misery of numbers, and therefore\nthey alone are sufficiently important to interest us in their behalf; nor,\nagain, because internal elevation of sentiment must be clothed with\nexternal dignity, to call forth our respect and admiration. The Greek\ntragedians paint the downfall of kingly houses without any reference to\nits effects on the condition of the people; they show us the man in the\nking, and, far from veiling their heroes from our sight by their purple\nmantles, they allow us to look, through their vain splendour, into a bosom\ntorn and harrowed with grief and passion. That the main essential was not\nso much the regal dignity as the heroic costume, is evident from those\ntragedies of the moderns which have been written under different\ncircumstances indeed, but still upon this supposed principle: such, I\nmean, as under the existence of monarchy have taken their subject from\nkings and courts. Prom the existing reality they dare not draw, for\nnothing is less suitable for tragedy than a court and a court life.\nWherever, therefore, they do not paint an ideal kingdom, with the manners\nof some remote age, they invariably fall into stiffness and formality,\nwhich are much more fatal to boldness of character, and to depth of\npathos, than the monotonous and equable relations of private life.\n\nA few mythological fables alone seem originally marked out for tragedy:\nsuch, for example, as the long-continued alternation of crime, revenge,\nand curses, which we witness in the house of Atreus. When we examine the\nnames of the pieces which are lost, we have great difficulty in conceiving\nhow the mythological fables (such, at least, as they are known to us,)\ncould have furnished sufficient materials for the compass of an entire\ntragedy. It is true, the poets, in the various editions of the same story,\nhad a great latitude of selection; and this very fluctuation of tradition\njustified them in going still farther, and making considerable alterations\nin the circumstances of an event, so that the inventions employed for this\npurpose in one piece sometimes contradict the story as given by the same\npoet in another. We must, however, principally explain the prolific\ncapability of mythology, for the purposes of tragedy, by the principle\nwhich we observe in operation throughout the history of Grecian mind and\nart; that, namely, the tendency which predominated for the time,\nassimilated everything else to itself. As the heroic legend with all its\nmanifold discrepancies was easily developed into the tranquil fulness and\nlight variety of epic poetry, so afterwards it readily responded to the\ndemands which the tragic writers made upon it for earnestness, energy, and\ncompression; and whatever in this sifting process of transformation fell\nout as inapplicable to tragedy, afforded materials for a sort of half\nsportive, though still ideal representation, in the subordinate species\ncalled the _satirical drama_.\n\nI hope I shall be forgiven, if I attempt to illustrate the above\nreflections on the essence of Ancient Tragedy, by a comparison borrowed\nfrom the plastic arts, which will, I trust, be found somewhat more than a\nmere fanciful resemblance.\n\nThe Homeric epic is, in poetry, what bas-relief is in sculpture, and\ntragedy the distinct isolated group.\n\nThe poetry of Homer, sprung from the soil of legend, is not yet wholly\ndetached from it, even as the figures of a bas-relief adhere to an\nextraneous backing of the original block. These figures are but slightly\nraised, and in the epic poem all is painted as past and remote. In bas-\nrelief the figures are usually in profile, and in the epos all are\ncharacterized in the simplest manner in relief; they are not grouped\ntogether, but follow one another; so Homer's heroes advance, one by one,\nin succession before us. It has been remarked that the _Iliad_ is not\ndefinitively closed, but that we are left to suppose something both to\nprecede and to follow it. The bas-relief is equally without limit, and may\nbe continued _ad infinitum_, either from before or behind, on which\naccount the ancients preferred for it such subjects as admitted of an\nindefinite extension, sacrificial processions, dances, and lines of\ncombatants, &c. Hence they also exhibited bas-reliefs on curved surfaces,\nsuch as vases, or the frieze of a rotunda, where, by the curvature, the\ntwo ends are withdrawn from our sight, and where, while we advance, one\nobject appears as another disappears. Reading Homer is very much like such\na circuit; the present object alone arresting our attention, we lose sight\nof that which precedes, and do not concern ourselves about what is to\nfollow.\n\nBut in the distinct outstanding group, and in Tragedy, sculpture and\npoetry alike bring before our eyes an independent and definite whole. To\ndistinguish it from natural reality, the former places it on a base as on\nan ideal ground, detaching from it as much as possible all foreign and\naccidental accessories, that the eye may rest wholly on the essential\nobjects, the figures themselves. These figures the sculptor works out with\ntheir whole body and contour, and as he rejects the illusion of colours,\nannounces by the solidity and uniformity of the mass in which they are\nconstructed, a creation of no perishable existence, but endowed, with a\nhigher power of endurance.\n\nBeauty is the aim of sculpture, and repose is most advantageous for the\ndisplay of beauty. Repose alone, therefore, is suitable to the single\nfigure. But a number of figures can only be combined together into unity,\n_i.e., grouped_ by an action. The group represents beauty in motion,\nand its aim is to combine both in the highest degree of perfection. This\ncan be effected even while portraying the most violent bodily or mental\nanguish, if only the artist finds means so to temper the expression by\nsome trait of manly resistance, calm grandeur, or inherent sweetness,\nthat, with all the most moving truth, the lineaments of beauty shall yet\nbe undefaced. The observation of Winkelmann on this subject is inimitable.\nHe says, that \"beauty with the ancients was the tongue on the balance of\nexpression,\" and in this sense the groups of Niobe and Laoco\u00f6n are master-\npieces; the one in the sublime and severe; the other in the studied and\nornamental style.\n\nThe comparison with ancient tragedy is the more apposite here, as we know\nthat both Aeschylus and Sophocles produced a Niobe, and that Sophocles was\nalso the author of a Laoco\u00f6n. In the group of the Laoco\u00f6n the efforts of\nthe body in enduring, and of the mind in resisting, are balanced in\nadmirable equipoise. The children calling for help, tender objects of\ncompassion, not of admiration, recal our eyes to the father, who seems to\nbe in vain uplifting his eyes to the gods. The wreathed serpents represent\nto us that inevitable destiny which often involves all the parties of an\naction in one common ruin. And yet the beauty of proportion, the agreeable\nflow of the outline, are not lost in this violent struggle; and a\nrepresentation, the most appalling to the senses, is yet managed with\nforbearance, while a mild breath of gracefulness is diffused over the\nwhole.\n\nIn the group of Niobe there is the same perfect mixture of terror and\npity. The upturned looks of the mother, and the mouth half open in\nsupplication, seem yet to accuse the invisible wrath of heaven. The\ndaughter, clinging in the agonies of death to the bosom of her mother, in\nher childish innocence has no fear but for herself: the innate impulse of\nself-preservation was never more tenderly and affectingly expressed. On\nthe other hand, can there be a more beautiful image of self-devoting,\nheroic magnanimity than Niobe, as she bends forward to receive, if\npossible, in her own body the deadly shaft? Pride and defiance dissolve in\nthe depths of maternal love. The more than earthly dignity of the features\nare the less marred by the agony, as under the rapid accumulation of blow\nupon blow she seems, as in the deeply significant fable, already\npetrifying into the stony torpor. But before this figure, thus\n_twice_ struck into stone, and yet so full of life and soul,--before\nthis stony terminus of the limits of human endurance, the spectator melts\ninto tears.\n\nAmid all the agitating emotions which these groups give rise to, there is\nstill a something in their aspect which attracts the mind and gives rise\nto manifold contemplation; so the ancient tragedy leads us forward to the\nhighest reflections involved in the very sphere of things it sets before\nus--reflections on the nature and the inexplicable mystery of man's being.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE VI.\n\nProgress of the Tragic Art among the Greeks--Various styles of Tragic Art\n--Aeschylus--Connexion in a Trilogy of Aeschylus--His remaining Works.\n\n\nOf the inexhaustible stores possessed by the Greeks in the department of\ntragedy, which the public competition at the Athenian festivals called\ninto being (as the rival poets always contended for a prize), very little\nindeed has come down to us. We only possess works of three of their\nnumerous tragedians, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, and of these but\na few in proportion to the whole number of their compositions. The extant\ndramas are such as were selected by the Alexandrian critics as the\nfoundation for the study of the older Grecian literature, not because they\nalone were deserving of estimation, but because they afforded the best\nillustration of the various styles of tragic art. Of each of the two older\npoets, we have seven pieces remaining; in these, however, we have,\naccording to the testimony of the ancients, several of their most\ndistinguished productions. Of Euripides we have a much greater number, and\nwe might well exchange many of them for other works which are now lost;\nfor example, for the satirical dramas of Achaeus, Aeschylus, and\nSophocles, or, for the sake of comparison with Aeschylus, for some of\nPhrynichus' pieces, or of Agathon's, whom Plato describes as effeminate,\nbut sweet and affecting, and who was a contemporary of Euripides, though\nsomewhat his junior.\n\nLeaving to antiquarians to sift the stories about the waggon of the\nstrolling Thespis, the contests for the prize of a he-goat, from which the\nname of tragedy is said to be derived, and the lees of wine with which the\nfirst improvisatory actors smeared over their visages, from which rude\nbeginnings, it is pretended, Aeschylus, by one gigantic stride, gave to\ntragedy that dignified form under which it appears in his works, we shall\nproceed immediately to the consideration of the poets themselves.\n\nThe tragic style of Aeschylus (I use the word \"style\" in the sense it\nreceives in sculpture, and not in the exclusive signification of the\nmanner of writing,) is grand, severe, and not unfrequently hard: that of\nSophocles is marked by the most finished symmetry and harmonious\ngracefulness: that of Euripides is soft and luxuriant; overflowing in his\neasy copiousness, he often sacrifices the general effect to brilliant\npassages. The analogies which the undisturbed development of the fine arts\namong the Greeks everywhere furnishes, will enable us, throughout to\ncompare the epochs of tragic art with those of sculpture. Aeschylus is the\nPhidias of Tragedy, Sophocles her Polycletus, and Euripides her Lysippus.\nPhidias formed sublime images of the gods, but lent them an extrinsic\nmagnificence of material, and surrounded their majestic repose with images\nof the most violent struggles in strong relief. Polycletus carried his art\nto perfection of proportion, and hence one of his statues was called the\nStandard of Beauty. Lysippus distinguished himself by the fire of his\nworks; but in his time Sculpture had deviated from its original\ndestination, and was much more desirous of expressing the charm of motion\nand life than of adhering to ideality of form.\n\nAeschylus is to be considered as the creator of Tragedy: in full panoply\nshe sprung from his head, like Pallas from the head of Jupiter. He clad\nher with dignity, and gave her an appropriate stage; he was the inventor\nof scenic pomp, and not only instructed the chorus in singing and dancing,\nbut appeared himself as an actor. He was the first that expanded the\ndialogue, and set limits to the lyrical part of tragedy, which, however,\nstill occupies too much space in his pieces. His characters are sketched\nwith a few bold and strong touches. His plots are simple in the extreme:\nhe did not understand the art of enriching and varying an action, and of\ngiving a measured march and progress to the complication and denouement.\nHence his action often stands still; a circumstance which becomes yet more\napparent, from the undue extension of his choral songs. But all his poetry\nevinces a sublime and earnest mind. Terror is his element, and not the\nsofter affections, he holds up a head of Medusa before the petrified\nspectators. In his handling Destiny appears austere in the extreme; she\nhovers over the heads of mortals in all her gloomy majesty. The cothurnus\nof Aeschylus has, as it were, the weight of iron: gigantic figures stalk\nin upon it. It seems as if it required an effort for him to condescend to\npaint mere men; he is ever bringing in gods, but especially the Titans,\nthose elder divinities who typify the gloomy powers of primaeval nature,\nand who had been driven long ago into Tartarus before the presence of a\nnew and better order of things. He endeavours to swell out his language to\na gigantic sublimity, corresponding to the vast dimensions of his\npersonages. Hence he abounds in harsh compounds and over-strained\nepithets, and the lyrical parts of his pieces are often, from their\ninvolved construction, extremely obscure. In the singular strangeness of\nhis images and expressions he resembles Dante and Shakspeare. Yet in these\nimages there is no want of that terrific grace which almost all the\nwriters of antiquity commend in Aeschylus.\n\nAeschylus flourished in the very freshness and vigour of Grecian freedom,\nand a proud sense of the glorious struggle by which it was won, seems to\nhave animated him and his poetry. He had been an eye-witness of the\ngreatest and most glorious event in the history of Greece, the overthrow\nand annihilation of the Persian hosts under Darius and Xerxes, and had\nfought with distinguished bravery in the memorable battles of Marathon and\nSalamis. In the _Persians_ he has, in an indirect manner, sung the\ntriumph which he contributed to obtain, while he paints the downfall of\nthe Persian ascendancy, and the ignominious return of the despot, with\ndifficulty escaping with his life, to his royal residence. The battle of\nSalamis he describes in the most vivid and glowing colours. Through the\nwhole of this piece, and the _Seven before Thebes_, there gushes forth a\nwarlike vein; the personal inclination of the poet for a soldier's\nlife, shines throughout with the most dazzling lustre. It was well\nremarked by Gorgias, the sophist, that Mars, instead of Bacchus, had\ninspired this last drama; for Bacchus, and not Apollo, was the tutelary\ndeity of tragic poets, which, on a first view of the matter, appears\nsomewhat singular, but then we must recollect that Bacchus was not merely\nthe god of wine and joy, but also the god of all higher kinds of\ninspiration.\n\nAmong the remaining pieces of Aeschylus, we have what is highly deserving\nof our attention--a complete _Trilogy_. The antiquarian account of\nthe trilogies is this: that in the more early times the poet did not\ncontend for the prize with a single piece, but with three, which, however,\nwere not always connected together in their subjects, and that to these\nwas added a fourth,--namely, a _satiric drama_. All were acted in one\nday, one after another. The idea which, in relation to the tragic art, we\nmust form of the trilogy, is this: a tragedy cannot be indefinitely\nlengthened and continued, like the Homeric Epos for instance, to which\nwhole rhapsodies have been appended; tragedy is too independent and\ncomplete within itself for this; nevertheless, several tragedies may be\nconnected together in one great cycle by means of a common destiny running\nthrough the actions of all. Hence the restriction to the number three\nadmits of a satisfactory explanation. It is the thesis, the antithesis,\nand the synthesis. The advantage of this conjunction was that, by the\nconsideration of the connected fables, a more complete gratification was\nfurnished than could possibly be obtained from a single action. The\nsubjects of the three tragedies might be separated by a wide interval of\ntime, or follow close upon one another.\n\nThe three pieces which form the trilogy of Aeschylus, are the _Agamemnon_,\nthe _Choephorae_ or, we should call it, _Electra_, and the _Eumenides_ or\n_Furies_. The subject of the first is the murder of Agamemnon by\nClytemnestra, on his return from Troy. In the second, Orestes avenges his\nfather by killing his mother: _facto pius et sceleratus eodem_. This deed,\nalthough enjoined by the most powerful motives, is, however, repugnant to\nthe natural and moral order of things. Orestes, as a prince, was, it is\ntrue, called upon to exercise justice, even on the members of his own\nfamily; but we behold him here under the necessity of stealing in disguise\ninto the dwelling of the tyrannical usurper of his throne, and of going to\nwork like an assassin. The memory of his father pleads his excuse; but\nhowever much Clytemnestra may have deserved her death, the voice of blood\ncries from within. This conflict of natural duties is represented in the\n_Eumenides_ in the form of a contention among the gods, some of whom\napprove of the deed of Orestes, while others persecute him, till at last\nDivine Wisdom, in the persona of Minerva, balances the opposite claims,\nestablishes peace, and puts an end to the long series of crime and\npunishment which have desolated the royal house of Atreus.\n\nA considerable interval takes place between the period of the first and\nsecond pieces, during which Orestes grows up to manhood. The second and\nthird are connected together immediately in order of time. Upon the murder\nof his mother, Orestes flees forthwith to Delphi, where we find him at the\ncommencement of the _Eumenides_.\n\nIn each of the two first pieces, there is a visible reference to the one\nwhich follows. In _Agamemnon_, Cassandra and the chorus, at the close,\npredict to the haughty Clytemnestra and her paramour, Aegisthus, the\npunishment which awaits them at the hands of Orestes. In the _Choephorae_,\nOrestes, upon the execution of the deed of retribution, finds that all\npeace is gone: the furies of his mother begin to persecute him, and he\nannounces his resolution of taking refuge in Delphi.\n\nThe connexion is therefore evident throughout; and we may consider the\nthree pieces, which were connected together even in the representation, as\nso many acts of one great and entire drama. I mention this as a\npreliminary justification of the practice of Shakspeare and other modern\npoets, to connect together in one representation a larger circle of human\ndestinies, as we can produce to the critics who object to this the\nsupposed example of the ancients.\n\nIn _Agamemnon_, it was the intention of Aeschylus to exhibit to us a\nsudden fall from the highest pinnacle of prosperity and renown into the\nabyss of ruin. The prince, the hero, the general of the combined forces of\nthe Greeks, in the very moment of success and the glorious achievement of\nthe destruction of Troy, the fame of which is to be re-echoed from the\nmouths of the greatest poets of all ages, in the very act of crossing the\nthreshold of his home, after which he had so long sighed, and amidst the\nfearless security of preparations for a festival, is butchered, according\nto the expression of Homer, \"like an ox in the stall,\" slain by his\nfaithless wife, his throne usurped by her worthless seducer, and his\nchildren consigned to banishment or to hopeless servitude.\n\nWith the view of giving greater effect to this dreadful reverse of\nfortune, the poet endeavours to throw a greater splendour over the\ndestruction of Troy. He has done this in the first half of the piece in a\nmanner peculiar to himself, which, however singular, must be allowed to be\nimpressive in the extreme, and well fitted to lay fast hold of the\nimagination. It is of importance to Clytemnestra that she should not be\nsurprised by the sudden arrival of her husband; she has therefore arranged\nan uninterrupted series of signal fires from Troy to Mycenae, to announce\nto her that great event. The piece commences with the speech of a\nwatchman, who supplicates the gods for a deliverance from his labours, as\nfor ten long years he has been exposed to the cold dews of night, has\nwitnessed the changeful course of the stars, while looking in vain for the\nexpected signal; at the same time he sighs in secret over the corruption\nwhich reigns within the royal house. At this moment he sees the long-\nwished-for beacon blazing up, and hastens to announce it to his mistress.\nA chorus of aged persons appears, and in their songs they go through the\nwhole history of the Trojan War, through all its eventful fluctuations of\nfortune, from its origin, and recount all the prophecies relating to it,\nand the sacrifice of Iphigenia, by which the sailing of the Greeks was\npurchased. Clytemnestra explains to the chorus the joyful cause of the\nsacrifice which she orders; and the herald Talthybius immediately makes\nhis appearance, who, as an eye-witness, relates the drama of the conquered\nand plundered city, consigned as a prey to the flames, the joy of the\nvictors, and the glory of their leader. With reluctance, as if unwilling\nto check their congratulatory prayers, he recounts to them the subsequent\nmisfortunes of the Greeks, their dispersion, and the shipwreck suffered by\nmany of them, an immediate symptom of the wrath of the gods. It is obvious\nhow little the unity of time was observed by the poet,--how much, on the\ncontrary, he avails himself of the prerogative of his mental dominion over\nthe powers of nature, to give wings to the circling hours in their course\ntowards the dreadful goal. Agamemnon now arrives, borne in a sort of\ntriumphal car; and seated on another, laden with booty, follows Cassandra,\nhis prisoner of war, and concubine also, according to the customary\nprivilege of heroes. Clytemnestra greets him with hypocritical joy and\nveneration; she orders her slaves to cover the ground with the most costly\nembroideries of purple, that it might not be touched by the foot of the\nconqueror. Agamemnon, with wise moderation, refuses to accept an honour\ndue only to the gods; at last he yields to her solicitations, and enters\nthe palace. The chorus then begins to utter its dark forebodings.\nClytemnestra returns to allure, by friendly speeches, Cassandra also to\ndestruction. The latter is silent and unmoved, but the queen is hardly\ngone, when, seized with prophetic furor, she breaks out into the most\nconfused and obscure lamentations, but presently unfolds her prophecies\nmore distinctly to the chorus; in spirit she beholds all the enormities\nwhich have been perpetrated within that house--the repast of Thyestes,\nwhich the sun refused to look upon; the ghosts of the mangled children\nappear to her on the battlements of the palace. She also sees the death\nwhich is preparing for her lord; and, though shuddering at the reek of\ndeath, as if seized with madness, she rushes into the house to meet her\nown inevitable doom, while from behind the scene we hear the groans of the\ndying Agamemnon. The palace opens; Clytemnestra stands beside the body of\nher king and husband; like an insolent criminal, she not only confesses\nthe deed, but boasts of and justifies it, as a righteous requital for\nAgamemnon's sacrifice of Iphigenia to his own ambition. Her jealousy of\nCassandra, and criminal connexion with the worthless Aegisthus, who does\nnot appear till after the completion of the murder and towards the\nconclusion of the piece, are motives which she hardly touches on, and\nthrows entirely into the background. This was necessary to preserve the\ndignity of the subject; for, indeed, Clytemnestra could not with propriety\nhave been portrayed as a frail seduced woman--she must appear with the\nfeatures of that heroic age, so rich in bloody catastrophes, in which all\npassions were violent, and men, both in good and evil, surpassed the\nordinary standard of later and more degenerated ages. What is more\nrevolting--what proves a deeper degeneracy of human nature, than horrid\ncrimes conceived in the bosom of cowardly effeminacy? If such crimes are\nto be portrayed by the poet, he must neither seek to palliate them, nor to\nmitigate our horror and aversion of them. Moreover, by bringing the\nsacrifice of Iphigenia thus immediately before us, the poet has succeeded\nin lessening the indignation which otherwise the foul and painful fate of\nAgamemnon is calculated to awaken. He cannot be pronounced wholly\ninnocent; a former crime recoils on his own head: besides, according to\nthe religious idea of the ancients, an old curse hung over his house.\nAegisthus, the author of his destruction, is a son of that very Thyestes\non whom his father Atreus took such an unnatural revenge; and this fateful\nconnexion is vividly brought before our minds by the chorus, and more\nespecially by the prophecies of Cassandra.\n\nI pass over the subsequent piece of the _Choephorae_ for the present;\nI shall speak of it when I come to institute a comparison between the\nmanner in which the three poets have handled the same subject.\n\nThe fable of the _Eumenides_ is, as I have already said, the justification\nof Orestes, and his absolution from blood-guiltiness: it is a trial, but a\ntrial where the accusers and the defenders and the presiding judges are\ngods. And the manner in which the subject is treated corresponds with its\nmajesty and importance. The scene itself brought before the eyes of the\nGreeks all the highest objects of veneration that they acknowledged.\n\nIt opens in front of the celebrated temple at Delphi, which occupies the\nbackground; the aged Pythia enters in sacerdotal pomp, addresses her\nprayers to all the gods who at any time presided, or still preside, over\nthe oracle, harangues the assembled people (represented by the actual\naudience), and goes into the temple to seat herself on the tripod. She\nreturns full of consternation, and describes what she has seen in the\ntemple: a man, stained with blood, supplicating protection, surrounded by\nsleeping women with snaky hair; she then makes her exit by the same\nentrance as she came in by. Apollo now appears with Orestes, who is in a\ntraveller's garb, and carries a sword and olive-branch in his hands. He\npromises him his farther protection, enjoins him to flee to Athens, and\ncommends him to the care of the present but invisible Mercury, to whose\nsafeguard travellers, and especially those who were under the necessity of\njourneying by stealth, were usually consigned.\n\nOrestes goes off at the side which was supposed to lead to foreign lands;\nApollo re-enters his temple, which remains open, and the Furies are seen\nin the interior, sleeping on the benches. Clytemnestra's ghost now ascends\nby the charonic stairs, and, passing through the orchestra, appears on the\nstage. We are not to imagine it a haggard skeleton, but a figure with the\nappearance of life, though paler, with the wound still open in her breast,\nand shrouded in ethereal-coloured vestments. She calls on the Furies, in\nthe language of vehement reproach, and then disappears, probably through a\ntrap-door. The Furies awake, and not finding Orestes, they dance in wild\ncommotion round the stage, while they sing the choral song. Apollo again\ncomes out of the temple, and drives them away, as profaning his sanctuary.\nWe may imagine him appearing with the sublime displeasure of the Apollo of\nthe Vatican, with bow and quiver, but also clad with tunic and chlamys.\n\nThe scene now changes; but as the Greeks on such occasions were fond of\ngoing the shortest way to work, the background probably remained\nunchanged, and was now supposed to represent the temple of Minerva, on the\nAreopagus, while the lateral decorations were converted into Athens and\nits surrounding landscape. Orestes now enters, as from foreign land, and,\nas a suppliant, embraces the statue of Pallas standing before the temple.\nThe chorus (who, according to the poet's own description, were clothed in\nblack, with purple girdles, and serpents in their hair, in masks having\nperhaps something of the terrific beauty of Medusa-heads, and marking too\ntheir great age on the principles of sculpture) follows close on his\nsteps, but for the rest of the piece remains below in the orchestra. The\nFuries had at first behaved themselves like beasts of prey, furious at the\nescape of their booty, but now, hymning with tranquil dignity the high and\nterrible office they had among mortals, they claim the head of Orestes, as\nforfeited to them, and devote it with mysterious charms to endless\ntorment. At the intercession of the suppliant, Pallas, the warrior-virgin,\nappears in a chariot drawn by four horses. She inquires the cause of his\ninvocation, and listens with calm dignity to the mutual complaints of\nOrestes and his adversaries, and, at the solicitation of the two parties,\nfinally undertakes, after due reflection, the office of umpire. The\nassembled judges take their seats on the steps of the temple--the herald\ncommands silence among the people by sound of trumpet, just as in a real\ntrial. Apollo advances to advocate the cause of his suppliant, the Furies\nin vain protest against his interference, and the arguments for and\nagainst the deed are debated between them in short speeches. The judges\ncast their ballots into the urn, Pallas throws in a white one; all is\nwrought up to the highest pitch of expectation; Orestes, in agony of\nsuspense, exclaims to his protector--\n\n  O Phoebus Apollo, how will the cause be decided?\n\nThe Furies on the other hand:\n\n  O Night, black Mother, seest thou these doings?\n\nUpon counting the black and white pebbles, they are found equal in number,\nand the accused, therefore, by the decision of Pallas, is acquitted. He\nbreaks out into joyful thanksgiving, while the Furies on the other hand\ndeclaim against the overbearing arrogance of these younger gods, who take\nsuch liberties with those of Titanic race. Pallas bears their rage with\nequanimity, addresses them in the language of kindness, and even of\nveneration; and these so indomitable beings are unable to withstand the\ncharms of her mild eloquence. They promise to bless the land which is\nunder her tutelary protection, while on her part Pallas assigns them a\nsanctuary in the Attic domain, where they are to be called the\n_Eumenides_, that is, \"the Benevolent Goddesses.\" The whole ends with\na solemn procession round the theatre, with hymns of blessing, while bands\nof children, women, and old men, in purple robes and with torches in their\nhands, accompany the Furies in their exit.\n\nLet us now take a retrospective view of the whole trilogy. In the\n_Agamemnon_ we have a predominance of free-will both in the plan and\nexecution of the deed: the principal character is a great criminal, and\nthe piece ends with the revolting impressions produced by the sight of\ntriumphant tyranny and crime. I have already pointed out the allusions it\ncontains to a preceding destiny.\n\nThe deed committed in the _Choephorae_ is partly enjoined by Apollo\nas the appointment of fate, and partly originates in natural motives:\nOrestes' desire of avenging his father, and his brotherly love for the\noppressed Electra. It is only after the execution of the deed that the\nstruggle between the most sacred feelings becomes manifest, and here again\nthe sympathies of the spectators are excited without being fully appeased.\n\nFrom its very commencement, the _Eumenides_ stands on the very summit\nof tragical elevation: all the past is here, as it were, concentrated into\na focus. Orestes has become the mere passive instrument of fate; and free\nagency is transferred to the more elevated sphere of the gods. Pallas is\nproperly the principal character. That opposition between the most sacred\nrelations, which often occurs in life as a problem not to be solved by\nman, is here represented as a contention in the world of the gods.\n\nAnd this brings me to the pregnant meaning of the whole. The ancient\nmythology is in general _symbolical_, although not _allegorical_; for the\ntwo are _certainly_ distinct. Allegory is the personification of an idea,\na poetic story invented solely with such a view; but that is symbolical\nwhich, created by the imagination for other purposes, or possessing an\nindependent reality of its own, is at the same time easily susceptible of\nan emblematical explanation; and even of itself suggests it.\n\nThe Titans in general symbolize the dark and mysterious powers of\nprimaeval nature and mind; the younger gods, whatsoever enters more\nimmediately within the circle of consciousness. The former are more nearly\nallied to original chaos, the latter belong to a world already reduced to\norder. The Furies denote the dreadful powers of conscience, in so far as\nit rests on obscure feelings and forebodings, and yields to no principles\nof reason. In vain Orestes dwells on the just motives which urged him to\nthe deed, the cry of blood still sounds in his ear. Apollo is the god of\nyouth, of the noble ebullition of passionate indignation, of bold and\ndaring action. Accordingly this deed was commanded by him. Pallas is\nthoughtful wisdom, justice, and moderation, which alone can allay the\nconflict of reason and passion.\n\nEven the sleep of the Furies in the temple is symbolical; for only in the\nsanctuary, in the bosom of religion, can the fugitive find rest from the\ntorments of conscience. Scarcely, however, has he ventured forth again\ninto the world, when the image of his murdered mother appears, and again\nawakes them. The very speech of Clytemnestra betrays its symbolical\nimport, as much as the attributes of the Furies, the serpents, and their\nsucking of blood. The same may be said of Apollo's aversion for them; in\nfact, this symbolical character runs through the whole. The equal cogency\nof the motives for and against the deed is denoted by the equally divided\nvotes of the judges. And if at last a sanctuary within the Athenian\nterritory is offered to the softened Furies, this is as much as to say\nthat reason is not everywhere to enforce its principles against\ninvoluntary instinct, that there are in the human mind certain boundaries\nwhich are not to be passed, and all contact with which even every person\npossessed of a true sentiment of reverence will cautiously avoid, if he\nwould preserve peace within.\n\nSo much for the deep philosophical meaning which we need not wonder to\nfind in this poet, who, according to the testimony of Cicero, was a\nPythagorean. Aeschylus had also political views. Foremost of these was the\ndesign of rendering Athens illustrious. Delphi was the religious centre of\nGreece, and yet how far it is thrown into the shade by him! It can shelter\nOrestes, indeed, from the first onset of persecution, but not afford him a\ncomplete liberation; this is reserved for the land of law and humanity.\nBut, a further, and in truth, his principal object was to recommend as\nessential to the welfare of Athens the Areopagus [Footnote: I do not find\nthat this aim has ever been expressly ascribed to Aeschylus by any ancient\nwriter. It is, however, too plain to be mistaken, and is revealed\nespecially in the speech of Pallas, beginning with the 680th verse. It\nagrees, moreover, with the account, that in the very year when the piece\nwas represented, (Olymp. lxxx. 1.) a certain Ephialtes excited the people\nagainst the Areopagus, which was the best guardian of the old and more\naustere constitution, and kept democratic extravagance in check. This\nEphialtes was murdered one night by an unknown hand. Aeschylus received\nthe first prize in the theatrical games, but we know that he left Athens\nimmediately afterwards, and passed his remaining years in Sicily. It is\npossible that, although the theatrical judges did him justice, he might be\nheld in aversion by the populace, and that this induced him, without any\nexpress sentence of banishment, to leave his native city. The story of the\nsight of the terrible chorus of Furies having thrown children into mortal\nconvulsions, and caused women to miscarry, appears to be fabulous. A poet\nwould hardly have been crowned, who had been the occasion of profaning the\nfestival by such occurrences.], an uncorruptible yet mild tribunal, in\nwhich the white ballot of Pallas given in favour of the accused is an\ninvention which does honour to the humanity of the Athenians. The poet\nshows how a portentous series of crimes led to an institution fraught with\nblessings to humanity.\n\nBut it will be asked, are not extrinsic aims of this kind prejudicial to\nthe pure poetical impressions which the composition ought to produce? Most\nundoubtedly, if pursued in the manner in which other poets, and especially\nEuripides, have followed them out. But in Aeschylus the aim is subservient\nto the poetry, rather than the poetry to the aim. He does not lower\nhimself to a circumscribed reality, but, on the contrary, elevates it to a\nhigher sphere, and connects it with the most sublime conceptions.\n\nIn the _Oresteia_ (for so the trilogy or three connected pieces was\ncalled,) we certainly possess one of the sublimest poems that ever was\nconceived by the imagination of man, and, probably, the ripest and most\nperfect of all the productions of his genius. The date of the composition\nof them confirms this supposition: for Aeschylus was at least sixty years\nof age when he brought these dramas on the stage, the last with which he\never competed for the prize at Athens. But, indeed, every one of his\npieces that has come down to us, is remarkable either for displaying some\npeculiar property of the poet, or, as indicative of the step in art at\nwhich he stood at the date of its composition.\n\nI am disposed to consider the _Suppliants_ one of his more early works. It\nprobably belonged to a trilogy, and stood between two other tragedies on\nthe same subject, the names of which are still preserved, namely the\n_Egyptians_ and the _Danaidae_. The first, we may suppose, described the\nflight of the _Danaidae_ from Egypt to avoid the detested marriage with\ntheir cousins; the second depicts the protection which they sought and\nobtained in Argos; while the third would contain the murder of the\nhusbands who were forced upon them. We are disposed to view the two first\npieces as single acts, introductory to the tragical action which properly\ncommences in the last. But the tragedy of the _Suppliants_, while it is\ncomplete in itself, and forms a whole, is yet, when viewed in this\nposition, defective, since it is altogether without reference to or\nconnexion with what precedes and what follows. In the _Suppliants_ the\nchorus not only takes a part in the action, as in the _Eumenides_, but it\nis even the principal character that attracts and commands our interest.\nThis cast of the tragedy is neither favourable for the display of\npeculiarity of character, nor the exciting emotion by the play of powerful\npassions; or, to speak in the language of Grecian art, it is unfavourable\nboth to _ethos_ and to _pathos_. The chorus has but one voice and one\nsoul: to have marked the disposition common to fifty young women (for the\nchorus of _Danaidae_ certainly amounted to this number,) by any exclusive\npeculiarities, would have been absurd in the very nature of things: over\nand above the common features of humanity such a multitude could only be\npainted with those common to their sex, their age, and, perhaps, those of\ntheir nation. In respect to the last, the intention of Aeschylus is more\nconspicuous than his success: he lays a great stress on the foreign\ndescent of the _Danaidae_; but this he does but assert of them, without\nallowing the foreign character to be discovered in their words and\ndiscourse. The sentiments, resolutions, and actions of a multitude, and\nyet manifested with such uniformity, and conceived and executed like the\nmovements of a regular army, have scarcely the appearance of proceeding\nfreely and directly from the inmost being. And, on the other hand, we take\na much stronger interest in the situations and fortunes of a single\nindividual with whose whole character we have become intimately\nacquainted, than in a multitude of uniformly repeated impressions massed\nas it were together. We have more than reason to doubt whether Aeschylus\ntreated the fable of the third piece in such a way that Hypermnestra, the\nonly one of the _Danaidae_ who is allowed to form an exception from the\nrest, became, with her compassion or her love, the principal object of the\ndramatic interest: here, again, probably, his chief object was by\nexpressing, in majestic choral songs, the complaints, the wishes, the\ncares, and supplications of the whole sisterhood, to exhibit a kind of\nsocial solemnity of action and suffering.\n\nIn the same manner, in the _Seven before Thebes_, the king and the\nmessenger, whose speeches occupy the greatest part of the piece, speak\nmore in virtue of their office than as interpreters of their own personal\nfeelings. The description of the assault with which the city is\nthreatened, and of the seven leaders who, like heaven-storming giants,\nhave sworn its destruction, and who, in the emblems borne on their\nshields, display their arrogance, is an epic subject clothed in the pomp\nof tragedy. This long and ascending series of preparation is every way\nworthy the one agitating moment at which Eteocles, who has hitherto\ndisplayed the utmost degree of prudence and firmness, and stationed, at\neach gate, a patriotic hero to confront each of the insolent foes; when\nthe seventh is described to him as no other than Polynices, the author of\nthe whole threatened calamity, hurried away by the Erinnys of a father's\ncurse, insists on becoming himself his antagonist, and, notwithstanding\nall the entreaties of the chorus, with the clear consciousness of\ninevitable death, rushes headlong to the fratricidal strife. War, in\nitself, is no subject for tragedy, and the poet hurries us rapidly from\nthe ominous preparation to the fatal moment of decision: the city is\nsaved, the two competitors for the throne fall by each other's hands, and\nthe whole is closed by their funeral dirge, sung conjointly by the sisters\nand a chorus of Theban virgins. It is worthy of remark that Antigone's\ndetermination to inter her brother, notwithstanding the prohibition with\nwhich Sophocles opens his own piece, which he names after her, is\ninterwoven with the conclusion of this play, a circumstance which, as in\nthe case of the _Choephorae_, immediately connects it with a new and\nfurther development of the tragic story.\n\nI wish I could persuade myself that Aeschylus composed the _Persians_\nto comply with the wish of Hiero, King of Syracuse, who was desirous\nvividly to realize the great events of the Persian war. Such is the\nsubstance of one tradition; but according to another, the piece had been\npreviously exhibited in Athens. We have already alluded to this drama,\nwhich, both in point of choice of subject, and the manner of handling it,\nis undoubtedly the most imperfect of all the tragedies of this poet that\nwe possess. Scarcely has the vision of Atossa raised our expectation in\nthe commencement, when the whole catastrophe immediately opens on us with\nthe arrival of the first messenger, and no further progress is even\nimaginable. But although not a legitimate drama, we may still consider it\nas a proud triumphal hymn of liberty, clothed in soft and unceasing\nlamentations of kindred and subjects over the fallen majesty of the\nambitious despot. With great judgment, both here and in the _Seven before\nThebes_, the poet describes the issue of the war, not as accidental, which\nis almost always the case in Homer, but (for in tragedy there is no place\nfor accident,) as the result of overweening infatuation on the one hand,\nand wise moderation on the other.\n\nThe _Prometheus Bound_, held also a middle place between two others--\nthe _Fire-bringing Prometheus_ and the _Prometheus Unbound_, if we dare\nreckon the first, which, without question, was a satiric drama, a part of\na trilogy. A considerable fragment of the _Prometheus Unbound_ has been\npreserved to us in a Latin translation by Attius.\n\nThe _Prometheus Bound_ is the representation of constancy under suffering,\nand that the never-ending suffering of a god. Exiled in its scene to a\nnaked rock on the shore of the earth-encircling ocean, this drama still\nembraces the world, the Olympus of the gods, and the earth, the abode of\nmortals; all as yet scarcely reposing in security above the dread abyss of\nthe dark primaeval powers--the Titans. The idea of a self-devoting\ndivinity has been mysteriously inculcated in many religions, in dim\nforeboding of the true; here, however, it appears in most fearful\ncontrast to the consolations of Revelation. For Prometheus does not suffer\nfrom any understanding with the power which rules the world, but in\natonement for his disobedience to that power, and his disobedience\nconsists in nothing but the attempt to give perfection to the human race.\nHe is thus an image of human nature itself; endowed with an unblessed\nforesight and riveted to a narrow existence, without a friend or ally, and\nwith nothing to oppose to the combined and inexorable powers of nature,\nbut an unshaken will and the consciousness of her own lofty aspirations.\nThe other productions of the Greek Tragedians are so many tragedies; but\nthis I might say is Tragedy herself: her purest spirit revealed with all\nthe annihilating and overpowering force of its first, and as yet\nunmitigated, austerity.\n\nThere is little of external action in this piece. Prometheus merely\nsuffers and resolves from the beginning to the end; and his sufferings and\nresolutions are always the same. But the poet has, in a masterly manner,\ncontrived to introduce variety and progress into that which in itself was\ndeterminately fixed, and has in the objects with which he has surrounded\nhim, given us a scale for the measurement of the matchless power of his\nsublime Titan. First the silence of Prometheus, while he is chained down\nunder the harsh inspection of _Strength_ and _Force_, whose threats serve\nonly to excite a useless compassion in Vulcan, who is nevertheless forced\nto carry them into execution; then his solitary complainings, the arrival\nof the womanly tender ocean nymphs, whose kind but disheartening sympathy\nstimulates him to give freer vent to his feelings, to relate the causes of\nhis fall, and to reveal the future, though with prudent reserve he reveals\nit only in part; the visit of the ancient Oceanus, a kindred god of the\nTitanian race, who, under the pretext of a zealous attachment to his\ncause, counsels submission to Jupiter, and is therefore dismissed with\nproud contempt; next comes Io, the frenzy-driven wanderer, a victim of the\nsame tyranny as Prometheus himself suffers under: to her he predicts the\nwanderings to which she is still doomed, and the fate which at last awaits\nher, which, in some degree, is connected with his own, as from her blood,\nafter the lapse of many ages, his deliverer is to spring; then the\nappearance of Mercury, as the messenger of the universal tyrant, who, with\nhaughty menaces, commands him to disclose the secret which is to ensure\nthe safety of Jupiter's throne against all the malice of fate and fortune;\nand, lastly, before Prometheus has well declared his refusal, the yawning\nof the earth, which, amidst thunder and lightning, storms and earthquake,\nengulfs both him and the rock to which he is chained in the abyss of the\nnether world. The triumph of subjection was never perhaps more gloriously\ncelebrated, and we have difficulty in conceiving how the poet in the\n_Prometheus Unbound_ could have sustained himself on the same height of\nelevation.\n\nIn the dramas of Aeschylus we have one of many examples that, in art as\nwell as in nature, gigantic productions precede those that evince\nregularity of proportion, which again in their turn decline gradually into\nlittleness and insignificance, and that poetry in her earliest appearance\nattaches itself closely to the sanctities of religion, whatever may be the\nform which the latter assumes among the various races of men.\n\nA saying of the poet, which has been recorded, proves that he endeavoured\nto maintain this elevation, and purposely avoided all artificial polish,\nwhich might lower him from this godlike sublimity. His brothers urged him\nto write a new Paean. He answered: \"The old one of Tynnichus is the best,\nand his compared with this, fare as the new statues do beside the old; for\nthe latter, with all their simplicity, are considered divine; while the\nnew, with all the care bestowed on their execution, are indeed admired,\nbut bear much less of the impression of divinity.\" In religion, as in\neverything else, he carried his boldness to the utmost limits; and thus he\neven came to be accused of having in one of his pieces disclosed the\nEleusinean mysteries, and was only acquitted on the intercession of his\nbrother Aminias, who bared in sight of the judges the wounds which he had\nreceived in the battle of Salamis. He perhaps believed that in the\ncommunication of the poetic feeling was contained the initiation into the\nmysteries, and that nothing was in this way revealed to any one who was\nnot worthy of it.\n\nIn Aeschylus the tragic style is as yet imperfect, and not unfrequently\nruns into either unmixed epic or lyric. It is often abrupt, irregular, and\nharsh. To compose more regular and skilful tragedies than those of\nAeschylus was by no means difficult; but in the more than mortal grandeur\nwhich he displayed, it was impossible that he should ever be surpassed;\nand even Sophocles, his younger and more fortunate rival, did not in this\nrespect equal him. The latter, in speaking of Aeschylus, gave a proof that\nhe was himself a thoughtful artist: \"Aeschylus does what is right without\nknowing it.\" These few simple words exhaust the whole of what we\nunderstand by the phrase, powerful genius working unconsciously.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE VII.\n\nLife and Political Character of Sophocles--Character of his different\nTragedies.\n\n\nThe birth of Sophocles was nearly at an equal distance between that of his\npredecessor and that of Euripides, so that he was about half a life-time\nfrom each: but on this point all the authorities do not coincide. He was,\nhowever, during the greatest part of his life the contemporary of both. He\nfrequently contended for the ivy-wreath of tragedy with Aeschylus, and he\noutlived Euripides, who, however, also attained to a good old age. To\nspeak in the spirit of the ancient religion, it seems that a beneficent\nProvidence wished in this individual to evince to the human race the\ndignity and blessedness of its lot, by endowing him with every divine\ngift, with all that can adorn and elevate the mind and the heart, and\ncrowning him with every imaginable blessing of this life. Descended from\nrich and honourable parents, and born a free citizen of the most\nenlightened state of Greece;--there were birth, necessary condition, and\nfoundation. Beauty of person and of mind, and the uninterruped enjoyment\nof both in the utmost perfection, to the extreme term of human existence;\na most choice and finished education in gymnastics and the musical arts,\nthe former so important in the development of the bodily powers, and the\nlatter in the communication of harmony; the sweet bloom of youth, and the\nripe fruit of age; the possession of and unbroken enjoyment of poetry and\nart, and the exercise of serene wisdom; love and respect among his fellow\ncitizens, renown abroad, and the countenance and favour of the gods: these\nare the general features of the life of this pious and virtuous poet. It\nwould seem as if the gods, to whom, and to Bacchus in particular, as the\ngiver of all joy, and the civilizer of the human race, he devoted himself\nat an early age by the composition of tragical dramas for his festivals,\nhad wished to confer immortality on him, so long did they delay the hour\nof his death; but as this could not be, they loosened him from life as\ngently as was possible, that he might imperceptibly change one immortality\nfor another, the long duration of his earthly existence for the\nimperishable vitality of his name. When a youth of sixteen, he was\nselected, on account of his beauty, to dance (playing the while, after the\nGreek manner, on the lyre) at the head of the chorus of youths who, after\nthe battle of Salamis (in which Aeschylus fought, and which he has so\nnobly described), executed the Paean round the trophy erected on that\noccasion. Thus then the beautiful season of his youthful bloom coincided\nwith the most glorious epoch of the Athenian people. He held the rank of\ngeneral as colleague with Pericles and Thucydides, and, when arrived at a\nmore advanced age, was elected to the priesthood of a native hero. In his\ntwenty-fifth year he began to exhibit tragedies; twenty times was he\nvictorious; he often gained the second place, but never was he ranked so\nlow as in the third. In this career he proceeded with increasing success\ntill he had passed his ninetieth year; and some of his greatest works were\neven the fruit of a still later period. There is a story of an accusation\nbeing brought against him by one or more of his elder sons, of having\nbecome childish from age, and of being incapable of managing his own\naffairs. An alleged partiality for a grandson by a second wife is said to\nhave been the motive of the charge. In his defence he contented himself\nwith reading to his judges his _Oedipus at Colonos_, which he had\nthen just composed (or, according to others, only the magnificent chorus\nin it, wherein he sings the praises of Colonos, his birth-place,) and the\nastonished judges, without farther consultation, conducted him in triumph\nto his house. If it be true that the second _Oedipus_ was written at\nso late an age, as from its mature serenity and total freedom from the\nimpetuosity and violence of youth we have good reason to conclude that it\nactually was, it affords us a pleasing picture of an old age at once\namiable and venerable. Although the varying accounts of his death have a\nfabulous look, they all coincide in this, and alike convey this same\npurport, that he departed life without a struggle, while employed in his\nart, or something connected with it, and that, like an old swan of Apollo,\nhe breathed out his life in song. The story also of the Lacedaemonian\ngeneral, who having entrenched the burying-ground of the poet's ancestors,\nand being twice warned by Bacchus in a vision to allow Sophocles to be\nthere interred, dispatched a herald to the Athenians on the subject, I\nconsider as true, as well as a number of other circumstances, which serve\nto set in a strong light the illustrious reverence in which his name was\nheld. In calling him virtuous and pious, I used the words in his own\nsense; for although his works breathe the real character of ancient\ngrandeur, gracefulness, and simplicity, he, of all the Grecian poets, is\nalso the one whose feelings bear the strongest affinity to the spirit of\nour religion.\n\nOne gift alone was denied to him by nature: a voice attuned to song. He\ncould only call forth and direct the harmonious effusions of other voices;\nhe was therefore compelled to depart from the hitherto established\npractice for the poet to act a part in his own pieces. Once only did he\nmake his appearance on the stage in the character of the blind singer\nThamyris (a very characteristic trait) playing on the cithara.\n\nAs Aeschylus, who raised tragic poetry from its rude beginnings to the\ndignity of the Cothurnus, was his predecessor; the historical relation in\nwhich he stood to him enabled Sophocles to profit by the essays of that\noriginal master, so that Aeschylus appears as the rough designer, and\nSophocles as the finisher and successor. The more artificial construction\nof Sophocles' dramas is easily perceived: the greater limitation of the\nchorus in proportion to the dialogue, the smoother polish of the rhythm,\nand the purer Attic diction, the introduction of a greater number of\ncharacters, the richer complication of the fable, the multiplication of\nincidents, a higher degree of development, the more tranquil dwelling upon\nall the momenta of the action, and the more striking theatrical effect\nallowed to decisive ones, the more perfect rounding off of the whole, even\nconsidered from a merely external point of view. But he excelled Aeschylus\nin something still more essential, and proved himself deserving of the\ngood fortune of having such a preceptor, and of being allowed to enter\ninto competition in the same field with him: I mean the harmonious\nperfection of his mind, which enabled him spontaneously to satisfy every\nrequisition of the laws of beauty, a mind whose free impulse was\naccompanied by the most clear consciousness. To surpass Aeschylus in\nboldness of conception was perhaps impossible: I am inclined, however, to\nbelieve that is only because of his wisdom and moderation that Sophocles\nappears less bold, since he always goes to work with the greatest energy,\nand perhaps with even a more sustained earnestness, like a man who knows\nthe extent of his powers, and is determined, when he does not exceed them,\nto stand up with the greater confidence for his rights [Footnote: This\nidea has been so happily expressed by the greatest genius perhaps of the\nlast century, that the translator hopes he will be forgiven for here\ntranscribing the passage: \"I can truly say that, poor and unknown as I\nthen was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works,\nas I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their favour. It\never was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders both in a rational and\nreligious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing\nto their ignorance of themselves. To know myself, had been all along my\nconstant study. I weighed myself alone; I balanced myself with others; I\nwatched every means of information to see how much ground I occupied as a\nman and as a poet; I studied assiduously nature's design in my formation--\nwhere the lights and shades in my character were intended.\"--_Letter\nfrom Burns to Dr. Moore, in Currie's Life._--TRANS.]. As Aeschylus\ndelights in transporting us to the convulsions of the primary world of the\nTitans, Sophocles, on the other hand, never avails himself of divine\ninterposition except where it is absolutely necessary; he formed men,\naccording to the general confession of antiquity, better, that is, not\nmore moral and exempt from error, but more beautiful and noble than they\nreally are; and while he took every thing in the most human sense, he was\nat the same time open to its higher significance. According to all\nappearance he was also more temperate than Aeschylus in his use of scenic\nornaments; displaying perhaps more of taste and chastened beauty, but not\nattempting the same colossal magnificence.\n\nTo characterize the native sweetness and gracefulness so eminent in this\npoet, the ancients gave him the appellation of the Attic bee. Whoever is\nthoroughly imbued with the feeling of this peculiarity may flatter himself\nthat a sense for ancient art has arisen within him; for the affected\nsentimentality of the present day, far from coinciding with the ancients\nin this opinion, would in the tragedies of Sophocles, both in respect of\nthe representation of bodily sufferings, and in the sentiments and\nstructure, find much that is insupportably austere.\n\nWhen we consider the great fertility of Sophocles, for according to some\nhe wrote a hundred and thirty pieces (of which, however, seventeen were\npronounced spurious by Aristophanes the grammarian), and eighty according\nto the most moderate account, little, it must be owned, has come down to\nus, for we have only seven of them. Chance, however, has so far favoured\nus, that in these seven pieces we find several which were held by the\nancients as his greatest works, the _Antigone_, for example, the\n_Electra_, and the two on the subject of _Oedipus_; and these have also\ncome down to us tolerably free from mutilation and corruption in their\ntext. The _Oedipus Tyrannus_, and the _Philoctetes_, have been generally,\nbut without good reason, preferred by modern critics to all the others:\nthe first on account of the artifice of the plot, in which the dreadful\ncatastrophe, which so powerfully excites the curiosity (a rare case in the\nGreek tragedies), is inevitably brought about by a succession of connected\ncauses; the latter on account of the masterly display of character, the\nbeautiful contrast observable in those of the three leading personages,\nand the simple structure of the piece, in which, with so few persons,\neverything proceeds from the truest and most adequate motives. But the\nwhole of the tragedies of Sophocles are separately resplendent with\npeculiar excellencies. In _Antigone_ we have the purest display of\nfeminine heroism; in _Ajax_ the sense of manly honour in its full force;\nin the _Trachiniae_ (or, as we should rather name it, the _Dying\nHercules_), the female levity of Dejanira is beautifully atoned for by her\ndeath, and the sufferings of Hercules are portrayed with suitable dignity;\n_Electra_ is distinguished by energy and pathos; in _Oedipus Coloneus_\nthere prevails a mild and gentle emotion, and over the whole piece is\ndiffused the sweetest gracefulness. I will not undertake to weigh the\nrespective merits of these pieces against each other: but I own I\nentertain a singular predilection for the last of them, because it appears\nto me the most expressive of the personal feelings of the poet himself. As\nthis piece was written for the very purpose of throwing a lustre on\nAthens, and his own birth-place more particularly, he appears to have\nlaboured on it with a special love and affection.\n\n_Ajax_ and _Antigone_ are usually the least understood. We cannot conceive\nhow these pieces should run on so long after what we usually call the\ncatastrophe. On this subject I shall hereafter offer a remark or two.\n\nOf all the fables of ancient mythology in which fate is made to play a\nconspicuous part, the story of Oedipus is perhaps the most ingenious; but\nstill many others, as, for instance, that of Niobe, which, without any\ncomplication of incidents, simply exhibit on a scale of colossal\ndimensions both of human arrogance, and its impending punishment from the\ngods, appear to me to be conceived in a grander style. The very intrigue\nwhich is involved in that of Oedipus detracts from its loftiness of\ncharacter. Intrigue in the dramatic sense is a complication arising from\nthe crossing of purposes and events, and this is found in a high degree in\nthe fate of Oedipus, as all that is done by his parents or himself in\norder to evade the predicted horrors, serves only to bring them on the\nmore surely. But that which gives so grand and terrible a character to\nthis drama, is the circumstance which, however, is for the most part\noverlooked; that to the very Oedipus who solved the riddle of the Sphinx\nrelating to human life, his own life should remain so long an inextricable\nriddle, to be so awfully cleared up, when all was irretrievably lost. A\nstriking picture of the arrogant pretension of human wisdom, which is ever\nright enough in its general principles, but does not enable the possessor\nto make the proper application to himself.\n\nNotwithstanding the severe conclusion of the first _Oedipus_ we are\nso far reconciled to it by the violence, suspicion, and haughtiness in the\ncharacter of Oedipus, that our feelings do not absolutely revolt at so\nhorrible a fate. For this end, it was necessary thus far to sacrifice the\ncharacter of Oedipus, who, however, raises himself in our estimation by\nhis fatherly care and heroic zeal for the welfare of his people, that\noccasion him, by his honest search for the author of the crime, to\naccelerate his own destruction. It was also necessary, for the sake of\ncontrast with his future misery, to exhibit him in his treatment of\nTiresias and Creon, in all the haughtiness of regal dignity. And, indeed,\nall his earlier proceedings evince, in some measure, the same\nsuspiciousness and violence of character; the former, in his refusing to\nbe quieted by the assurances of Polybos, when taunted with being a\nsuppositious child, and the latter, in his bloody quarrel with Laius. The\nlatter character he seems to have inherited from both his parents. The\narrogant levity of Jocasta, which induces her to deride the oracle as not\nconfirmed by the event, the penalty of which she is so soon afterwards to\ninflict upon herself, was not indeed inherited by her son; he is, on the\ncontrary, conspicuous throughout for the purity of his intentions; and his\ncare and anxiety to escape from the predicted crime, added naturally to\nthe poignancy of his despair, when he found that he had nevertheless been\novertaken by it. Awful indeed is his blindness in not perceiving the truth\nwhen it was, as it were, brought directly home to him; as, for instance,\nwhen he puts the question to Jocasta, How did Laius look? and she answers\nhe had become gray-haired, otherwise in appearance he was not unlike\nOedipus. This is also another feature of her levity, that she should not\nhave been struck with the resemblance to her husband, a circumstance that\nmight have led her to recognize him as her son. Thus a close analysis of\nthe piece will evince the utmost propriety and significance of every\nportion of it. As, however, it is customary to extol the correctness of\nSophocles, and to boast more especially of the strict observance of\nprobability which, prevails throughout this _Oedipus_, I must here\nremark that this very piece is a proof how, on this subject, the ancient\nartists followed very different principles from those of modern critics.\nFor, according to our way of thinking, nothing could be more improbable\nthan that Oedipus should, so long, have forborne to inquire into the\ncircumstances of the death of Laius, and that the scars on his feet, and\neven the name which he bore, should never have excited the curiosity of\nJocasta, &c. But the ancients did not produce their works of art for\ncalculating and prosaic understandings; and an improbability which, to be\nfound out, required dissection, and did not exist within the matters of\nthe representation itself, was to them none at all.\n\nThe diversity of character of Aeschylus and Sophocles is nowhere more\nconspicuous than in the _Eumenides_ and the _Oedipus Coloneus_, as both\nthese pieces were composed with the same aim. This aim was to glorify\nAthens as the sacred abode of law and humanity, on whose soil the\ncrimes of the hero families of other countries might, by a higher\nmediation, be at last propitiated; while an ever-during prosperity was\npredicted to the Athenian people. The patriotic and liberty-breathing\nAeschylus has recourse to a judicial, and the pious Sophocles to a\nreligious, procedure; even the consecration of Oedipus in death. Bent down\nby the consciousness of inevitable crimes, and lengthened misery, his\nhonour is, as it were, cleared up by the gods themselves, as if desirous\nof showing that, in the terrible example which they made of him, they had\nno intention of visiting him in particular, but merely wished to give a\nsolemn lesson to the whole human race. Sophocles, to whom the whole of\nlife was one continued worship of the gods, delighted to throw all\npossible honour on its last moments as if a more solemn festival; and\nassociated it with emotions very different from what the thought of\nmortality is in general calculated to excite. That the tortured and\nexhausted Oedipus should at last find peace and repose in the grove of the\nFuries, in the very spot from which all other mortals fled with aversion\nand horror, he whose misfortune consisted in having done a deed at which\nall men shudder, unconsciously and without warning of any inward feeling;\nin this there is a profound and mysterious meaning.\n\nAeschylus has given us in the person of Pallas a more majestic\nrepresentation of the Attic cultivation, prudence, moderation, mildness,\nand magnanimity; but Sophocles, who delighted to draw all that is godlike\nwithin the sphere of humanity, has, in his Theseus, given a more delicate\ndevelopment of all these same things. Whoever is desirous of gaining an\naccurate idea of Grecian heroism, as contrasted with the Barbarian, would\ndo well to consider this character with attention.\n\nIn Aeschylus, before the victim of persecution can be delivered, and the\nland can participate in blessings, the infernal horror of the Furies\ncongeals the spectators' blood, and makes his hair stand on end, and the\nwhole rancour of these goddesses of rage is exhausted: after this the\ntransition to their peaceful retreat is the more wonderful; the whole\nhuman race seems, as it were, delivered from their power. In Sophocles,\nhowever, they do not ever appear, but are kept altogether in the\nbackground; and they are never mentioned by their own name, but always\nalluded to by some softening euphemism. But this very obscurity, so\nexactly befitting these daughters of night, and the very distance at which\nthey are kept, are calculated to excite a silent horror in which the\nbodily senses have no part. The clothing the grove of the Furies with all\nthe charms of a southern spring completes the sweetness of the poem; and\nwere I to select from his own tragedies an emblem of the poetry of\nSophocles, I should describe it as a sacred grove of the dark goddesses of\nfate, in which the laurel, the olive, and the vine, are always green, and\nthe song of the nightingale is for ever heard.\n\nTwo of the pieces of Sophocles refer, to what in the Greek way of\nthinking, are the sacred rights of the dead, and the solemn importance of\nburial; in _Antigone_ the whole of the action hinges on this, and in\n_Ajax_ it forms the only satisfactory conclusion of the piece.\n\nThe ideal of the female character in _Antigone_ is characterized by\ngreat austerity, and it is sufficient of itself to put an end to all the\nseductive representations of Grecian softness, which of late have been so\nuniversally current. Her indignation at Ismene's refusal to take part in\nher daring resolution; the manner in which she afterwards repulses Ismene,\nwhen repenting of her former weakness, she begs to be allowed to share her\nheroic sister's death, borders on harshness; both her silence, and then\nher invectives against Creon, by which she provokes him to execute his\ntyrannical threats, display the immovable energy of manly courage. The\npoet has, however, discovered the secret of painting the loving heart of\nwoman in a single line, when to the assertion of Creon, that Polynices was\nan enemy to his country, she replies:\n\n  My love shall go with thine, but not my hate.\n[Footnote: This is the version of Franklin, but it does not convey the\nmeaning of the original, and I am not aware that the English language is\nsufficiently flexible to admit of an exact translation. The German, which,\nthough far inferior to the Greek in harmony, is little behind in\nflexibility, has in this respect great advantage over the English; and\nSchlegel's \"_nicht mitzuhassen, mitzulieben bin ich da_,\" represents\nexactly _Outoi synechthein alla symphilein ephyn_.--TRANS.]\n\nMoreover, she puts a constraint on her feelings only so long as by giving\nvent to them, she might make her firmness of purpose appear equivocal.\nWhen, however, she is being led forth to inevitable death, she pours forth\nher soul in the tenderest and most touching waitings over her hard and\nuntimely fate, and does not hesitate, she, the modest virgin, to mourn the\nloss of nuptials, and the unenjoyed bliss of marriage. Yet she never in a\nsingle syllable betrays any inclination for Haemon, and does not even\nmention the name of that amiable youth [Footnote: Barth\u00e9lemy asserts the\ncontrary; but the line to which he refers, according to the more correct\nmanuscripts, and even according to the context, belongs to Ismene.]. After\nsuch heroic determination, to have shown that any tie still bound her to\nexistence, would have been a weakness; but to relinquish without one\nsorrowful regret those common enjoyments with which the gods have enriched\nthis life, would have ill accorded with her devout sanctity of mind.\n\nOn a first view the chorus in _Antigone_ may appear weak, acceding,\nas it does, at once, without opposition to the tyrannical commands of\nCreon, and without even attempting to make the slightest representation in\nbehalf of the young heroine. But to exhibit the determination and the deed\nof Antigone in their full glory, it was necessary that they should stand\nout quite alone, and that she should have no stay or support. Moreover,\nthe very submissiveness of the chorus increases our impression of the\nirresistible nature of the royal commands. So, too, was it necessary for\nit to mingle with its concluding addresses to Antigone the most painful\nrecollections, that she might drain the full cup of earthly sorrows. The\ncase is very different in _Electra_, where the chorus appropriately\ntakes an interest in the fate of the two principal characters, and\nencourages them in the execution of their design, as the moral feelings\nare divided as to its legitimacy, whereas there is no such conflict in\nAntigone's case, who had nothing to deter her from her purpose but mere\nexternal fears.\n\nAfter the fulfilment of the deed, and the infliction of its penalties, the\narrogance of Creon still remains to be corrected, and the death of\nAntigone to be avenged; nothing less than the destruction of his whole\nfamily, and his own despair, could be a sufficient atonement for the\nsacrifice of a life so costly. We have therefore the king's wife, who had\nnot even been named before, brought at last on the stage, that she may\nhear the misfortunes of her family, and put an end to her own existence.\nTo Grecian feelings it would have been impossible to consider the poem as\nproperly concluding with the death of Antigone, without its penal\nretribution.\n\nThe case is the same in Ajax. His arrogance, which was punished with a\ndegrading madness, is atoned for by the deep shame which at length drives\nhim even to self-murder. The persecution of the unfortunate man must not,\nhowever, be carried farther; when, therefore, it is in contemplation to\ndishonour his very corpse by the refusal of interment, even Ulysses\ninterferes. He owes the honours of burial to that Ulysses whom in life he\nhad looked upon as his mortal enemy, and to whom, in the dreadful\nintroductory scene, Pallas shows, in the example of the delirious Ajax,\nthe nothingness of man. Thus Ulysses appears as the personification of\nmoderation, which, if it had been possessed by Ajax, would have prevented\nhis fall.\n\nSelf-murder is of frequent occurrence in ancient mythology, at least as\nadapted to tragedy; but it generally takes place, if not in a state of\ninsanity, yet in a state of agitation, after some sudden calamity which\nleaves no room for consideration. Such self-murders as those of Jocasta,\nHaemon, Eurydice, and lastly of Dejanira, appear merely in the light of a\nsubordinate appendage in the tragical pictures of Sophocles; but the\nsuicide of Ajax is a cool determination, a free action, and of sufficient\nimportance to become the principal subject of the piece. It is not the\nlast fatal crisis of a slow mental malady, as is so often the case in\nthese more effeminate modern times; still less is it that more theoretical\ndisgust of life, founded on a conviction of its worthlessness, which\ninduced so many of the later Romans, on Epicurean as well as Stoical\nprinciples, to put an end to their existence. It is not through any\nunmanly despondency that Ajax is unfaithful to his rude heroism. His\ndelirium is over, as well as his first comfortless feelings upon awaking\nfrom it; and it is not till after the complete return of consciousness,\nand when he has had time to measure the depth of the abyss into which, by\na divine destiny, his overweening haughtiness has plunged him, when he\ncontemplates his situation, and feels it ruined beyond remedy:--his honour\nwounded by the refusal of the arms of Achilles; and the outburst of his\nvindictive rage wasted in his infatuation on defenceless flocks; himself,\nafter a long and reproachless heroic career, a source of amusement to his\nenemies, an object of derision and abomination to the Greeks, and to his\nhonoured father,--should he thus return to him--a disgrace: after\nreviewing all this, he decides agreeably to his own motto, \"gloriously to\nlive or gloriously to die,\" that the latter course alone remains open to\nhim. Even the dissimulation,--the first, perhaps, that he ever practised,\nby which, to prevent the execution of his purpose from being disturbed, he\npacifies his comrades, must be considered as the fruit of greatness of\nsoul. He appoints Teucer guardian to his infant boy, the future\nconsolation of his own bereaved parents; and, like Cato, dies not before\nhe has arranged the concerns of all who belong to him. As Antigone in her\nwomanly tenderness, so even he in his wild manner, seems in his last\nspeech to feel the majesty of that light of the sun from which he is\ndeparting for ever. His rude courage disdains compassion, and therefore\nexcites it the more powerfully. What a picture of awaking from the tumult\nof passion, when the tent opens and in the midst of the slaughtered herds\nhe sits on the ground bewailing himself!\n\nAs Ajax, in the feeling of inextinguishable shame, forms the violent\nresolution of throwing away life, Philoctetes, on the other hand, bears\nits wearisome load during long years of misery with the most enduring\npatience. If Ajax is honoured by his despair, Philoctetes is equally\nennobled by his constancy. When the instinct of self-preservation comes\ninto collision with no moral impulse, it naturally exhibits itself in all\nits strength. Nature has armed with this instinct whatever is possessed of\nthe breath of life, and the vigour with which every hostile attack on\nexistence is repelled is the strongest proof of its excellence. In the\npresence, it is true, of that band of men by which he had been abandoned,\nand if he must depend on their superior power, Philoctetes would no more\nhave wished for life than did Ajax. But he is alone with nature; he quails\nnot before the frightful aspect which she exhibits to him, and still\nclings even to the maternal bosom of the all-nourishing earth. Exiled on a\ndesert island, tortured by an incurable wound, solitary and helpless as he\nis, his bow procures him food from the birds of the forest, the rock\nyields him soothing herbs, the fountain supplies a fresh beverage, his\ncave affords him a cool shelter in summer, in winter he is warmed by the\nmid-day sun, or a fire of kindled boughs; even the raging attacks of his\npain at length exhaust themselves, and leave him in a refreshing sleep.\nAlas! it is the artificial refinements, the oppressive burden of a\nrelaxing and deadening superfluity which render man indifferent to the\nvalue of life: when it is stripped of all foreign appendages, though borne\ndown with sufferings so that the naked existence alone remains, still will\nits sweetness flow from the heart at every pulse through all the veins.\nMiserable man! ten long years has he struggled; and yet he still lives,\nand clings to life and hope. What force of truth is there in all this!\nWhat, however, most moves us in behalf of Philoctetes is, that he, who by\nan abuse of power had been cast out from society, when it again approaches\nhim is exposed by it to a second and still more dangerous evil, that of\nfalsehood. The anxiety excited in the mind of the spectator lest\nPhiloctetes should be deprived of his last means of subsistence, his bow,\nwould be too painful, did he not from the beginning entertain a suspicion\nthat the open-hearted and straight-forward Neoptolemus will not be able to\nmaintain to the end the character which, so much against his will, he has\nassumed. Not without reason after this deception does Philoctetes turn\naway from mankind to those inanimate companions to which the instinctive\ncraving for society had attached him. He calls on the island and its\nvolcanoes to witness this fresh wrong; he believes that his beloved bow\nfeels pain in being taken from him; and at length he takes a melancholy\nleave of his hospitable cavern, the fountains and the wave-washed cliffs,\nfrom which he so often looked in vain upon the ocean: so inclined to love\nis the uncorrupted mind of man.\n\nRespecting the bodily sufferings of Philoctetes and the manner of\nrepresenting them, Lessing has in his _Laoco\u00f6n_ declared himself against\nWinkelmann, and Herder again has in the _Silvae Criticae_ (Kritische\nW\u00e4lder) contradicted Lessing. Both the two last writers have made many\nexcellent observations on the piece, although we must allow with Herder,\nthat Winkelmann was correct in affirming that the Philoctetes of\nSophocles, like Laoco\u00f6n in the celebrated group, suffers with the\nsuppressed agony of an heroic soul never altogether overcome by his pain.\n\nThe _Trachiniae_ appears to me so very inferior to the other pieces\nof Sophocles which have reached us, that I could wish there were some\nwarrant for supposing that this tragedy was composed in the age, indeed,\nand in the school of Sophocles, perhaps by his son Iophon, and that it was\nby mistake attributed to the father. There is much both in the structure\nand plan, and in the style of the piece, calculated to excite suspicion;\nand many critics have remarked that the introductory soliloquy of\nDejanira, which is wholly uncalled-for, is very unlike the general\ncharacter of Sophocles' prologues: and although this poet's usual rules of\nart are observed on the whole, yet it is very superficially; no where can\nwe discern in it the profound mind of Sophocles. But as no writer of\nantiquity appears to have doubted its authenticity, while Cicero even\nquotes from it the complaint of Hercules, as from an indisputable work of\nSophocles, we are compelled to content ourselves with the remark, that in\nthis one instance the tragedian has failed to reach his usual elevation.\n\nThis brings us to the consideration of a general question, which, in the\nexamination of the works of Euripides, will still more particularly engage\nthe attention of the critic: how far, namely, the invention and execution\nof a drama must belong to one man to entitle him to pass for its author.\nDramatic literature affords numerous examples of plays composed by several\npersons conjointly. It is well known that Euripides, in the details and\nexecution of his pieces, availed himself of the assistance of a learned\nservant, Cephisophon; and he perhaps also consulted with him respecting\nhis plots. It appears, moreover, certain that in Athens schools of\ndramatic art had at this date been formed; such, indeed, as usually arise\nwhen poetical talents are, by public competition, called abundantly and\nactively into exercise: schools of art which contain scholars of such\nexcellence and of such kindred genius, that the master may confide to them\na part of the execution, and even the plan, and yet allow the whole to\npass under his name without any disparagement to his fame. Such were the\nschools of painting of the sixteenth century, and every one knows what a\nremarkable degree of critical acumen is necessary to discover in many of\nRaphael's pictures how much really belongs to his own pencil. Sophocles\nhad educated his son Iophon to the tragic art, and might therefore easily\nreceive assistance from him in the actual labour of composition,\nespecially as it was necessary that the tragedies that were to compete for\nthe prize should be ready and got by heart by a certain day. On the other\nhand, he might also execute occasional passages for works originally\ndesigned by the son; and the pieces of this description, in which the hand\nof the master was perceptible, would be naturally attributed to the more\ncelebrated name.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE VIII.\n\nEuripides--His Merits and Defects--Decline of Tragic Poetry through him.\n\n\nWhen we consider Euripides by himself, without any comparison with his\npredecessors, when we single out some of his better pieces, and particular\npassages in others, we cannot refuse to him an extraordinary meed of\npraise. But on the other hand, when we take him in his connexion with the\nhistory of art, when we look at each of his pieces as a whole, and again\nat the general scope of his labours, as revealed to us in the works which\nhave come down to us, we are forced to censure him severely on many\naccounts. Of few writers can so much good and evil be said with truth. He\nwas a man of boundless ingenuity and most versatile talents; but he either\nwanted the lofty earnestness of purpose, or the severe artistic wisdom,\nwhich we reverence in Aeschylus and Sophocles, to regulate the luxuriance\nof his certainly splendid and amiable qualities. His constant aim is to\nplease, he cares not by what means; hence is he so unequal: frequently he\nhas passages of overpowering beauty, but at other times he sinks into\ndownright mediocrity. With all his faults he possesses an admirable ease,\nand a certain insinuating charm.\n\nThese preliminary observations I have judged necessary, since otherwise,\non account of what follows, it might be objected to me that I am at\nvariance with myself, having lately, in a short French essay, endeavoured\nto show the superiority of a piece of Euripides to Racine's imitation of\nit. There I fixed my attention on a single drama, and that one of the\npoet's best; but here I consider everything from the most general points\nof view, and relatively to the highest requisitions of art; and that my\nenthusiasm for ancient tragedy may not appear blind and extravagant, I\nmust justify it by a keen examination into the traces of its degeneracy\nand decline.\n\nWe may compare perfection in art and poetry to the summit of a steep\nmountain, on which an uprolled load cannot long maintain its position, but\nimmediately rolls down again the other side irresistibly. It descends\naccording to the laws of gravity with quickness and ease, and one can\ncalmly look on while it is descending; for the mass follows its natural\ntendency, while the laborious ascent is, in some degree, a painful\nspectacle. Hence it is, for example, that the paintings which belong to\nthe age of declining art are much more pleasing to the unlearned eye, than\nthose which preceded the period of its perfection. The genuine\nconnoisseur, on the contrary, will hold the pictures of a Zuccheri and\nothers, who gave the tone when the great schools of the sixteenth century\nwere degenerating into empty and superficial mannerism, to be in real and\nessential worth, far inferior to the works of a Mantegna, Perugino, and\ntheir contemporaries. Or let us suppose the perfection of art a focus: at\nequal distances on either side, the collected rays occupy equal spaces,\nbut on this side they converge towards a common effect; whereas, on the\nother they diverge, till at last they are totally lost.\n\nWe have, besides, a particular reason for censuring without reserve the\nerrors of this poet; the fact, namely, that our own age is infected with\nthe same faults with those which procured for Euripides so much favour, if\nnot esteem, among his contemporaries. In our times we have been doomed to\nwitness a number of plays which, though in matter and form they are far\ninferior to those of Euripides, bear yet in so far a resemblance to them,\nthat while they seduce the feelings and corrupt the judgment, by means of\nweakly, and sometimes even tender, emotions, their general tendency is to\nproduce a downright moral licentiousness.\n\nWhat I shall say on this subject will not, for the most part, possess even\nthe attraction of novelty. Although the moderns, attracted either by the\ngreater affinity of his views with their own sentiments, or led astray by\nan ill-understood opinion of Aristotle, have not unfrequently preferred\nEuripides to his two predecessors, and have unquestionably read, admired,\nand imitated him much more; it admits of being shown, however, that many\nof the ancients, and some even of the contemporaries of Euripides, held\nthe same opinion of him as myself. In _Anacharsis_ we find this mixture of\npraise and censure at least alluded to, though the author softens\neverything for the sake of his object of showing the productions of the\nGreeks, in every department, under the most favourable light.\n\nWe possess some cutting sayings of Sophocles respecting Euripides, though\nhe was so far from being actuated by anything like the jealousy of\nauthorship, that he mourned his death, and, in a piece which he exhibited\nshortly after, he did not allow his actors the usual ornament of the\nwreath. The charge which Plato brings against the tragic poets, as tending\nto give men entirely up to the dominion of the passions, and to render\nthem effeminate, by putting extravagant lamentations in the mouths of\ntheir heroes, may, I think, be justly referred to Euripides alone; for,\nwith respect to his predecessors, the injustice of it would have been\nuniversally apparent. The derisive attacks of Aristophanes are well known,\nthough not sufficiently understood and appreciated. Aristotle bestows on\nhim many a severe censure, and when he calls Euripides \"the most tragic\npoet,\" he by no means ascribes to him the greatest perfection in the\ntragic art in general, but merely alludes to the moving effect which is\nproduced by unfortunate catastrophes; for he immediately adds, \"although\nhe does not well arrange the rest.\" Lastly, the Scholiast on Euripides\ncontains many concise and stringent criticisms on particular pieces, among\nwhich perhaps are preserved the opinions of Alexandrian critics--those\ncritics who reckoned among them that Aristarchus, who, for the solidity\nand acuteness of his critical powers, has had his name transmitted to\nposterity as the proverbial designation of a judge of art.\n\nIn Euripides we find the essence of the ancient tragedy no longer pure and\nunmixed; its characteristical features are already in part defaced. We\nhave already placed this essence in the prevailing idea of Destiny, in the\nIdeality of the composition, and in the significance of the Chorus.\n\nEuripides inherited, it is true, the idea of Destiny from his\npredecessors, and the belief of it was inculcated in him by the tragic\nusage; but yet in him fate is seldom the invisible spirit of the whole\ncomposition, the fundamental thought of the tragic world. We have seen\nthat this idea may be exhibited under severer or milder aspects; that the\nmidnight terrors of destiny may, in the courses of a whole trilogy,\nbrighten into indications of a wise and beneficent Providence. Euripides,\nhowever, has drawn it down from the region of the infinite; and with him\ninevitable necessity not unfrequently degenerates into the caprice of\nchance. Accordingly, he can no longer apply it to its proper purpose,\nnamely, by contrast with it, to heighten the moral liberty of man. How few\nof his pieces turn upon a steadfast resistance to the decrees of fate, or\nan equally heroic submission to them! His characters generally suffer\nbecause they must, and not because they will.\n\nThe mutual subordination, between character and passion and ideal\nelevation, which we find observed in the same order in Sophocles, and in\nthe sculpture of Greece, Euripides has completely reversed. Passion with\nhim is the first thing; his next care is for character, and when these\nendeavours leave him still further scope, he occasionally seeks to lay on\na touch of grandeur and dignity, but more frequently a display of\namiableness.\n\nIt has been already admitted that the persons in tragedy ought not to be\nall alike faultless, as there would then be no opposition among them, and\nconsequently no room for a complication of plot. But (as Aristotle\nobserves) Euripides has, without any necessity, frequently painted his\ncharacters in the blackest colours, as, for example, his Menelaus in\n_Orestes_. The traditions indeed, sanctioned by popular belief, warranted\nhim in attributing great crimes to many of the old heroes, but he has also\npalmed upon them many base and paltry traits of his own arbitrary\ninvention. It was by no means the object of Euripides to represent the\nrace of heroes as towering in their majestic stature above the men of his\nown age; he rather endeavours to fill up, or to build over the chasm that\nyawned between his contemporaries and that wondrous olden world, and to\ncome upon the gods and heroes in their undress, a surprise of which no\ngreatness, it is said, can stand the test. He introduces his spectators to\na sort of familiar acquaintance with them; he does not draw the\nsupernatural and fabulous into the circle of humanity (a proceeding\nwhich we praised in Sophocles), but within the limits of the imperfect\nindividuality. This is the meaning of Sophocles, when he said that \"he\ndrew men such as they ought to be, Euripides such as they are.\" Not that\nhis own personages are always represented as irreproachable models; his\nexpression referred merely to ideal elevation and sweetness of character\nand manners. It seems as if Euripides took a pleasure in being able\nperpetually to remind his spectators--\"See! those beings were men, subject\nto the very same weaknesses, acting from the same motives as yourselves,\nand even as the meanest among you.\" Accordingly, he takes delight in\ndepicting the defects and moral failings of his characters; nay, he often\nmakes them disclose them for themselves in the most _na\u00efve_ confession.\nThey are frequently not merely undignified, but they even boast of their\nimperfections as that which ought to be.\n\nThe Chorus with him is for the most part an unessential ornament; its\nsongs are frequently wholly episodical, without reference to the action,\nand more distinguished for brilliancy than for sublimity and true\ninspiration. \"The Chorus,\" says Aristotle, \"must be considered as one of\nthe actors, and as a part of the whole; it must co-operate in the action--\nnot as Euripides, but as Sophocles manages it.\" The older comedians\nenjoyed the privilege of allowing the Chorus occasionally to address the\nspectators in its own name; this was called a Parabasis, and, as I shall\nafterwards show, was in accordance with the spirit of comedy. Although the\npractice is by no means tragical, it was, however, according to Julius\nPollux, frequently adopted by Euripides in his tragedies, who so far\nforgot himself on some of these occasions, that in the _Danaidae_, for\ninstance, the chorus, which consisted of females, made use of grammatical\ninflections which belonged only to the male sex.\n\nThis poet has thus at once destroyed the internal essence of tragedy, and\nsinned against the laws of beauty and proportion in its external\nstructure. He generally sacrifices the whole to the parts, and in these\nagain he is more ambitious of foreign attractions, than of genuine poetic\nbeauty.\n\nIn the accompanying music, he adopted all the innovations invented by\nTimotheus, and chose those melodies which were most in unison with the\neffeminacy of his own poetry. He proceeded in the same manner with his\nmetres; his versification is luxuriant, and runs into anomaly. The same\ndiluted and effeminate character would, on a more profound investigation,\nbe unquestionably found in the rhythms of his choral songs likewise.\n\nOn all occasions he lays on, even to overloading, those merely corporeal\ncharms which Winkelmann calls a \"flattery of the gross external senses;\"\nwhatever is exciting, striking--in a word, all that produces a vivid\neffect, though without true worth for the mind and the feelings. He\nlabours for effect to a degree which cannot be allowed even to the\ndramatic poet. For example, he hardly ever omits an opportunity of\nthrowing his characters into a sudden and useless terror; his old men are\neverlastingly bemoaning the infirmities of age, and, in particular, are\nmade to crawl with trembling limbs, and sighing at the fatigue, up the\nascent from the orchestra to the stage, which frequently represented the\nslope of a hill. He is always endeavouring to move, and for the sake of\nemotion, he not only violates probability, but even sacrifices the\ncoherence of the piece. He is strong in his pictures of misfortune; but he\noften claims our compassion not for inward agony of the soul, nor for pain\nwhich the sufferer endures with manly fortitude, but for mere bodily\nwretchedness. He is fond of reducing his heroes to the condition of\nbeggars, of making them suffer hunger and want, and bringing them on the\nstage with all the outward signs of it, and clad in rags and tatters, for\nwhich Aristophanes, in his _Acharnians_, has so humorously taken him\nto task.\n\nEuripides was a frequenter of the schools of the philosophers (he had been\na scholar of Anaxagoras, and not, as many have erroneously stated, of\nSocrates, with whom he was only connected by social intercourse): and\naccordingly he indulges his vanity in introducing philosophical doctrines\non all occasions; in my opinion, in a very imperfect manner, as we should\nnot be able to understand these doctrines from his statements of them, if\nwe were not previously acquainted with them. He thinks it too vulgar a\nthing to believe in the gods after the simple manner of the people, and he\ntherefore seizes every opportunity of interspersing something of the\nallegorical interpretation of them, and carefully gives his spectators to\nunderstand that the sincerity of his own belief was very problematical. We\nmay distinguish in him a twofold character: the _poet_, whose productions\nwere consecrated to a religious solemnity, who stood under the protection\nof religion and who, therefore, on his part, was bound to honour it; and\nthe _sophist_, with his philosophical _dicta_, who endeavoured to\ninsinuate his sceptical opinions and doubts into the fabulous marvels of\nreligion, from which he derived the subjects of his pieces. But while he\nis shaking the ground-works of religion, he at the same time acts the\nmoralist; and, for the sake of popularity, he applies to the heroic life\nand the heroic ages maxims which could only apply to the social relations\nof his own times. He throws out a multitude of moral apophthegms, many of\nwhich he often repeats, and which are mostly trite, and not seldom\nfundamentally false. With all this parade of morality, the aim of his\npieces, the general impression which they are calculated to produce is\nsometimes extremely immoral. A pleasant anecdote is told of his having put\ninto the mouth of Bellerophon a silly eulogium on wealth, in which he\ndeclares it to be preferable to all domestic happiness, and ends with\nobserving, \"If Aphrodite (who bore the epithet _golden_) be indeed\nglittering as gold, she well deserves the love of Mortals:\" which\nso offended the spectators, that they raised a great outcry, and would\nhave stoned both actor and poet, out Euripides sprang forward, and called\nout, \"Wait only till the end--he will be requited accordingly!\" In like\nmanner he defended himself against the objection that his Ixion expressed\nhimself in too disgusting and abominable language, by observing that the\npiece concluded with his being broken on the wheel. But even this plea\nthat the represented villany is requited by the final retribution of\npoetical justice, is not available in defence of all his tragedies. In\nsome the wicked escape altogether untouched. Lying and other infamous\npractices are openly protected, especially when he can manage to palm them\nupon a supposed noble motive. He has also perfectly at command the\nseductive sophistry of the passions, which can lend a plausible appearance\nto everything. The following verse in justification of perjury, and in\nwhich the _reservatio mentalis_ of the casuists seems to be substantially\nexpressed, is well known:\n\n  The tongue swore, but the mind was unsworn.\n\nTaken in its context, this verse, on account of which he was so often\nridiculed by Aristophanes, may, indeed, be justified; but the formula is,\nnevertheless, bad, on account of the possible abuse of its application.\nAnother verse of Euripides: \"For a kingdom it is worth while to commit\ninjustice, but in other cases it is well to be just,\" was frequently in\nthe mouth of Caesar, with the like intention of making a bad use of it.\n\nEuripides was frequently condemned even by the ancients for his seductive\ninvitations to the enjoyment of sensual love. Every one must be disgusted\nwhen Hecuba, in order to induce Agamemnon to punish Polymestor, reminds\nhim of the pleasures which he has enjoyed in the arms of Cassandra, his\ncaptive, and, therefore, by the laws of the heroic ages his concubine: she\nwould purchase revenge for a murdered son with the acknowledged and\npermitted degradation of a living daughter. He was the first to make the\nunbridled passion of a Medea, and the unnatural love of a Phaedra, the\nmain subject of his dramas, whereas from the manners of the ancients, we\nmay easily conceive why love, which among them was much less dignified by\ntender feelings than among ourselves, should hold only a subordinate place\nin the older tragedies. With all the importance which he has assigned to\nhis female characters, he is notorious for his hatred of women; and it is\nimpossible to deny that he abounds in passages descanting on the frailties\nof the female sex, and the superior excellence of the male; together with\nmany maxims of household wisdom: with all which he was evidently\nendeavouring to pay court to the men, who formed, if not the whole,\ncertainly the most considerable portion of his audience. A cutting saying\nand an epigram of Sophocles, on this subject, have been preserved, in\nwhich he accounts for the (pretended) misogyny of Euripides by his\nexperience of their seductibility in the course of his own illicit amours.\nIn the manner in which women are painted by Euripides, we may observe,\nupon the whole, much sensibility even for the more noble graces of female\nmodesty, but no genuine esteem.\n\nThe substantial freedom in treating the fables, which was one of the\nprerogatives of the tragic art, is frequently carried by Euripides to the\nextreme of licence. It is well known, that the fables of Hyginus, which\ndiffer so essentially from those generally received, were partly extracted\nfrom his pieces. As he frequently rejected all the incidents which were\ngenerally known, and to which the people were accustomed, Le was reduced\nto the necessity of explaining in a prologue the situation of things in\nhis drama, and the course which they were to take. Lessing, in his\n_Dramaturgie_, has hazarded the singular opinion that it is a proof\nof an advance in the dramatic art, that Euripides should have trusted\nwholly to the effect of situations, without calculating on the excitement\nof curiosity. For my part I cannot see why, amidst the impressions which a\ndramatic poem produces, the uncertainty of expectation should not be\nallowed a legitimate place. The objection that a piece will only please in\nthis respect for the first time, because on an acquaintance with it we\nknow the result beforehand, may be easily answered: if the representation\nbe truly energetic, it will always rivet the attention of the spectator in\nsuch a manner that he will forget what he already knew, and be again\nexcited to the same stretch of expectation. Moreover, these prologues give\nto the openings of Euripides' plays a very uniform and monotonous\nappearance: nothing can have a more awkward effect than for a person to\ncome forward and say, I am so and so; this and that has already happened,\nand what is next to come is as follows. It resembles the labels in the\nmouths of the figures in old paintings, which nothing but the great\nsimplicity of style in ancient times can excuse. But then all the rest\nought to correspond, which is by no means the case with Euripides, whose\ncharacters always speak in the newest mode of the day. Both in his\nprologues and denouements he is very lavish of unmeaning appearances of\nthe gods, who are only elevated above men by the machine in which they are\nsuspended, and who might certainly well be spared.\n\nThe practice of the earlier tragedians, to combine all in large masses,\nand to exhibit repose and motion in distinctly-marked contrast, was\ncarried by him to an unwarrantable extreme. If for the sake of giving\nanimation to the dialogue his predecessors occasionally employed an\nalternation of single-line speeches, in which question and answer,\nobjection and retort, fly about like arrows from side to side, Euripides\nmakes so immoderate and arbitrary use of this poetical device that very\nfrequently one-half of his lines might be left out without detriment to\nthe sense. At another time he pours himself out in endless speeches, where\nhe sets himself to shew off his rhetorical powers in ingenious arguments,\nor in pathetic appeals. Many of his scenes have altogether the appearance\nof a lawsuit, where two persons, as the parties in the litigation, (with\nsometimes a third for a judge,) do not confine themselves to the matter in\nhand, but expatiate in a wide field, accusing their adversaries or\ndefending themselves with all the adroitness of practised advocates, and\nnot unfrequently with all the windings and subterfuges of pettifogging\nsycophants. In this way the poet endeavoured to make his poetry\nentertaining to the Athenians, by its resemblance to their favourite daily\noccupation of conducting, deciding, or at least listening to lawsuits. On\nthis account Quinctilian expressly recommends him to the young orator, and\nwith great justice, as capable of furnishing him with more instruction\nthan the older tragedians. But such a recommendation it is evident is\nlittle to his credit; for eloquence may, no doubt, have its place in the\ndrama when it is consistent with the character and the object of the\nsupposed speaker, yet to allow rhetoric to usurp the place of the simple\nand spontaneous expression of the feelings, is anything but poetical.\n\nThe style of Euripides is upon the whole too loose, although he has many\nhappy images and ingenious turns: he has neither the dignity and energy of\nAeschylus, nor the chaste sweetness of Sophocles. In his expressions he\nfrequently affects the singular and the uncommon, but presently relapses\ninto the ordinary; the tone of the discourse often sounds very familiar,\nand descends from the elevation of the cothurnus to the level ground. In\nthis respect, as well as in the attempt (which frequently borders only too\nclosely on the ludicrous,) to paint certain characteristic peculiarities,\n(for instance, the awkward carriage of the Bacchus-stricken Pentheus in\nhis female attire, the gluttony of Hercules, and his boisterous demands on\nthe hospitality of Admetus,) Euripides was a precursor of the new comedy,\nto which he had an evident inclination, as he frequently paints, under the\nnames of the heroic ages, the men and manners of his own times. Hence\nMenander expressed a most marked admiration for him, and proclaimed\nhimself his scholar; and we have a fragment of Philemon, which displays\nsuch an extravagant admiration, that it hardly appears to have been\nseriously meant. \"If the dead,\" he either himself says, or makes one of\nhis characters to say, \"had indeed any sensation, as some people think\nthey have, I would hang myself for the sake of seeing Euripides.\"--With\nthis adoration of the later comic authors, the opinion of Aristophanes,\nhis contemporary, forms a striking contrast. Aristophanes persecutes him\nbitterly and unceasingly; he seems almost ordained to be his perpetual\nscourge, that none of his moral or poetical extravagances might go\nunpunished. Although as a comic poet Aristophanes is, generally speaking,\nin the relation of a parodist to the tragedians, yet he never attacks\nSophocles, and even where he lays hold of Aeschylus, on that side of his\ncharacter which certainly may excite a smile, his reverence for him is\nstill visible, and he takes every opportunity of contrasting his gigantic\ngrandeur with the petty refinements of Euripides. With infinite cleverness\nand inexhaustible flow of wit, he has exposed the sophistical subtilty,\nthe rhetorical and philosophical pretensions, the immoral and seductive\neffeminacy, and the excitations to undisguised sensuality of Euripides.\nAs, however, modern critics have generally looked upon Aristophanes as no\nbetter than a writer of extravagant and libellous farces, and had no\nnotion of eliciting the serious truths which he veiled beneath his merry\ndisguises, it is no wonder if they have paid but little attention to his\nopinion.\n\nBut with all this we must never forget that Euripides was still a Greek,\nand the contemporary of many of the greatest names of Greece in politics,\nphilosophy, history, and the fine arts. If, when compared with his\npredecessors, he must rank far below them, he appears in his turn great\nwhen placed by the side of many of the moderns. He has a particular\nstrength in portraying the aberrations of a soul diseased, misguided, and\nfranticly abandoned to its passions. He is admirable where the subject\ncalls chiefly for emotion, and makes no higher requisitions; and he is\nstill more so where pathos and moral beauty are united. Few of his pieces\nare without passages of the most ravishing beauty. It is by no means my\nintention to deny him the possession of the most astonishing talents; I\nhave only stated that these talents were not united with a mind in which\nthe austerity of moral principles, and the sanctity of religious feelings,\nwere held in the highest honour.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE IX.\n\nComparison between the _Choephorae_ of Aeschylus, the _Electra_ of\nSophocles and that of Euripides.\n\n\nThe relation in which Euripides stood to his two great predecessors, may\nbe set in the clearest light by a comparison between their three pieces\nwhich we fortunately still possess, on the same subject, namely, the\navenging murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes.\n\nThe scene of the _Choephorae of Aeschylus_ is laid in front of the\nroyal palace; the tomb of Agamemnon appears on the stage. Orestes appears\nat the sepulchre, with his faithful Pylades, and opens the play (which is\nunfortunately somewhat mutilated at the commencement,) with a prayer to\nMercury, and with an invocation to his father, in which he promises to\navenge him, and to whom he consecrates a lock of his hair. He sees a\nfemale train in mourning weeds issuing from the palace, to bring a\nlibation to the grave; and, as he thinks he recognises his sister among\nthem, he steps aside with Pylades in order to observe them unperceived.\nThe chorus, which consists of captive Trojan virgins, in a speech,\naccompanied with mournful gestures, reveals the occasion of their coming,\nnamely, a fearful dream of Clytemnestra; it adds its own dark forebodings\nof an impending retribution of the bloody crime, and bewails its lot in\nbeing obliged to serve unrighteous masters. Electra demands of the chorus\nwhether she shall fulfil the commission of her hostile mother, or pour out\ntheir offerings in silence; and then, in compliance with their advice, she\nalso offers up a prayer to the subterranean Mercury and to the soul of her\nfather, in her own name and that of the absent Orestes, that he may appear\nas the avenger. While pouring out the offering she joins the chorus in\nlamentations for the departed hero. Presently, finding a lock of hair\nresembling her own in colour, and seeing footsteps near the grave she\nconjectures that her brother has been there, and when she is almost\nfrantic with joy at the thought, Orestes steps forward and discovers\nhimself. He completely overcomes her doubts by exhibiting a garment woven\nby her own hand: they give themselves up to their joy; he addresses a\nprayer to Jupiter, and makes known how Apollo, under the most dreadful\nthreats of persecution by his father's Furies, has called on him to\ndestroy the authors of his death in the same manner as they had destroyed\nhim, namely, by guile and cunning. Now follow odes of the chorus and\nElectra; partly consisting of prayers to her father's shade and the\nsubterranean divinities, and partly recapitulating all the motives for the\ndeed, especially those derived from the death of Agamemnon. Orestes\ninquires into the vision which induced Clytemnestra to offer the libation,\nand is informed that she dreamt that she had given her breast to a dragon\nin her son's cradle, and suckled it with her blood. He hereupon resolves\nto become this dragon, and announces his intention of stealing into the\nhouse, disguised as a stranger, and attacking both her and Aegisthus by\nsurprise. With this view he withdraws along with Pylades. The subject of\nthe next choral hymn is the boundless audacity of mankind in general, and\nespecially of women in the gratification of their unlawful passions, which\nit confirms by terrible examples from mythic story, and descants upon the\navenging justice which is sure to overtake them at last. Orestes, in the\nguise of a stranger, returns with Pylades, and desires admission into the\npalace. Clytemnestra comes out, and being informed by him of the death of\nOrestes, at which tidings Electra assumes a feigned grief, she invites him\nto enter and partake of their hospitality. After a short prayer of the\nchorus, the nurse comes and mourns for her foster-child; the chorus\ninspires her with a hope that he yet lives, and advises her to contrive to\nbring Aegisthus, for whom Clytemnestra has sent her, not with, but without\nhis body guard. As the critical moment draws near, the chorus proffers\nprayers to Jupiter and Mercury for the success of the plot. Aegisthus\nenters into conversation with the messenger: he can hardly allow himself\nto believe the joyful news of the death of Orestes, and hastens into the\nhouse for the purpose of ascertaining the truth, from whence, after a\nshort prayer of the chorus, we hear the cries of the murdered. A servant\nrushes out, and to warn Clytemnestra gives the alarm at the door of the\nwomen's apartment. She hears it, comes forward, and calls for an axe to\ndefend herself; but as Orestes instantaneously rushes on her with the\nbloody sword, her courage fails her, and, most affectingly, she holds up\nto him the breast at which she had suckled him. Hesitating in his purpose,\nhe asks the counsel of Pylades, who in a few lines exhorts him by the most\ncogent reasons to persist; after a brief dialogue of accusation and\ndefence, he pursues her into the house to slay her beside the body of\nAegisthus. In a solemn ode the chorus exults in the consummated\nretribution. The doors of the palace are thrown open, and disclose in the\nchamber the two dead bodies laid side by side on one bed. Orestes orders\nthe servants to unfold the garment in whose capacious folds his father was\nmuffled when he was slain, that it may be seen by all; the chorus\nrecognise on it the stains of blood, and mourn afresh the murder of\nAgamemnon. Orestes, feeling his mind already becoming confused, seizes the\nfirst moment to justify his acts, and having declared his intention of\nrepairing to Delphi to purify himself from his blood-guiltiness, flies in\nterror from the furies of his mother, whom the chorus does not perceive,\nbut conceives to be a mere phantom of his imagination, but who,\nnevertheless, will no longer allow him any repose. The chorus concludes\nwith a reflection on the scene of murder thrice-repeated in the royal\npalace since the repast of Thyestes.\n\nThe scene of the _Electra of Sophocles_ is also laid before the palace,\nbut does not contain the grave of Agamemnon. At break of day Pylades,\nOrestes, and the guardian slave who had been his preserver on that bloody\nday, enter the stage as just arriving from a foreign country. The keeper\nwho acts as his guide commences with a description of his native city, and\nhe is answered by Orestes, who recounts the commission given him by\nApollo, and the manner in which he intends to carry it into execution,\nafter which the young man puts up a prayer to his domestic gods and to the\nhouse of his fathers. Electra is heard complaining within; Orestes is\ndesirous of greeting her without delay, but the old man leads him away to\noffer a sacrifice at the grave of his father. Electra then appears, and\npours out her sorrow in a pathetic address to heaven, and in a prayer to\nthe infernal deities her unconquerable desire of revenge. The chorus,\nwhich consists of native virgins, endeavours to console her; and,\ninterchanging hymn and speech with the chorus, Electra discloses her\nunabatable sorrow, the contumely and oppression under which she suffers,\nand her hopelessness occasioned by the many delays of Orestes,\nnotwithstanding her frequent exhortations; and she turns a deaf ear to all\nthe grounds of consolation which the chorus can suggest. Chrysothemis,\nClytemnestra's younger, more submissive, and favourite daughter,\napproaches with an offering which she is to carry to the grave of her\nfather. Their difference of sentiment leads to an altercation between the\ntwo sisters, during which Chrysothemis informs Electra that Aegisthus, now\nabsent in the country, has determined to adopt the most severe measures\nwith her, whom, however, she sets at defiance. She then learns from her\nsister that Clytemnestra has had a dream that Agamemnon had come to life\nagain, and had planted his sceptre in the floor of the house, and it had\ngrown up into a tree that overshadowed the whole land; that, alarmed at\nthis vision, she had commissioned Chrysothemis to carry an oblation to his\ngrave. Electra counsels her not to execute the commands of her wicked\nmother, but to put up a prayer for herself and her sister, and for the\nreturn of Orestes as the avenger of his father; she then adds to the\noblation her own girdle and a lock of her hair. Chrysothemis goes off,\npromising obedience to her wishes. The chorus augurs from the dream, that\nretribution is at hand, and traces back the crimes committed in this house\nto the primal sin of Pelops. Clytemnestra rebukes her daughter, with whom,\nhowever, probably under the influence of the dream, she is milder than\nusual; she defends her murder of Agamemnon, Electra condemns her for it,\nbut without violent altercation. Upon this Clytemnestra, standing at the\naltar in front of the house, proffers a prayer to Apollo for health and\nlong life, and a secret one for the death of her son. The guardian of\nOrestes arrives, and, in the character of a messenger from a Phocian\nfriend, announces the death of Orestes, and minutely enumerates all the\ncircumstances which attended his being killed in a chariot-race at the\nPythian games. Clytemnestra, although visited for a moment with a mother's\nfeelings, can scarce conceal her triumphant joy, and invites the messenger\nto partake of the hospitality of her house. Electra, in touching speeches\nand hymns, gives herself up to grief; the chorus in vain endeavours to\nconsole her. Chrysothemis returns from the grave, full of joy in the\nassurance that Orestes is near; for she has found his lock of hair, his\ndrink-offering and wreaths of flowers. This serves but to renew the\ndespair of Electra, who recounts to her sister the gloomy tidings which\nhave just arrived, and exhorts her, now that all other hope is at an end,\nto join with her in the daring deed of putting Aegisthus to death: a\nproposal which Chrysothemis, not possessing the necessary courage, rejects\nas foolish, and after a violent altercation she re-enters the house. The\nchorus bewails Electra, now left utterly desolate. Orestes returns with\nPylades and several servants bearing an urn with the pretended ashes of\nthe deceased youth. Electra begs it of them, and laments over it in the\nmost affecting language, which agitates Orestes to such a degree that he\ncan no longer conceal himself; after some preparation he discloses himself\nto her, and confirms the announcement by producing the seal-ring of their\nfather. She gives vent in speech and song to her unbounded joy, till the\nold attendant of Orestes comes out and reprimands them both for their want\nof consideration. Electra with some difficulty recognizes in him the\nfaithful servant to whom she had entrusted the care of Orestes, and\nexpresses her gratitude to him. At the suggestion of the old man, Orestes\nand Pylades accompany him with all speed into the house, in order to\nsurprise Clytemnestra while she is still alone. Electra offers up a prayer\nto Apollo in their behalf; the choral ode announces the moment of\nretribution. From within the house is heard the shrieks of the affrighted\nClytemnestra, her short prayer, her cry of agony under the death-blow.\nElectra from without stimulates Orestes to complete the deed, and he comes\nout with bloody hands. Warned however by the chorus of the approach of\nAegisthus, he hastily re-enters the house in order to take him by\nsurprise. Aegisthus inquires into the story of Orestes' death, and from\nthe ambiguous language of Electra is led to believe that his corpse is in\nthe palace. He commands all the gates to be thrown open, immediately, for\nthe purpose of convincing those of the people who yielded reluctant\nobedience to his sovereignty, that they had no longer any hopes in\nOrestes. The middle entrance opens, and discloses in the interior of the\npalace a body lying on the bed, but closely covered over: Orestes stands\nbeside the body, and invites Aegisthus to uncover it; he suddenly beholds\nthe bloody corpse of Clytemnestra, and concludes himself lost and without\nhope. He requests to be allowed to speak, but this is prevented by\nElectra. Orestes constrains him to enter the house, that he may kill him\non the very spot where his own father had been murdered.\n\nThe scene of the _Electra of Euripides_ is not in Mycenae, in the\nopen country, but on the borders of Argolis, and before a solitary and\nmiserable cottage. The owner, an old peasant, comes out and in a prologue\ntells the audience how matters stand in the royal house, with this\naddition, however, to the incidents related in the two plays already\nconsidered, that not content to treat Electra with ignominy, and to leave\nher in a state of celibacy, they had forced her to marry beneath her rank,\nand to accept of himself for a husband: the motives he assigns for this\nproceeding are singular enough; he declares, however, that he has too much\nrespect for her to reduce her to the humiliation of becoming in reality\nhis wife.--They live therefore in virgin wedlock. Electra comes forth\nbefore it is yet daybreak bearing upon her head, which is close shorn in\nservile fashion, a pitcher to fetch water: her husband entreats her not to\ntrouble herself with such unaccustomed labours, but she will not be\nwithheld from the discharge of her household duties; and the two depart,\nhe to his work in the field and she upon her errand. Orestes now enters\nwith Pylades, and, in a speech to him, states that he has already\nsacrificed at his father's grave, but that not daring to enter the city,\nhe wishes to find his sister, who, he is aware, is married and dwells\nsomewhere near on the frontiers, that he may learn from her the posture of\naffairs. He sees Electra approach with the water-pitcher, and retires. She\nbreaks out into an ode bewailing her own fate and that of her father.\nHereupon the chorus, consisting of rustic virgins, makes its appearance,\nand exhorts her to take a part in a festival of Juno, which she, however,\ndepressed in spirit, pointing to her tattered garments, declines. The\nchorus offer to supply her with festal ornaments, but she still refuses.\nShe perceives Orestes and Pylades in their hiding-place, takes them for\nrobbers, and hastens to escape into the house; when Orestes steps forward\nand prevents her, she imagines he intends to murder her; he removes her\nfears, and gives her assurances that her brother is still alive. On this\nhe inquires into her situation, and the spectators are again treated with\na repetition of all the circumstances. Orestes still forbears to disclose\nhimself, and promising merely to carry any message from Electra to her\nbrother, testifies, as a stranger, his sympathy in her situation. The\nchorus seizes this opportunity of gratifying its curiosity about the fatal\nevents of the city; and Electra, after describing her own misery, depicts\nthe wantonness and arrogance of her mother and Aegisthus, who, she says,\nleaps in contempt upon Agamemnon's grave, and throws stones at it. The\npeasant returns from his work, and thinks it rather indecorous in his wife\nto be gossiping with young men, but when he hears that they have brought\nnews of Orestes, he invites them in a friendly manner into his house.\nOrestes, on witnessing the behaviour of the worthy man, makes the\nreflection that the most estimable people are frequently to be found in\nlow stations, and in lowly garb. Electra upbraids her husband for inviting\nthem, knowing as he must that they had nothing in the house to entertain\nthem with; he is of opinion that the strangers will be satisfied with what\nhe has, that a good housewife can always make the most of things, and that\nthey have at least enough for one day. She dispatches him to Orestes' old\nkeeper and preserver who lives hard by them, to bid him come and bring\nsomething with him to entertain the strangers, and the peasant departs\nmuttering wise saws about riches and moderation. The chorus bursting out\ninto an ode on the expedition of the Greeks against Troy, describes at\ngreat length the figures wrought on the shield which Achilles received\nfrom Thetis, and concludes with expressing a wish that Clytemnestra may be\npunished for her wickedness.\n\nThe old guardian, who with no small difficulty ascends the hill towards\nthe house, brings Electra a lamb, a cheese, and a skin of wine; he then\nbegins to weep, not failing of course to wipe his eyes with his tattered\ngarments. In reply to the questions of Electra he states, that at the\ngrave of Agamemnon he found traces of an oblation and a lock of hair; from\nwhich circumstance he conjectured that Orestes had been there. We have\nthen an allusion to the means which Aeschylus had employed to bring about\nthe recognition, namely, the resemblance of the hair, the prints of feet,\nas well as the homespun-robe, with a condemnation of them as insufficient\nand absurd. The probability of this part of the drama of Aeschylus may,\nperhaps, admit of being cleared up, at all events one is ready to overlook\nit; but an express reference like this to another author's treatment of\nthe same subject, is the most annoying interruption and the most fatal to\ngenuine poetry that can possibly be conceived. The guests come out; the\nold man attentively considers Orestes, recognizes him, and convinces\nElectra that he is her brother by a scar on his eyebrow, which he received\nfrom a fall (this is the superb invention, which he substitutes for that\nof Aeschylus), Orestes and Electra embrace during a short choral ode, and\nabandon themselves to their joy. In a long dialogue, Orestes, the old\nslave, and Electra, form their plans. The old man informs them that\nAegisthus is at present in the country sacrificing to the Nymphs, and\nOrestes resolves to steal there as a guest, and to fall on him by\nsurprise. Clytemnestra, from a dread of unpleasant remarks, has not\naccompanied him; and Electra undertakes to entice her mother to them by a\nfalse message of her being in child-bed. The brother and sister now join\nin prayers to the gods and their father's shade, for a successful issue of\ntheir designs. Electra declares that she will put an end to her existence\nif they should miscarry, and, for that purpose, she will keep a sword in\nreadiness. The old tutor departs with Orestes to conduct him to Aegisthus,\nand to repair afterwards to Clytemnestra. The chorus sings of the Golden\nRam, which Thyestes, by the assistance of the faithless wife of Atreus,\nwas enabled to carry off from him, and the repast furnished with the flesh\nof his own children, with which he was punished in return; at the sight of\nwhich the sun turned aside from his course; a circumstance, however, which\nthe chorus very sapiently adds, that it was very much inclined to call in\nquestion. From a distance is heard a noise of tumult and groans; Electra\nfears that her brother has been overcome, and is on the point of killing\nherself. But at the moment a messenger arrives, who gives a long-winded\naccount of the death of Aegisthus, and interlards it with many a joke.\nAmidst the rejoicings of the chorus, Electra fetches a wreath and crowns\nher brother, who holds in his hands the head of Aegisthus by the hair.\nThis head she upbraids in a long speech with its follies and crimes, and\namong other things says to it, it is never well to marry a woman with whom\none has previously lived in illicit intercourse; that it is an unseemly\nthing when a woman obtains the mastery in a family, &c. Clytemnestra is\nnow seen approaching; Orestes begins to have scruples of conscience as to\nhis purpose of murdering a mother, and the authority of the oracle, but\nyields to the persuasions of Electra, and agrees to do the deed within the\nhouse. The queen arrives, drawn in a chariot sumptuously hung with\ntapestry, and surrounded by Trojan slaves; Electra makes an offer to\nassist her in alighting, which, however, is declined. Clytemnestra then\nalleges the sacrifice of Iphigenia as a justification of her own conduct\ntowards Agamemnon, and calls even upon her daughter to state her reasons\nin condemnation, that an opportunity may be given to the latter of\ndelivering a subtle, captious harangue, in which, among other things, she\nreproaches her mother with having, during the absence of Agamemnon, sat\nbefore her mirror, and studied her toilette too much. With all this\nClytemnestra is not provoked, even though her daughter does not hesitate\nto declare her intention of putting her to death if ever it should be in\nher power; she makes inquiries about her daughter's supposed confinement,\nand enters the hut to prepare the necessary sacrifice of purification.\nElectra accompanies her with a sarcastic speech. On this the chorus begins\nan ode on retribution: the shrieks of the murdered woman are heard within\nthe house, and the brother and sister come out stained with her blood.\nThey are full of repentance and despair at the deed which they have\ncommitted; increase their remorse by repeating the pitiable words and\ngestures of their dying parent. Orestes determines on flight into foreign\nlands, while Electra asks, \"Who will now take me in marriage?\" Castor and\nPollux, their uncles, appear in the air, abuse Apollo on account of his\noracle, command Orestes, in order to save himself from the Furies, to\nsubmit to the sentence of the Areopagus, and conclude with predicting a\nnumber of events which are yet to happen to him. They then enjoin a\nmarriage between Electra and Pylades; who are to take her first husband\nwith them to Phocis, and there richly to provide for him. After a further\noutburst of sorrow, the brother and sister take leave of one another for\nlife, and the piece concludes.\n\nWe easily perceive that Aeschylus has viewed the subject in its most\nterrible aspect, and drawn it within that domain of the gloomy divinities,\nwhose recesses he so loves to haunt. The grave of Agamemnon is the murky\ngloom from which retributive vengeance issues; his discontented shade, the\nsoul of the whole poem. The obvious external defect, that the action\nlingers too long at the same point, without any sensible progress,\nappears, on reflection, a true internal perfection: it is the stillness of\nexpectation before a deep storm or an earthquake. It is true the prayers\nare repeated, but their very accumulation heightens the impression of a\ngreat unheard-of purpose, for which human powers and motives by themselves\nare insufficient. In the murder of Clytemnestra, and her heart-rending\nappeals, the poet, without disguising her guilt, has gone to the very\nverge of what was allowable in awakening our sympathy with her sufferings.\nThe crime which is to be punished is kept in view from the very first by\nthe grave, and, at the conclusion, it is brought still nearer to our minds\nby the unfolding the fatal garment: thus, Agamemnon non, after being fully\navenged, is, as it were, murdered again before the mental eye. The flight\nof Orestes betrays no undignified weakness or repentance; it is merely the\ninevitable tribute which he must pay to offended nature.\n\nIt is only necessary to notice in general terms the admirable management\nof the subject by Sophocles. What a beautiful introduction has he made to\nprecede the queen's mission to the grave, with which Aeschylus begins at\nonce! With what polished ornament has he embellished it throughout, for\nexample, with the description of the games! With what nice judgment does\nhe husband the pathos of Electra; first, general lamentations, then hopes\nderived from the dream, their annihilation by the news of Orestes' death,\nthe new hopes suggested by Chrysothemis only to be rejected, and lastly\nher mourning over the urn. Electra's heroism is finely set off by the\ncontrast with her more submissive sister. The poet has given quite a new\nturn to the subject by making Electra the chief object of interest. A\nnoble pair has the poet here given us; the sister endued with unshaken\nconstancy in true and noble sentiments, and the invincible heroism of\nendurance; the brother prompt and vigorous in all the energy of youth. To\nthis he skilfully opposes circumspection and experience in the old man,\nwhile the fact that Sophocles as well as Aeschylus has left Pylades\nsilent, is a proof how carefully ancient art disdained all unnecessary\nsurplusage.\n\nBut what more especially characterizes the tragedy of Sophocles, is the\nheavenly serenity beside a subject so terrific, the fresh air of life and\nyouth which breathes through the whole. The bright divinity of Apollo, who\nenjoined the deed, seems to shed his influence over it; even the break of\nday, in the opening scene, is significant. The grave and the world of\nshadows, are kept in the background: what in Aeschylus is effected by the\nspirit of the murdered monarch, proceeds here from the heart of the still\nliving Electra, which is endowed with an equal capacity for\ninextinguishable hatred or ardent love. The disposition to avoid\neverything dark and ominous, is remarkable even in the very first speech\nof Orestes, where he says he feels no concern at being thought dead, so\nlong as he knows himself to be alive, and in the full enjoyment of health\nand strength. He is not beset with misgivings or stings of conscience\neither before or after the deed, so that the determination is more\nsteadily maintained by Sophocles than in Aeschylus; and the appalling\nscene with Aegisthus, and the reserving him for an ignominious death to\nthe very close of the piece, is more austere and solemn than anything in\nthe older drama. Clytemnestra's dreams furnish the most striking token of\nthe relation which the two poets bear to each other: both are equally\nappropriate, significant, and ominous; that of Aeschylus is grander, but\nappalling to the senses; that of Sophocles, in its very tearfulness,\nmajestically beautiful.\n\nThe piece of Euripides is a singular example of poetic, or rather unpoetic\nobliquity; we should never have done were we to attempt to point out all\nits absurdities and contradictions. Why, for instance, does Orestes\nfruitlessly torment his sister by maintaining his incognito so long? The\npoet too, makes it a light matter to throw aside whatever stands in his\nway, as in the case of the peasant, of whom, after his departure to summon\nthe old keeper, we have no farther account. Partly for the sake of\nappearing original, and partly from an idea that to make Orestes kill the\nking and queen in the middle of their capital would be inconsistent with\nprobability, Euripides has involved himself in still greater\nimprobabilities. Whatever there is of the tragical in his drama is not his\nown, but belongs either to the fable, to his predecessors, or to\ntradition. In his hands, at least, it has ceased to be tragedy, but is\nlowered into \"a family picture,\" in the modern signification of the word.\nThe effect attempted to be produced by the poverty of Electra is pitiful\nin the extreme; the poet has betrayed his secret in the complacent display\nwhich she makes of her misery. All the preparations for the crowning act\nare marked by levity, and a want of internal conviction: it is a\ngratuitous torture of our feelings to make Aegisthus display a good-\nnatured hospitality, and Clytemnestra a maternal sympathy with her\ndaughter, merely to excite our compassion in their behalf; the deed is no\nsooner executed, but its effect is obliterated by the most despicable\nrepentance, a repentance which arises from no moral feeling, but from a\nmerely animal revulsion. I shall say nothing of his abuse of the oracle of\nDelphi. As it destroys the very basis of the whole drama, I cannot see why\nEuripides should have written it, except to provide a fortunate marriage\nfor Electra, and to reward the peasant for his continency. I could wish\nthat the wedding of Pylades had been celebrated on the stage, and that a\ngood round sum of money had been paid to the peasant on the spot; then\neverything would have ended to the satisfaction of the spectators as in an\nordinary comedy.\n\nNot, however, to be unjust, I must admit that the _Electra_ is perhaps the\nvery worst of Euripides' pieces. Was it the rage for novelty which led him\nhere into such faults? He was truly to be pitied for having been preceded\nin the treatment of this same subject by two such men as Sophocles and\nAeschylus. But what compelled him to measure his powers with theirs, and\nto write an _Electra_ at all?\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE X.\n\nCharacter of the remaining Works of Euripides--The Satirical Drama--\nAlexandrian Tragic Poets.\n\n\nOf the plays of Euripides, which have come down to us in great number, we\ncan only give a very short and general account.\n\nOn the score of beautiful morality, there is none of them, perhaps, so\ndeserving of praise as the _Alcestis_. Her resolution to die, and the\nfarewell which she takes of her husband and children, are depicted with\nthe most overpowering pathos. The poet's forbearance, in not allowing the\nheroine to speak on her return from the infernal world, lest he might draw\naside the mysterious veil which shrouds the condition of the dead, is\ndeserving of high praise. Admetus, it is true, and more especially his\nfather, sink too much in our esteem from their selfish love of life; and\nHercules appears, at first, blunt even to rudeness, afterwards more noble\nand worthy of himself, and at last jovial, when, for the sake of the joke,\nhe introduces to Admetus his veiled wife as a new bride.\n\n_Iphigenia in Aulis_ is a subject peculiarly suited to the tastes and\npowers of Euripides; the object here is to excite a tender emotion for the\ninnocent and child-like simplicity of the heroine: but Iphigenia is still\nvery far from being an Antigone. Aristotle has already remarked that the\ncharacter is not well sustained throughout. \"Iphigenia imploring,\" he\nsays, \"has no resemblance to Iphigenia afterwards yielding herself up a\nwilling sacrifice.\"\n\n_Ion_ is also one of his most delightful pieces, on account of the picture\nof innocence and priestly sanctity in the boy whose name it bears. In the\ncourse of the plot, it is true, there are not a few improbabilities,\nmakeshifts, and repetitions; and the catastrophe, produced by a falsehood,\nin which both gods and men unite against Xuthus, can hardly be\nsatisfactory to our feelings.\n\nAs delineations of female passion, and of the aberrations of a mind\ndiseased, _Phaedra_ and _Medea_ have been justly praised. The play in\nwhich the former is introduced dazzles us by the sublime and beautiful\nheroism of _Hippolytus_; and it is also deserving of the highest\ncommendation on account of the observance of propriety and moral\nstrictness, in so critical a subject. This, however, is not so much the\nmerit of the poet himself as of the delicacy of his contemporaries; for\nthe _Hippolytus_ which we possess, according to the scholiast, is an\nimprovement upon an earlier one, in which there was much that was\noffensive and reprehensible. [Footnote: The learned and acute Brunck,\nwithout citing any authority, or the coincidence of fragments in\ncorroboration, says that Seneca in his _Hippolytus_, followed the plan of\nthe earlier play of Euripides, called the _Veiled Hippolytus_. How far\nthis is mere conjecture I cannot say, but at any rate I should be inclined\nto doubt whether Euripides, even in the censured drama, admitted the scene\nof the declaration of love, which Racine, however in his _Phaedra_. has\nnot hesitated to adopt from Seneca.]\n\nThe opening of the _Medea_ is admirable; her desperate situation is,\nby the conversation between her nurse and the keeper of her children, and\nher own wailings behind the scene, depicted with most touching effect. As\nsoon, however, as she makes her appearance, the poet takes care to cool\nour emotion by the number of general and commonplace reflections which he\nputs into her mouth. Lower does she sink in the scene with Aegeus, where,\nmeditating a terrible revenge on Jason, she first secures a place of\nrefuge, and seems almost on the point of bespeaking a new connection. This\nis very unlike the daring criminal who has reduced the powers of nature to\nminister to her ungovernable passions, and speeds from land to land like a\ndesolating meteor;--the Medea who, abandoned by all the world, was still\nsufficient for herself. Nothing but a wish to humour Athenian antiquities\ncould have induced Euripides to adopt this cold interpolation of his\nstory. With this exception he has, in the most vivid colours, painted, in\none and the same person, the mighty enchantress, and the woman weak only\nfrom the social position of her sex. As it is, we are keenly affected by\nthe struggles of maternal tenderness in the midst of her preparations for\nthe cruel deed. Moreover, she announces her deadly purpose much too soon\nand too distinctly, instead of brooding awhile over the first confused,\ndark suggestion of it. When she does put it in execution, her thirst of\nrevenge on Jason might, we should have thought, have been sufficiently\nslaked by the horrible death of his young wife and her father; and the new\nmotive, namely, that Jason, as she pretends, would infallibly murder the\nchildren, and therefore she must anticipate him, will by no means bear\nexamination. For she could as easily have saved the living children with\nherself, as have carried off their dead bodies in the dragon-chariot.\nStill this may, perhaps, be justified by the perturbation of mind into\nwhich she was plunged by the crime she had perpetrated.\n\nPerhaps it was such pictures of universal sorrow, of the fall of\nflourishing families and states from the greatest glory to the lowest\nmisery, nay, to entire annihilation, as Euripides has sketched in the\n_Troades_, that gained for him, from Aristotle, the title of _the\nmost tragic of poets_. The concluding scene, where the captive ladies,\nallotted as slaves to different masters, leave Troy in flames behind them,\nand proceed towards the ships, is truly grand. It is impossible, however,\nfor a piece to have less action, in the energetical sense of the word: it\nis a series of situations and events, which have no other connexion than\nthat of a common origin in the capture of Troy, but in no respect have\nthey a common aim. The accumulation of helpless suffering, against which\nthe will and sentiment even are not allowed to revolt, at last wearies us,\nand exhausts our compassion. The greater the struggle to avert a calamity,\nthe deeper the impression it makes when it bursts forth after all. But\nwhen so little concern is shown, as is here the case with Astyanax, for\nthe speech of Talthybius prevents even the slightest attempt to save him,\nthe spectator soon acquiesces in the result. In this way Euripides\nfrequently fails. In the ceaseless demands which this play makes on our\ncompassion, the pathos is not duly economized and brought to a climax: for\ninstance, Andromache's lament over her living son is much more heart-\nrending than that of Hecuba for her dead one. The effect of the latter is,\nhowever, aided by the sight of the little corpse lying on Hector's shield.\nIndeed, in the composition of this piece the poet has evidently reckoned\nmuch on ocular effect: thus, for the sake of contrast with the captive\nladies, Helen appears splendidly dressed, Andromache is mounted on a car\nladen with spoils; and I doubt not but that at the conclusion the entire\nscene was in flames. The trial of Helen painfully interrupts the train of\nour sympathies, by an idle altercation which ends in nothing; for in spite\nof the accusations of Hecuba, Menelaus abides by the resolution which he\nhad previously formed. The defence of Helen is about as entertaining as\nIsocrates' sophistical eulogium of her.\n\nEuripides was not content with making Hecuba roll in the dust with covered\nhead, and whine a whole piece through; he has also introduced her in\nanother tragedy which bears her name, as the standing representative of\nsuffering and woe. The two actions of this piece, the sacrifice of\nPolyxena, and the revenge on Polymestor, on account of the murder of\nPolydorus, have nothing in common with each other but their connexion with\nHecuba. The first half possesses great beauties of that particular kind in\nwhich Euripides is pre-eminently successful: pictures of tender youth,\nfemale innocence, and noble resignation to an early and violent death. A\nhuman sacrifice, that triumph of barbarian superstition, is represented as\nexecuted, suffered, and looked upon, with that Hellenism of feeling which\nso early effected the abolition of such sacrifices among the Greeks. But\nthe second half most revoltingly effaces these soft impressions. It is\nmade up of the revengeful artifices of Hecuba, the blind avarice of\nPolymestor, and the paltry policy of Agamemnon, who, not daring himself to\ncall the Thracian king to account, nevertheless beguiles him into the\nhands of the captive women. Neither is it very consistent that Hecuba,\nadvanced in years, bereft of strength, and overwhelmed with sorrow, should\nnevertheless display so much presence of mind in the execution of revenge,\nand such a command of tongue in her accusation and derision of Polymestor.\n\nWe have another example of two distinct and separate actions in the same\ntragedy, the _Mad Hercules_. The first is the distress of his family\nduring his absence, and their deliverance by his return; the second, his\nremorse at having in a sudden frenzy murdered his wife and children. The\none action follows, but by no means arises out of the other.\n\nThe _Phoenissae_ is rich in tragic incidents, in the common acceptation of\nthe word: the son of Creon, to save his native city, precipitates himself\nfrom the walls; Eteocles and Polynices perish by each other's hands; over\ntheir dead bodies Jocasta falls by her own hand; the Argives who hare made\nwar upon Thebes are destroyed in battle; Polynices remains uninterred; and\nlastly, Oedipus and Antigone are driven into exile. After this enumeration\nof the incidents, the Scholiast aptly notices the arbitrary manner in\nwhich the poet has proceeded, \"This drama,\" says he, \"is beautiful in\ntheatrical effect, even because it is full of incidents totally foreign to\nthe proper action. Antigone looking down from the walls has nothing to do\nwith the action, and Polynices enters the town under the safe-conduct of a\ntruce, without any effect being thereby produced. After all the rest the\nbanished Oedipus and a wordy ode are tacked on, being equally to no\npurpose.\" This is a severe criticism, but it is just.\n\nNot more lenient is the Scholiast on _Orestes_: \"This piece,\" he\nsays, \"is one of those which produce a great effect on the stage, but with\nrespect to characters it is extremely bad; for, with the exception of\nPylades, all the rest are good for nothing.\" Moreover, \"Its catastrophe is\nmore suitable to comedy than tragedy.\" This drama begins, indeed, in the\nmost agitating manner. Orestes, after the murder of his mother, is\nrepresented lying on his bed, afflicted with anguish of soul and madness;\nElectra sits at his feet, and she and the chorus remain in trembling\nexpectation of his awaking. Afterwards, however, everything takes a\nperverse turn, and ends with the most violent strokes of stage effect.\n\nThe _Iphigenia in Tauris_, in which the fate of Orestes is still\nfurther followed out, is less wild and extravagant, but in the\nrepresentation both of character or passion, it seldom rises above\nmediocrity. The mutual recognition between brother and sister, after such\nadventures and actions, as that Iphigenia, who had herself once trembled\nbefore the bloody altar, was on the point of devoting her brother to a\nsimilar fate, produces no more than a transient emotion. The flight of\nOrestes and his sister is not highly calculated to excite our interest:\nthe artifice by which Iphigenia brings it about is readily credited by\nThoas, who does not attempt to make any opposition till both are safe, and\nthen he is appeased by one of the ordinary divine interpositions. This\ndevice has been so used and abused by Euripides, that in nine out of his\neighteen tragedies, a divinity descends to unravel the complicated knot.\n\nIn _Andromache_ Orestes makes his appearance for the fourth time. The\nScholiast, in whose opinion we may, we think, generally recognize the\nsentiments of the most important of ancient critics, declares this to be a\nvery second-rate play, in which single scenes alone are deserving of any\npraise. Of those on which Racine has based his free imitations, this is\nunquestionably the very worst, and therefore the French critics have an\neasy game to play in their endeavours to depreciate the Grecian\npredecessor, from whom Racine has in fact derived little more than the\nfirst suggestion of his tragedy.\n\nThe _Bacchae_ represents the infectious and tumultuous enthusiasm of\nthe worship of Bacchus, with great sensuous power and vividness of\nconception. The obstinate unbelief of Pentheus, his infatuation, and\nterrible punishment by the hands of his own mother, form a bold picture.\nThe effect on the stage must have been extraordinary. Imagine, only, a\nchorus with flying and dishevelled hair and dress, tambourines, cymbals,\n&c., in their hands, like the Bacchants we see on bas-reliefs, bursting\nimpetuously into the orchestra, and executing their inspired dances amidst\ntumultuous music,--a circumstance, altogether unusual, as the choral odes\nwere generally sung and danced at a solemn step, and with no other\naccompaniment than a flute. Here the luxuriance of ornament, which\nEuripides everywhere affects, was for once appropriate. When, therefore,\nseveral of the modern critics assign to this piece a very low rank, they\nseem to me not to know what they themselves would wish. In the composition\nof this piece, I cannot help admiring a harmony and unity, which we seldom\nmeet with in Euripides, as well as abstinence from every foreign matter,\nso that all the motives and effects flow from one source, and concur\ntowards a common end. After the _Hippolytus_, I should be inclined to\nassign to this play the first place among all the extant works of\nEuripides.\n\nThe _Heraclidae_ and the _Supplices_ are mere _occasional_ tragedies,\n_i.e._, owing their existence to some temporary incident or excitement,\nand they must have been indebted for their success to nothing else but\ntheir flattery of the Athenians. They celebrate two ancient heroic deeds\nof Athens, on which the panegyrists, amongst the rest Isocrates, who\nalways mixed up the fabulous with the historical, lay astonishing stress:\nthe protection they are said to have afforded to the children of Hercules,\nthe ancestors of the Lacedaemonian kings, from the persecution of\nEurystheus, and their going to war with Thebes on behalf of Adrastus, king\nof Argos, and forcing the Thebans to give the rites of burial to the Seven\nChieftains and their host. The _Supplices_ was, as we know, represented\nduring the Peloponnesian war, after the conclusion of a treaty between the\nArgives and the Lacedaemonians; and was intended to remind the Argives of\ntheir ancient obligation to Athens, and to show how little they could hope\nto prosper in the war against the Athenians. The _Heraclidae_ was\nundoubtedly written with a similar view in respect to Lacedaemon. Of the\ntwo pieces, however, which are both cast in the same mould, the Female\nSuppliants, so called from the mothers of the fallen heroes, is by far the\nrichest in poetical merit; the _Heraclidae_ appears, as it were, but a\nfaint impression of the other. In the former piece, it is true, Theseus\nappears at first in a somewhat unamiable light, upbraiding, as he does,\nthe unfortunate Adrastus with his errors at such great length, and perhaps\nwith so little justice, before he condescends to assist him; again the\ndisputation between Theseus and the Argive herald, as to the superiority\nof a monarchical or a democratical constitution, ought in justice to be\nbanished from the stage to the rhetorical schools; while the moral\neulogium of Adrastus over the fallen heroes is, at least, very much out of\nplace. I am convinced that Euripides was here drawing the characters of\nparticular Athenian generals, who had fallen in some battle or other. But\neven in this case the passage cannot be justified in a dramatic point of\nview; however, without such an object, it would have been silly and\nridiculous in describing those heroes of the age of Hercules, (a Capaneus,\nfor instance, who set even heaven itself at defiance,) to have launched\nout into the praise of their civic virtues. How apt Euripides was to\nwander from his subject in allusions to perfectly extraneous matters, and\nsometimes even to himself, we may see from a speech of Adrastus, who most\nimpertinently is made to say, \"It is not fair that the poet, while he\ndelights others with his works, should himself suffer inconvenience.\"\nHowever, the funeral lamentations and the swan-like song of Evadne are\naffectingly beautiful, although she is so unexpectedly introduced into the\ndrama. Literally, indeed, may we say of her, that she jumps into the play,\nfor without even being mentioned before she suddenly appears first of all\non the rock, from which she throws herself on the burning pile of\nCapaneus.\n\nThe _Heraclidae_ is a very poor piece; its conclusion is singularly\nbald. We hear nothing more of the self-sacrifice of Macaria, after it is\nover: as the determination seems to have cost herself no struggle, it\nmakes as little impression upon others. The Athenian king, Demophon, does\nnot return again; neither does Iolaus, the companion of Hercules and\nguardian of his children, whose youth is so wonderfully renewed. Hyllus,\nthe noble-minded Heraclide, never even makes his appearance; and nobody at\nlast remains but Alcmene, who keeps up a bitter altercation with\nEurystheus. Euripides seems to have taken a particular pleasure in drawing\nsuch implacable and rancorous old women: twice has he exhibited Hecuba in\nthis light, pitting her against Helen and Polymestor. In general, we may\nobserve the constant recurrence of the same artifice and motives is a sure\nsymptom of mannerism. We have in the works of this poet three instances of\nwomen offered in sacrifice, which are moving from their perfect\nresignation: Iphigenia, Polyxena, and Macaria; the voluntary deaths of\nAlceste and Evadne belong in some sort also to this class. Suppliants are\nin like manner a favourite subject with him, because they oppress the\nspectator with apprehension lest they should be torn by force from the\nsanctuary of the altar. I have already noticed his lavish introduction of\ndeities towards the conclusion.\n\nThe merriest of all tragedies is _Helen_, a marvellous drama, full of\nwonderful adventures and appearances, which are evidently better suited to\ncomedy. The invention on which it is founded is, that Helen remained\nconcealed in Egypt (so far went the assertion of the Aegyptian priests),\nwhile Paris carried off an airy phantom in her likeness, for which the\nGreeks and Trojans fought for ten long years. By this contrivance the\nvirtue of the heroine is saved, and Menelaus, (to make good the ridicule\nof Aristophanes on the beggary of Euripides' heroes,) appears in rags as a\nbeggar, and in nowise dissatisfied with his condition. But this manner of\nimproving mythology bears a resemblance to the _Tales of the Thousand\nand One Nights_.\n\nModern philologists have dedicated voluminous treatises, to prove the\nspuriousness of _Rhesus_, the subject of which is taken from the\neleventh book of the Iliad. Their opinion is, that the piece contains such\na number of improbabilities and contradictions, that it is altogether\nunworthy of Euripides. But this is by no means a legitimate conclusion. Do\nnot the faults which they censure unavoidably follow from the selection of\nan intractable subject, so very inconvenient as a nightly enterprise? The\nquestion respecting the genuineness of any work, turns not so much on its\nmerits or demerits, as rather on the resemblance of its style and\npeculiarities to those of the pretended author. The few words of the\nScholiast amount to a very different opinion: \"Some have considered this\ndrama to be spurious, and not the work of Euripides, because it bears many\ntraces of the style of Sophocles. But it is inscribed in the _Didascaliae_\nas his, and its accuracy with respect to the phenomena of the starry\nheaven betrays the hand of Euripides.\" I think I understand what is here\nmeant by the style of Sophocles, but it is rather in detached scenes, than\nin the general plan, that I at all discern it. Hence, if the piece is to\nbe taken from Euripides, I should be disposed to attribute it to some\neclectic imitator, but one of the school of Sophocles rather than of that\nof Euripides, and who lived only a little later than both. This I infer\nfrom the familiarity of many of the scenes, for tragedy at this time\nwas fast sinking into the domestic tragedy, whereas, at a still later\nperiod, the Alexandrian age, it fell into an opposite error of bombast.\n\nThe _Cyclops_ is a satiric drama. This is a mixed and lower species\nof tragic poetry, as we have already in passing asserted. The want of some\nrelaxation for the mind, after the engrossing severity of tragedy, appears\nto have given rise to the satiric drama, as indeed to the after-piece in\ngeneral. The satiric drama never possessed an independent existence; it\nwas thrown in by way of an appendage to several tragedies, and to judge\nfrom that we know of it, was always considerably shorter than the others.\nIn external form it resembled Tragedy, and the materials were in like\nmanner mythological. The distinctive mark was a chorus consisting of\nsatyrs, who accompanied with lively songs, gestures, and movements, such\nheroic adventures as were of a more cheerful hue, (many in the _Odyssey_\nfor instance; for here, also, as in many other respects, the germ is to be\nfound in Homer,) or, at least, could be made to wear such an appearance.\nThe proximate cause of this species of drama was derived from the\nfestivals of Bacchus, where satyr-masks was a common disguise. In\nmythological stories with which Bacchus had no concern, these constant\nattendants of his were, no doubt, in some sort arbitrarily introduced, but\nstill not without a degree of propriety. As nature, in her original\nfreedom, appeared to the fancy of the Greeks to teem everywhere with\nwonderful productions, they could with propriety people with these\nsylvan beings the wild landscapes, remote from polished cities, where the\nscene was usually laid, and enliven them with their wild animal frolics.\nThe composition of demi-god with demi-beast formed an amusing contrast. We\nhave an example in the _Cyclops_ of the manner in which the poets\nproceeded in such subjects. It is not unentertaining, though the subject-\nmatter is for the most part contained in the _Odyssey_; only the pranks of\nSilenus and his band are occasionally a little coarse. We must confess\nthat, in our eyes, the great merit of this piece is its rarity, being the\nonly extant specimen of its class which we possess. In the satiric dramas\nAeschylus must, without doubt, have displayed more boldness and meaning in\nhis mirth; as, for instance, when he introduced Prometheus bringing down\nfire from heaven to rude and stupid man; while Sophocles, to judge from\nthe few fragments we have, must have been more elegant and moral, as when\nhe introduced the goddesses contending for the prize of beauty, or\nNausicaa offering protection to the shipwrecked Ulysses. It is a striking\nfeature of the easy unconstrained character of life among the Greeks, of\nits gladsome joyousness of disposition, which knew nothing of a starched\nand stately dignity, but artist-like admired aptness and gracefulness,\neven in the most insignificant trifles, that in this drama called\n_Nausicaa_, or \"_The Washerwomen_,\" in which, after Homer, the princess at\nthe end of the washing, amuses herself at a game of ball with her maids,\nSophocles himself played at ball, and by his grace in this exercise\nacquired much applause. The great poet, the respected Athenian citizen,\nthe man who had already perhaps been a General, appeared publicly in\nwoman's clothes, and as, on account of the feebleness of his voice, he\ncould not play the leading part of Nausicaa, took perhaps the mute under\npart of a maid, for the sake of giving to the representation of his piece\nthe slight ornament of bodily agility.\n\nThe history of ancient tragedy ends with Euripides, although there were a\nnumber of still later tragedians; Agathon, for instance, whom Aristophanes\ndescribes as fragrant with ointment and crowned with flowers, and in whose\nmouth Plato, in his _Symposium_, puts a discourse in the taste of the\nsophist Gorgias, full of the most exquisite ornaments and empty\ntautological antitheses. He was the first to abandon mythology, as\nfurnishing the natural materials of tragedy, and occasionally wrote pieces\nwith purely fictitious names, (this is worthy of notice, as forming a\ntransition towards the new comedy,) one of which was called the\n_Flower_, and was probably therefore neither seriously affecting nor\nterrible, but in the style of the idyl, and pleasing.\n\nThe Alexandrian scholars, among their other lucubrations, attempted also\nthe composition of tragedies; but if we are to judge of them from the only\npiece which has come down to us, the _Alexandra_ of Lycophron, which\nconsists of an endless monologue, full of prophecy, and overladen with\nobscure mythology, these productions of a subtle dilettantism must have\nbeen extremely inanimate and untheatrical, and every way devoid of\ninterest. The creative powers of the Greeks were, in this department, so\ncompletely exhausted, that they were forced to content themselves with the\nrepetition of the works of their ancient masters.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XI.\n\nThe Old Comedy proved to be completely a contrast to Tragedy--Parody--\nIdeality of Comedy the reverse of that of Tragedy--Mirthful Caprice--\nAllegoric and Political Signification--The Chorus and its Parabases.\n\n\nWe now leave Tragic Poetry to occupy ourselves with an entirely opposite\nspecies, the _Old_ Comedy. Striking as this diversity is, we shall,\nhowever, commence with pointing out a certain symmetry in the contrast and\ncertain relations between them, which have a tendency to exhibit the\nessential character of both in a clearer light.  In forming a judgment of\nthe Old Comedy, we must banish every idea of what is called Comedy by the\nmoderns, and what went by the same name among the Greeks themselves at a\nlater period.  These two species of Comedy differ from each other, not\nonly in accidental peculiarities, (such as the introduction in the old of\nreal names and characters,) but essentially and diametrically. We must\nalso guard against entertaining such a notion of the Old Comedy as would\nlead us to regard it as the rude beginnings of the more finished and\ncultivated comedy of a subsequent age [Footnote: This is the purport of\nthe section of Barth\u00e9lemy in the _Anacharsis_ on the Old Comedy: one\nof the poorest and most erroneous parts of his work. With the pitiful\npresumption of ignorance, Voltaire pronounced a sweeping condemnation of\nAristophanes, (in other places, and in his _Philosophical Dictionary_\nunder Art. _Ath\u00e9e_), and the modern French critics have for the most\npart followed his example. We may, however, find the foundation of all the\nerroneous opinions of the moderns on this subject, and the same prosaical\nmode of viewing it, in Plutarch's parallel between Aristophanes and\nMenander.], an idea which many, from the unbridled licentiousness of the\nold comic writers, have been led to entertain. On the contrary the former\nis the genuine _poetic_ species; but the New Comedy, as I shall show\nin due course, is its decline into prose and reality.\n\nWe shall form the best idea of the Old Comedy, by considering it as the\ndirect opposite of Tragedy. This was probably the meaning of the assertion\nof Socrates, which is given by Plato towards the end of his _Symposium_.\nHe tells us that, after the other guests were dispersed or had fallen\nasleep, Socrates was left awake with Aristophanes and Agathon, and that\nwhile he drank with them out of a large cup, he forced them to confess,\nhowever unwillingly, that it is the business of one and the same man to be\nequally master of tragic and comic composition, and that the tragic poet\nis, in virtue of his art, comic poet also. This was not only repugnant to\nthe general opinion, which wholly separated the two kinds of talent, but\nalso to all experience, inasmuch as no tragic poet had ever attempted to\nshine in Comedy, nor conversely; his remark, therefore, can only have been\nmeant to apply to the inmost essence of the things. Thus at another time,\nthe Platonic Socrates says, on the subject of comic imitation: \"All\nopposites can be fully understood only by and through each other;\nconsequently we can only know what is serious by knowing also what is\nlaughable and ludicrous.\" If the divine Plato by working out that dialogue\nhad been pleased to communicate his own, or his master's thoughts,\nrespecting these two kinds of poetry, we should have been spared the\nnecessity of the following investigation.\n\nOne aspect of the relation of comic to tragic poetry may be comprehended\nunder the idea of _parody_. This parody, however, is one infinitely\nmore powerful than that of the mock heroic poem, as the subject parodied,\nby means of scenic representation, acquired quite another kind of reality\nand presence in the mind, from what the \u00e9pop\u00e9e did, which relating the\ntransactions of a distant age, retired, as it were, with them into the\nremote olden time. The comic parody was brought out when the thing\nparodied was fresh in recollection, and as the representation took place\non the same stage where the spectators were accustomed to see its serious\noriginal, this circumstance must have greatly contributed to heighten the\neffect of it. Moreover, not merely single scenes, but the very form of\ntragic composition was parodied, and doubtless the parody extended not\nonly to the poetry, but also to the music and dancing, to the acting\nitself, and the scenic decoration. Nay, even where the drama trod in the\nfootsteps of the plastic arts, it was still the subject of comic parody,\nas the ideal figures of deities were evidently transformed into\ncaricatures [Footnote: As an example of this, I may allude to the well-\nknown vase-figures, where Mercury and Jupiter, about to ascend by a ladder\ninto Alcmene's chamber, are represented as comic masks.]. Now the more\nimmediately the productions of all these arts fall within the observance\nof the external senses, and, above, all the more the Greeks, in their\npopular festivals, religious ceremonies, and solemn processions, were\naccustomed to, and familiar with, the noble style which was the native\nelement of tragic representation, so much the more irresistibly ludicrous\nmust have been the effect of that general parody of the arts, which it was\nthe object of Comedy to exhibit.\n\nBut this idea does not exhaust the essential character of Comedy; for\nparody always supposes a reference to the subject which is parodied, and a\nnecessary dependence on it. The Old Comedy, however, as a species of\npoetry, is as independent and original as Tragedy itself; it stands on the\nsame elevation with it, that is, it extends just as far beyond the limits\nof reality into the domains of free creative fancy.\n\nTragedy is the highest earnestness of poetry; Comedy altogether sportive.\nNow earnestness, as I observed in the Introduction, consists in the\ndirection of the mental powers to an aim or purpose, and the limitation of\ntheir activity to that object. Its opposite, therefore, consists in the\napparent want of aim, and freedom from all restraint in the exercise of\nthe mental powers; and it is therefore the more perfect, the more\nunreservedly it goes to work, and the more lively the appearance there is\nof purposeless fun and unrestrained caprice. Wit and raillery may be\nemployed in a sportive manner, but they are also both of them compatible\nwith the severest earnestness, as is proved by the example of the later\nRoman satires and the ancient Iambic poetry of the Greeks, where these\nmeans were employed for the expression of indignation and hatred.\n\nThe New Comedy, it is true, represents what is amusing in character, and\nin the contrast of situations and combinations; and it is the more comic\nthe more it is distinguished by a want of aim: cross purposes, mistakes,\nthe vain efforts of ridiculous passion, and especially if all this ends at\nlast in nothing; but still, with all this mirth, the form of the\nrepresentation itself is serious, and regularly tied down to a certain\naim. In the Old Comedy the form was sportive, and a seeming aimlessness\nreigned throughout; the whole poem was one big jest, which again contained\nwithin itself a world of separate jests, of which each occupied its own\nplace, without appearing to trouble itself about the rest. In tragedy, if\nI may be allowed to make my meaning plain by a comparison, the monarchical\nconstitution prevails, but a monarchy without despotism, such as it was in\nthe heroic times of the Greeks: everything yields a willing obedience to\nthe dignity of the heroic sceptre. Comedy, on the other hand, is the\ndemocracy of poetry, and is more inclined even to the confusion of anarchy\nthan to any circumscription of the general liberty of its mental powers\nand purposes, and even of its separate thoughts, sallies, and allusions.\n\nWhatever is dignified, noble, and grand in human nature, admits only of a\nserious and earnest representation; for whoever attempts to represent it,\nfeels himself, as it were, in the presence of a superior being, and is\nconsequently awed and restrained by it. The comic poet, therefore, must\ndivest his characters of all such qualities; he must place himself without\nthe sphere of them; nay, even deny altogether their existence, and form an\nideal of human nature the direct opposite of that of the tragedians,\nnamely, as the odious and base. But as the tragic ideal is not a\ncollective model of all possible virtues, so neither does this converse\nideality consist in an aggregation, nowhere to be found in real life, of\nall moral enormities and marks of degeneracy, but rather in a dependence\non the animal part of human nature, in that want of freedom and\nindependence, that want of coherence, those inconsistencies of the inward\nman, in which all folly and infatuation originate.\n\nThe earnest ideal consists of the unity and harmonious blending of the\nsensual man with the mental, such as may be most clearly recognised in\nSculpture, where the perfection of form is merely a symbol of mental\nperfection and the loftiest moral ideas, and where the body is wholly\npervaded by soul, and spiritualized even to a glorious transfiguration.\nThe merry or ludicrous ideal, on the other hand, consists in the perfect\nharmony and unison of the higher part of our nature with the animal as the\nruling principle. Reason and understanding are represented as the\nvoluntary slaves of the senses.  Hence we shall find that the very\nprinciple of Comedy necessarily occasioned that which in Aristophanes has\ngiven so much offence; namely, his frequent allusions to the base\nnecessities of the body, the wanton pictures of animal desire, which, in\nspite of all the restraints imposed on it by morality and decency, is\nalways breaking loose before one can be aware of it. If we reflect a\nmoment, we shall find that even in the present day, on our own stage, the\ninfallible and inexhaustible source of the ludicrous is the same\nungovernable impulses of sensuality in collision with higher duties; or\ncowardice, childish vanity, loquacity, gulosity, laziness, &c. Hence, in\nthe weakness of old age, amorousness is the more laughable, as it is plain\nthat it is not mere animal instinct, but that reason has only served to\nextend the dominion of the senses beyond their proper limits. In\ndrunkenness, too, the real man places himself, in some degree, in the\ncondition of the comic ideal.\n\nThe fact that the Old Comedy introduced living characters on the stage, by\nname and with all circumstantiality, must not mislead us to infer that\nthey actually did represent certain definite individuals. For such\nhistorical characters in the Old Comedy have always an allegorical\nsignification, and represent a class; and as their features were\ncaricatures in the masks, so, in like manner, were their characters in the\nrepresentation. But still this constant allusion to a proximate reality,\nwhich not only allowed the poet, in the character of the chorus, to\nconverse with the public in a general way, but also to point the finger at\ncertain individual spectators, was essential to this species of poetry. As\nTragedy delights in harmonious unity, Comedy flourishes in a chaotic\nexuberance; it seeks out the most motley contrasts, and the unceasing play\nof cross purposes. It works up, therefore, the most singular, unheard-of,\nand even impossible incidents, with allusions to the well-known and\nspecial circumstances of the immediate locality and time.\n\nThe comic poet, as well as the tragic, transports his characters into an\nideal element: not, however, into a world subjected to necessity, but one\nwhere the caprice of inventive wit rules without check or restraint, and\nwhere all the laws of reality are suspended. He is at liberty, therefore,\nto invent an action as arbitrary and fantastic as possible; it may even be\nunconnected and unreal, if only it be calculated to place a circle of\ncomic incidents and characters in the most glaring light. In this last\nrespect, the work should, nay, must, have a leading aim, or it will\notherwise be in want of _keeping_; and in this view also the comedies\nof Aristophanes may be considered as perfectly systematical. But then, to\npreserve the comic inspiration, this aim must be made a matter of\ndiversion, and be concealed beneath a medley of all sorts of out-of-the-\nway matters. Comedy at its first commencement, namely, under the hands of\nits Doric founder, Epicharmus, borrowed its materials chiefly from the\nmythical world. Even in its maturity, to judge from the titles of many\nlost plays of Aristophanes and his contemporaries, it does not seem to\nhave renounced this choice altogether, as at a later period, in the\ninterval between the old and new comedy, it returned, for particular\nreasons, with a natural predilection to mythology. But as the contrast\nbetween the matter and form is here in its proper place, and nothing can\nbe more thoroughly opposite to the ludicrous form of exhibition than the\nmost important and serious concerns of men, public life and the state\nnaturally became the peculiar subject-matter of the Old Comedy. It is,\ntherefore, altogether political; and private and family life, beyond which\nthe new never soars, was only introduced occasionally and indirectly, in\nso far as it might have a reference to public life. The Chorus is\ntherefore essential to it, as being in some sort a representation of the\npublic: it must by no means be considered as a mere accidental property,\nto be accounted for by the local origin of the Old Comedy; we may assign\nits existence to a more substantial reason--its necessity for a complete\nparody of the tragic form. It contributes also to the expression of that\nfestal gladness of which Comedy was the most unrestrained effusion, for in\nall the national and religious festivals of the Greeks, choral songs,\naccompanied by dancing, were performed. The comic chorus transforms itself\noccasionally into such an expression of public joy, as, for instance, when\nthe women who celebrate the Thesmophoriae in the piece that bears that\nname, in the midst of the most amusing drolleries, begin to chant their\nmelodious hymn, just as in a real festival, in honour of the presiding\ngods. At these times we meet with such a display of sublime lyric poetry,\nthat the passages may be transplanted into tragedy without any change or\nalteration whatever. There is, however, this deviation from the tragic\nmodel, that there are frequently, in the same comedy, several choruses\nwhich sometimes are present together, singing in response, or at other\ntimes come on alternately and drop off, without the least general\nreference to each other. The most remarkable peculiarity, however, of the\ncomic chorus is the _Parabasis_, an address to the spectators by the\nchorus, in the name, and as the representative of the poet, but having no\nconnexion with the subject of the piece. Sometimes he enlarges on his own\nmerits, and ridicules the pretensions of his rivals; at other times,\navailing himself of his right as an Athenian citizen, to speak on public\naffairs in every assembly of the people, he brings forward serious or\nludicrous motions for the common good. The Parabasis must, strictly\nspeaking, be considered as incongruous with the essence of dramatic\nrepresentation; for in the drama the poet should always be behind his\ndramatic personages, who again ought to speak and act as if they were\nalone, and to take no perceptible notice of the spectators. Such\nintermixtures, therefore, destroy all tragic impression, but to the comic\ntone these intentional interruptions or intermezzos are welcome, even\nthough they be in themselves more serious than the subject of the\nrepresentation, because we are at such times unwilling to submit to the\nconstraint of a mental occupation which must perforce be kept up, for then\nit would assume the appearance of a task or obligation. The Parabasis may\npartly have owed its invention to the circumstance of the comic poets not\nhaving such ample materials as the tragic, for filling up the intervals of\nthe action when the stage was empty, by sympathising and enthusiastic\nodes. But it is, moreover, consistent with the essence of the Old Comedy,\nwhere not merely the subject, but the whole manner of treating it was\nsportive and jocular. The unlimited dominion of mirth and fun manifests\nitself even in this, that the dramatic form itself is not seriously\nadhered to, and that its laws are often suspended; just as in a droll\ndisguise the masquerader sometimes ventures to lay aside the mask. The\npractice of throwing out allusions and hints to the pit is retained even\nin the comedy of the present day, and is often found to be attended with\ngreat success; although unconditionally reprobated by many critics. I\nshall afterwards examine how far, and in what departments of comedy, these\nallusions are admissible.\n\nTo sum up in a few words the aim and object of Tragedy and Comedy, we may\nobserve, that as Tragedy, by painful emotions, elevates us to the most\ndignified views of humanity, being, in the words of Plato, \"the imitation\nof the most beautiful and most excellent life;\" Comedy, on the other hand,\nby its jocose and depreciatory view of all things, calls forth the most\npetulant hilarity.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XII.\n\nAristophanes--His Character as an Artist--Description and Character of his\nremaining Works--A Scene, translated from the _Acharnae,_ by way of\nAppendix.\n\n\nOf the Old Comedy but one writer has come down to us, and we cannot,\ntherefore, in forming an estimate of his merits, enforce it by a\ncomparison with other masters. Aristophanes had many predecessors,\n_Magnes_, _Cratinus_, _Crates,_ and others; he was indeed one of the\nlatest of this school, for he outlived the Old Comedy. We have no\nreason, however, to believe that we witness in him its decline, as we\ndo that of Tragedy in the case of the last tragedian; in all probability\nthe Old Comedy was still rising in perfection, and he himself one of its\nmost finished authors. It was very different with the Old Comedy and with\nTragedy; the latter died a natural, and the former a violent death.\nTragedy ceased to exist, because that species of poetry seemed to be\nexhausted, because it was abandoned, and because no one was now able to\nrise to the pitch of its elevation. Comedy was deprived by the hand of\npower of that unrestrained freedom which was necessary to its existence.\nHorace, in a few words, informs us of this catastrophe: \"After these\n(Thespis and Aeschylus) followed the Old Comedy, not without great merit;\nbut its freedom degenerated into licentiousness, and into a violence which\ndeserved to be checked by law. The law was enacted, and the Chorus sunk\ninto disgraceful silence as soon as it was deprived of the right to\ninjure.\" [Footnote:\n  Successit vetus his comedia, non sine mult\u00e2\n  Laude, sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim\n  Dignam lege regi: lex est accepta: chorusque\n  Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.] Towards the end of the\nPeloponnesian war, when a few individuals, in violation of the\nconstitution, had assumed the supreme authority in Athens, a law was\nenacted, giving every person attacked by comic poets a remedy by law.\nMoreover, the introduction of real persons on the stage, or the use of\nsuch masks as bore a resemblance to their features, &c., was prohibited.\nThis gave rise to what is called the _Middle Comedy_. The form still\ncontinued much the same; and the representation, if not perfectly\nallegorical, was nevertheless a parody. But the essence was taken away,\nand this species must have become insipid when it could no longer be\nseasoned by the salt of personal ridicule. Its whole attraction consisted\nin idealizing jocularly the reality that came nearest home to every one of\nthe spectators, that is, in representing it under the light of the most\npreposterous perversity; and how was it possible now to lash even the\ngeneral mismanagement of the state-affairs, if no offence was to be given\nto individuals? I cannot, therefore, agree with Horace in his opinion that\nthe abuse gave rise to the restriction. The Old Comedy flourished together\nwith Athenian liberty; and both were oppressed under the same\ncircumstances, and by the same persons. So far were the calumnies of\nAristophanes from having been the occasion of the death of Socrates, as,\nwithout a knowledge of history, many persons have thought proper to assert\n(for the _Clouds_ were composed a great number of years before), that\nit was the very same revolutionary despotism that reduced to silence alike\nthe sportive censure of Aristophanes, and also punished with death the\ngraver animadversions of the incorruptible Socrates. Neither do we see\nthat the persecuting jokes of Aristophanes were in any way detrimental to\nEuripides: the free people of Athens beheld alike with admiration the\ntragedies of the one, and their parody by the other, represented on the\nsame stage; they allowed every variety of talent to flourish undisturbed\nin the enjoyment of equal rights. Never did a sovereign, for such was the\nAthenian people, listen more good-humouredly to the most unwelcome truths,\nand even allow itself to be openly laughed at. And even if the abuses in\nthe public administration were not by these means corrected, still it was\na grand point that this unsparing exposure of them was tolerated. Besides,\nAristophanes always shows himself a zealous patriot; the powerful\ndemagogues whom he attacks are the same persons that the grave Thucydides\ndescribes as so pernicious. In the midst of civil war, which destroyed for\never the prosperity of Greece, he was ever counselling peace, and\neverywhere recommended the simplicity and austerity of the ancient\nmanners. So much for the political import of the Old Comedy.\n\nBut Aristophanes, I hear it said, was an immoral buffoon. Yes, among other\nthings, he was that also; and we are by no means disposed to justify the\nman who, with such great talents, could yet sink so very low, whether it\nwas to gratify his own coarse propensities, or from a supposed necessity\nof winning the favour of the populace, that he might be able to tell them\nbold and unpleasant truths. We know at least that he boasts of having been\nmuch more sparing than his rivals in the use of obscene jests, to gain the\nlaughter of the mob, and of having, in this respect, carried his art to\nperfection. Not to be unjust towards him, we must judge of all that\nappears so repulsive to us, not by modern ideas, but by the opinions of\nhis own age and nation. On certain subjects the morals of the ancients\nwere very different from ours, and of a much freer character. This arose\nfrom the very nature of their religion, which was a real worship of\nNature, and had sanctioned many public customs grossly injurious to\ndecency. Besides, from the very retired manner in which the women lived,\n[Footnote: This brings us to the consideration of the question so much\nagitated by antiquaries, whether the Grecian women were present at the\nrepresentation of plays in general, and more especially of comedies. With\nrespect to tragedy, I think the question must be answered in the\naffirmative, since the story about the _Eumenides_ of Aeschylus could\nnot have been invented with any degree of propriety, had women never\nvisited the theatre. Moreover, there is a passage in Plato (_De Leg._,\nlib. ii. p. 658, D.), in which he mentions the predilection educated women\nevince for tragical composition. Lastly, Julius Pollux, among the\ntechnical expressions belonging to the theatre, mentions the Greek word\nfor a _spectatress_. But in the case of the old comedy, I should be\ninclined to think that they were not present. However, its indecency alone\ndoes not appear to be a decisive proof. Even in the religious festivals\nthe eyes of the women must have been exposed to sights of gross indecency.\nBut in the numerous addresses of Aristophanes to the spectators, even\nwhere he distinguishes them according to their respective ages and\notherwise, we never observe any mention of spectatresses, and the\npoet would hardly have omitted the opportunity which this afforded him for\nsome witticism or joke. The only passage with which I am acquainted,\nwhence any conclusion may be drawn in favour of the presence of women, is\n_Pax_, v. 963-967. But still it remains doubtful, and I recommend it\nto the consideration of the critic.--AUTHOR.], while the men were almost\nconstantly together, the language of conversation contracted a certain\ncoarseness, as is always the case under similar circumstances. In modern\nEurope, since the origin of chivalry, women have given the tone to social\nlife, and to the respectful homage which we yield to them, we owe the\nprevalence of a nobler morality in conversation, in the fine arts, and in\npoetry. Besides, the ancient comic writers, who took the world as they\nfound it, had before their eyes a very great degree of corruption of\nmorals.\n\nThe most honourable testimony in favour of Aristophanes is that of the\nsage Plato, who in an epigram says, that the Graces chose his soul for\ntheir abode, who was constantly reading him, and transmitted the _Clouds_,\n(this very play, in which, with the meshes of the sophists, philosophy\nitself, and even his master Socrates, was attacked), to Dionysius the\nelder, with the remark, that from it he would be best able to understand\nthe state of things at Athens. He could hardly mean merely that the play\nwas a proof of the unbridled democratic freedom which prevailed in Athens;\nbut must have intended it as an acknowledgment of the poet's profound\nknowledge of the world, and his insight into the whole machinery of the\ncivil constitution. Plato has also admirably characterised him in his\n_Symposium_, where he puts into his mouth a speech on love, which\nAristophanes, far from every thing like high enthusiasm, considers merely\nin a sensual view. His description of it is, however, equally bold and\ningenious.\n\nWe might apply to the pieces of Aristophanes the motto of a pleasant and\nacute adventurer in Goethe: \"Mad, but clever.\" In them we are best enabled\nto conceive why the Dramatic Art in general was consecrated to Bacchus: it\nis the intoxication of poetry, the Bacchanalia of fun. This faculty will\nat times assert its rights as well as others; and hence several nations\nhave set apart certain festivals, such as Saturnalia, Carnivals, &c., in\nwhich the people may give themselves altogether up to frolicsome follies,\nthat when once the fit is over, they may for the rest of the year remain\nquiet, and apply themselves to serious business. The Old Comedy is a\ngeneral masquerade of the world, during which much passes that is not\nauthorised by the ordinary rules of propriety; but during which much also\nthat is diverting, witty, and even instructive, is manifested, which would\nnever be heard of without this momentary breaking up of the barricades of\nprecision.\n\nHowever vulgar and even corrupt Aristophanes may have been in his own\npersonal propensities, and however offensive his jokes are to good manners\nand good taste, we cannot deny to him, both in the general plan and\nexecution of his poems, the praise of carefulness, and the masterly skill\nof a finished artist. His language is extremely polished, the purest\nAtticism reigns in it throughout, and with the greatest dexterity he\nadapts it to every tone, from the most familiar dialogue up to the high\nelevation of the Dithyrambic ode. We cannot doubt that he would have been\neminently successful in grave poetry, when we see how at times with\ncapricious wantonness he lavishes it only to destroy at the next moment\nthe impression he has made. The elegant choice of the language becomes\nonly the more attractive from the contrast in which it is occasionally\ndisplayed by him; for he not only indulges at times in the rudest\nexpressions of the people, the different dialects, and even in the broken\nGreek of barbarians, but he extends the same arbitrary power which he\nexercised over nature and human affairs, to language itself, and by\ncomposition, allusion to names of persons, or imitation of particular\nsounds, coins the strangest words imaginable. The structure of his\nversification is not less artificial than that of the tragedians; he uses\nthe same forms, but differently modified: his object is ease and variety,\ninstead of gravity and dignity; but amidst all this apparent irregularity,\nhe still adheres with great accuracy to the laws of metrical composition.\nAs Aristophanes, in the exercise of his separate but infinitely varied and\nversatile art, appears to me to have displayed the richest development of\nalmost every poetical talent, so also whenever I read his works I am no\nless astonished at the extraordinary capacity of his hearers, which the\nvery nature of them presupposes. We might, indeed, expect from the\ncitizens of a popular government an intimate acquaintance with the history\nand constitution of their country, with public events and transactions,\nwith the personal circumstance of all their contemporaries of any note or\nconsequence. But besides all this, Aristophanes required of his auditory a\ncultivated poetical taste; to understand his parodies, they must have\nalmost every word of the tragical master-pieces by heart. And what\nquickness of perception was requisite to catch, in passing the lightest\nand most covert irony, the most unexpected sallies and strangest\nallusions, which are frequently denoted by the mere twisting of a\nsyllable! We may boldly affirm, that notwithstanding all the explanations\nwhich have come down to us--notwithstanding the accumulation of learning\nwhich has been spent upon it, one-half of the wit of Aristophanes is\naltogether lost to the moderns. Nothing but the incredible acuteness and\nvivacity of the Athenian intellect could make it conceivable that these\ncomedies which, with all their farcical drolleries, do, nevertheless, all\nthe while bear upon the most grave interests of human life, could ever\nhave formed a source of popular amusement. We may envy the poet who could\nreckon on so clever and accomplished a public; but this was in truth a\nvery dangerous advantage. Spectators whose understandings were so quick,\nwould not be easily pleased. Thus Aristophanes complains of the too\nfastidious taste of the Athenians, with whom the most admired of his\npredecessors were immediately out of favour as soon as the slightest trace\nof a falling off in their mental powers was perceivable. On the other\nhand, he allows that the other Greeks could not bear the slightest\ncomparison with them in a knowledge of the Dramatic Art. Even genius in\nthis department strove to excel at Athens, and here, too, the competition\nwas confined within the narrow period of a few festivals, during which the\npeople always expected to see something new, of which there was always a\nplentiful supply. The prizes (on which all depended, there being no other\nmeans of gaining publicity) were distributed after a single\nrepresentation. We may easily imagine, therefore, the state of perfection\nto which this would be carried under the directing care of the poet. If we\nalso take into consideration the high state of the co-operating arts, the\nutmost distinctness of delivery (both in speaking and singing,) of the\nmost finished poetry, as well as the magnificence and vast size of the\ntheatre, we shall then have some idea of a theatrical treat, the like of\nwhich has never since been offered to the world.\n\nAlthough, among the remaining works of Aristophanes, we have several of\nhis earliest pieces, they all bear the stamp of equal maturity. He had, in\nfact, been long labouring in silence to perfect himself in the exercise of\nan art which he conceived to be of all others the most difficult; nay,\nfrom diffidence in his own power, (or, to use his own words, like a young\ngirl who consigns to the care of others the child of her secret love,) he\neven brought out his earliest pieces under others' names. He appeared for\nthe first time without this disguise with the _Knights_, and here he\ndisplayed the undaunted resolution of a comedian, by an open assault on\npopular opinion. His object was nothing less than the overthrow of Cleon,\nwho, after the death of Pericles, was at the head of all state affairs, a\npromoter of war, and a worthless man of very ordinary abilities, but at\nthe same time the idol of an infatuated people. The only opponents of\nCleon were the rich proprietors, who constituted the class of horsemen or\nknights: these Aristophanes in the strongest manner made of his party, by\nforming the chorus of them. He had the prudence never to name Cleon,\nthough he portrayed him in such a way that it was impossible to mistake\nhim. Yet such was the dread entertained of Cleon and his faction, that no\nmask-maker would venture to execute his likeness: the poet, therefore,\nresolved to act the part himself, merely painting his face. We may easily\nimagine the storms and tumults which this representation must have excited\namong the assembled crowd; however, the bold and well-concerted efforts of\nthe poet were crowned with success: his piece gained the prize. He was\nproud of this feat of theatrical heroism, and often alludes with a feeling\nof satisfaction to the Herculean valour with which he first combated the\nmighty monster. No one of his plays, perhaps, is more historical and\npolitical; and its rhetorical power in exciting our indignation is almost\nirresistible: it is a true dramatic Philippic. However, in point of\namusement and invention, it does not appear to me the most fortunate. The\nthought of the serious danger which he was incurring may possibly have\ndisposed him to a more serious tone than was suitable to comedy, or stung,\nperhaps, by the persecution he had already suffered from Cleon, he may,\nperhaps, have vented his rage in too Archilochean a style. When the storm\nof cutting invective has somewhat spent itself, we have then several droll\nscenes, such us that where the two demagogues, the leather-dealer (that\nis, Cleon) and the sausage-seller, vie with each other by adulation, by\noracle-quoting, and by dainty tit-bits, to gain the favour of Demos, a\npersonification of the people, who has become childish through age, a\nscene humorous in the highest degree; and the piece ends with a triumphal\nrejoicing, which may almost be said to be affecting, when the scene\nchanges from the Pnyx, the place where the people assembled, to the\nmajestic Propylaea, when Demos, who has been wonderfully restored to a\nsecond youth, comes forward in the garb of an ancient Athenian, and shows\nthat with his youthful vigour, he has also recovered the olden sentiments\nof the days of Marathon.\n\nWith the exception of this attack on Cleon, and with the exception also of\nthe attacks on Euripides, whom he seems to have pursued with the most\nunrelenting perseverance, the other pieces of Aristophanes are not so\nexclusively pointed against individuals. They have always a general, and\nfor the most part a very important aim, which the poet, with all his\nturnings, digressions, and odd medleys, never loses sight of. The\n_Peace_, the _Acharnae_, and the _Lysistrata_, with many turns, still all\nrecommend peace; and one object of the _Ecclesiazusae_, or _Women in\nParliament,_, of the _Thesmophoriazusae, or Women keeping the Festival of\nthe Thesmophoriae_, and of _Lysistrata_, is to throw ridicule on the\nrelations and the manners of the female sex. In the _Clouds_ he laughs at\nthe metaphysics of the Sophists, in the _Wasps_ at the mania of the\nAthenians for hearing and determining law-suits; the subject of the\n_Frogs_ is the decline of the tragic art, and _Plutus_ is an allegory on\nthe unjust distribution of wealth. The _Birds_ are, of all his pieces, the\none of which the aim is the least apparent, and it is on that very account\none of the most diverting.\n\n_Peace_ begins in the most spirited and lively manner; the peace-\nloving Trygaeus rides on a dung-beetle to heaven in the manner of\nBellerophon; War, a desolating giant, with his comrade Riot, alone, in\nplace of all the other gods, inhabits Olympus, and there pounds the cities\nof men in a great mortar, making use of the most celebrated generals for\npestles. The Goddess Peace lies buried in a deep well, out of which she is\nhauled up by ropes, through the united exertions of all the states of\nGreece: all these ingenious and fanciful inventions are calculated to\nproduce the most ludicrous effect. Afterwards, however, the play is not\nsustained at an equal elevation; nothing remains but to sacrifice, and to\ncarouse in honour of the recovered Goddess of Peace, when the importunate\nvisits of such persons as found their advantage in war form, indeed, an\nentertainment pleasant enough, but by no means correspondent to the\nexpectations which the commencement gives rise to. We have, in this piece,\nan additional example to prove that the ancient comic writers not only\nchanged the decoration during the intervals, when the stage was empty, but\nalso while an actor was in sight. The scene changes from Attica to\nOlympus, while Trygaeus is suspended in the air on his beetle, and calls\nanxiously to the director of the machinery to take care that he does not\nbreak his neck. His descent into the orchestra afterwards denotes his\nreturn to the earth. It was possible to overlook the liberties taken by\nthe tragedians, according as their subject might require it, with the\nUnities of Place and Time, on which such ridiculous stress has been laid\nby many of the moderns, but the bold manner in which the old comic writer\nsubjects these mere externalities to his sportive caprice is so striking,\nthat it must enforce itself on the most short-sighted observers: and yet\nin all the treatises on the constitution of the Greek stage, due respect\nhas never yet been paid to it.\n\nThe _Acharnians_, an earlier piece, [Footnote: The Didascaliae place\nit in the year before the _Knights_. It is therefore, the earliest of\nthe extant pieces of Aristophanes, and the only one of those which he\nbrought out under a borrowed name, that has come down to us.] appears to\nme to possess a much higher excellence than _Peace_, on account of\nthe continual progress of the story, and the increasing drollery, which at\nlast ends in a downright Bacchanalian uproar. Dikaiopolis, the honest\ncitizen, enraged at the base artifices by which the people are deluded,\nand by which they are induced to reject all proposals for peace, sends an\nembassy to Lacedaemon, and concludes a separate treaty for himself and his\nfamily. He then retires to the country, and, in spite of all assaults,\nencloses a piece of ground before his house, within which there is a\npeaceful market for the people of the neighbouring states, while the rest\nof the country is suffering from the calamities of war. The blessings of\npeace are represented most temptingly to hungry stomachs: the fat Boeotian\nbrings his delicious eels and poultry for sale, and nothing is thought of\nbut feasting and carousing. Lamachus, the celebrated general, who lives on\nthe other side, is, in consequence of a sudden inroad of the enemy, called\naway to defend the frontiers; Dikaiopolis, on the other hand, is invited\nby his neighbours to a feast, where every one brings his own scot.\nPreparations military and preparations culinary are now carried on with\nequal industry and alacrity; here they seize the lance, there the spit;\nhere the armour rings, there the wine-flagon; there they are feathering\nhelmets, here they are plucking thrushes. Shortly afterwards Lamachus\nreturns, supported by two of his comrades, with a broken head and a lame\nfoot, and from the other side Dikaiopolis is brought in drunk, and led by\ntwo good-natured damsels. The lamentations of the one are perpetually\nmimicked and ridiculed in the rejoicings of the other; and with this\ncontrast, which is carried to the very utmost limit, the play ends.\n\n_Lysistrata_ is in such bad repute, that we must mention it lightly\nand rapidly, just as we would tread over hot embers. According to the\nstory of the poet, the women have taken it into their heads to compel\ntheir husbands, by a severe resolution, to make peace. Under the direction\nof a clever leader they organize a conspiracy for this purpose throughout\nall Greece, and at the same time gain possession in Athens of the\nfortified Acropolis. The terrible plight the men are reduced to by this\nseparation gives rise to the most laughable scenes; plenipotentiaries\nappear from the two hostile powers, and peace is speedily concluded under\nthe management of the sage Lysistrata. Notwithstanding the mad indecencies\nwhich are contained in the piece, its purpose, when stript of these, is\nupon the whole very innocent: the longing for the enjoyment of domestic\njoys, so often interrupted by the absence of the husbands, is to be the\nmeans of putting an end to the calamitous war by which Greece had so long\nbeen torn in pieces. In particular, the honest bluntness of the\nLacedaemonians is inimitably portrayed.\n\nThe _Ecclesiazusae_ is in like manner a picture of woman's ascendency, but\none much more depraved than the former. In the dress of men the women\nsteal into the public assembly, and by means of the majority of voices\nwhich they have thus surreptitiously obtained, they decree a new\nconstitution, in which there is to be a community of goods and of women.\nThis is a satire on the ideal republics of the philosophers, with similar\nlaws; Protagoras had projected such before Plato. The comedy appears to me\nto labour under the very same fault as the _Peace_: the introduction,\nthe secret assembly of the women, their rehearsal of their parts as men,\nthe description of the popular assembly, are all handled in the most\nmasterly manner; but towards the middle the action stands still. Nothing\nremains but the representation of the perplexities and confusion which\narise from the different communities, especially the community of women,\nand from the prescribed equality of rights in love both for the old and\nugly, and for the young and beautiful. These perplexities are pleasant\nenough, but they turn too much on a repetition of the same joke. Generally\nspeaking, the old allegorical comedy is in its progress exposed to the\ndanger of sinking. When we begin with turning the world upside down, the\nmost wonderful incidents follow one another as a matter of course, but\nthey are apt to appear petty and insignificant when compared with the\ndecisive strokes of fun in the commencement.\n\nThe _Thesmophoriazusae_ has a proper intrigue, a knot which is not\nloosed till the conclusion, and in this possesses therefore a great\nadvantage. Euripides, on account of the well-known hatred of women\ndisplayed in his tragedies, is accused and condemned at the festival of\nthe Thesmophoriae, at which women only were admitted. After a fruitless\nattempt to induce the effeminate poet Agathon to undertake the hazardous\nexperiment, Euripides prevails on his brother-in-law, Mnesilochus, who was\nsomewhat advanced in years, to disguise himself as a woman, that under\nthis assumed appearance he may plead his cause. The manner in which he\ndoes this gives rise to suspicions, and he is discovered to be a man; he\nflies to the altar for refuge, and to secure himself still more from the\nimpending danger, he snatches a child from the arms of one of the women,\nand threatens to kill it if they do not let him alone. As he attempts to\nstrangle it, it turns out to be a leather wine-flask wrapped up like a\nchild. Euripides now appears in a number of different shapes to save his\nfriend: at one time he is Menelaus, who finds Helen again in Egypt; at\nanother time he is Echo, helping the chained Andromeda to pour out her\nlamentations, and immediately after he appears as Perseus, about to\nrelease her from the rock. At length he succeeds in rescuing Mnesilochus,\nwho is fastened to a sort of pillory, by assuming the character of a\nprocuress, and enticing away the officer of justice who has charge of him,\na simple barbarian, by the charms of a female flute-player. These parodied\nscenes, composed almost entirely in the very words of the tragedies, are\ninimitable. Whenever Euripides is introduced, we may always, generally\nspeaking, lay our account with having the most ingenious and apposite\nridicule; it seems as if the mind of Aristophanes possessed a peculiar and\nspecific power of giving a comic turn to the poetry of this tragedian.\n\nThe _Clouds_ is well known, but yet, for the most part, has not been\nduly understood or appreciated. Its object is to show that the fondness\nfor philosophical subtleties had led to a neglect of warlike exercises,\nthat speculation only served to shake the foundations of religion and\nmorals, and that by the arts of sophistry, every duty was rendered\ndoubtful, and the worse cause frequently came off victorious. The Clouds\nthemselves, as the chorus of the piece (for the poet converts these\nsubstances into persons, and dresses them out strangely enough), are an\nallegory on the metaphysical speculations which do not rest on the ground\nof experience, but float about without any definite shape or body, in the\nregion of possibilities. We may observe in general that it is one of the\npeculiarities of the wit of Aristophanes to take a metaphor literally, and\nto exhibit it in this light before the eyes of the spectators. Of a man\naddicted to unintelligible reveries, it is a common way of speaking to say\nthat he is up in the clouds, and accordingly Socrates makes his first\nappearance actually descending from the air in a basket. Whether this\napplies exactly to him is another question; but we have reason to believe\nthat the philosophy of Socrates was very ideal, and that it was by no\nmeans so limited to popular and practical matters as Xenophon would have\nus believe. But why has Aristophanes personified the sophistical\nmetaphysics by the venerable Socrates, who was himself a determined\nopponent of the Sophists? There was probably some personal grudge at the\nbottom of this, and we do not attempt to justify it; but the choice of the\nname by no means diminishes the merit of the picture itself. Aristophanes\ndeclares this play to be the most elaborate of all his works: but in such\nexpressions we are not always to take him exactly at his word. On all\noccasions, and without the least hesitation, he lavishes upon himself the\nmost extravagant praises; and this must be considered a feature of the\nlicence of comedy. However, the _Clouds_ was unfavourably received,\nand twice unsuccessfully competed for the prize.\n\nThe _Frogs_, as we have already said, has for its subject the decline\nof Tragic Art. Euripides was dead, as well as Sophocles and Agathon, and\nnone but poets of the second rank were now remaining. Bacchus misses\nEuripides, and determines to bring him back from the infernal world. In\nthis he imitates Hercules, but although furnished with that hero's lion-\nskin and club, in sentiments he is very unlike him, and as a dastardly\nvoluptuary affords us much matter for laughter. Here we have a\ncharacteristic specimen of the audacity of Aristophanes: he does not even\nspare the patron of his own art, in whose honour this very play was\nexhibited. It was thought that the gods understood a joke as well, if not\nbetter, than men. Bacchus rows himself over the Acherusian lake, where the\nfrogs merrily greet him with their melodious croakings. The proper chorus,\nhowever, consists of the shades of those initiated in the Eleusinian\nmysteries, and odes of surpassing beauty are put in their mouths.\nAeschylus had hitherto occupied the tragic throne in the world below, but\nEuripides wants to eject him. Pluto presides, but appoints Bacchus to\ndetermine this great controversy; the two poets, the sublimely wrathful\nAeschylus, and the subtle and conceited Euripides, stand opposite each\nother and deliver specimens of their poetical powers; they sing, they\ndeclaim against each other, and in all their peculiar traits are\ncharacterised in masterly style. At last a balance is brought, on which\neach lays a verse; but notwithstanding all the efforts of Euripides to\nproduce ponderous lines, those of Aeschylus always make the scale of his\nrival to kick the beam. At last the latter becomes impatient of the\ncontest, and proposes that Euripides himself, with all his works, his\nwife, children, Cephisophon and all, shall get into one scale, and he will\nonly lay against them in the other two verses. Bacchus in the mean time\nhas become a convert to the merits of Aeschylus, and although he had sworn\nto Euripides that he would take him back with him from the lower world, he\ndismisses him with a parody of one of his own verses in _Hippolytus_:\n\n  My tongue hath sworn, I however make choice of Aeschylus.\n\nAeschylus consequently returns to the living world, and resigns the tragic\nthrone in his absence to Sophocles.\n\nThe observation on the changes of place, which I made when mentioning\n_Peace_, may be here repeated. The scene is first at Thebes, of which\nboth Bacchus and Hercules were natives; afterwards the stage is changed,\nwithout its ever being left by Bacchus, to the nether shore of the\nAcherusian lake, which must have been represented by the sunken space of\nthe orchestra, and it was not till Bacchus landed at the other end of the\nlogeum that the scenery represented the infernal world, with the palace of\nPluto in the back-ground. This is not a mere conjecture, it is expressly\nstated by the old scholiast.\n\nThe _Wasps_ is, in my opinion, the feeblest of Aristophanes' plays.\nThe subject is too limited, the folly it ridicules appears a disease of\ntoo singular a description, without a sufficient universality of\napplication, and the action is too much drawn out. The poet himself speaks\nthis time in very modest language of his means of entertainment, and does\nnot even promise us immoderate laughter.\n\nOn the other hand, the _Birds_ transports us by one of the boldest\nand richest inventions into the kingdom of the fantastically wonderful,\nand delights us with a display of the gayest hilarity: it is a joyous-\nwinged and gay-plumed creation. I cannot concur with the old critic in\nthinking that we have in this work a universal and undisguised satire on\nthe corruptions of the Athenian state, and of all human society. It seems\nrather a harmless display of merry pranks, which hit alike at gods and men\nwithout any particular object in view. Whatever was remarkable about birds\nin natural history, in mythology, in the doctrine of divination, in the\nfables of Aesop, or even in proverbial expressions, has been ingeniously\ndrawn to his purpose by the poet; who even goes back to cosmogony, and\nshows that at first the raven-winged Night laid a wind-egg, out of which\nthe lovely Eros, with golden pinions (without doubt a bird), soared aloft,\nand thereupon gave birth to all things. Two fugitives of the human race\nfall into the domain of the birds, who resolve to revenge themselves on\nthem for the numerous cruelties which they have suffered: the two men\ncontrive to save themselves by proving the pre-eminency of the birds over\nall other creatures, and they advise them to collect all their scattered\npowers into one immense state; the wondrous city, Cloud-cuckootown, is\nthen built above the earth; all sorts of unbidden guests, priests, poets,\nsoothsayers, geometers, lawyers, sycophants, wish to nestle in the new\nstate, but are driven out; new gods are appointed, naturally enough, after\nthe image of the birds, as those of men bore a resemblance to man. Olympus\nis walled up against the old gods, so that no odour of sacrifices can\nreach them; in their emergency, they send an embassy, consisting of the\nvoracious Hercules, Neptune, who swears according to the common formula,\nby Neptune, and a Thracian god, who is not very familiar with Greek, but\nspeaks a sort of mixed jargon; they are, however, under the necessity of\nsubmitting to any conditions they can get, and the sovereignty of the\nworld is left to the birds. However much all this resembles a mere\nfarcical fairy tale, it may be said, however, to have a philosophical\nsignification, in thus taking a sort of bird's-eye view of all things,\nseeing that most of our ideas are only true in a human point of view.\n\nThe old critics were of opinion that Cratinus was powerful in that biting\nsatire which makes its attack without disguise, but that he was deficient\nin a pleasant humour, also that he wanted the skill to develope a striking\nsubject to the best advantage, and to fill up his pieces with the\nnecessary details. Eupolis they tell us was agreeable in his jokes, and\ningenious in covert allusions, so that he never needed the assistance of\nparabases to say whatever he wished, but that he was deficient in satiric\npower. But Aristophanes, they add, by a happy medium, united the\nexcellencies of both, and that in him we have satire and pleasantry\ncombined in due proportion and attractive manner. From these statements I\nconceive myself justified in assuming that among the pieces of\nAristophanes, the _Knights_ is the most in the style of Cratinus, and\nthe _Birds_ in that of Eupolis; and that he had their respective\nmanners in view when he composed these pieces. For although he boasts of\nhis independent originality, and of his never borrowing anything from\nothers, it was hardly possible that among such distinguished contemporary\nartists, all reciprocal influence should be excluded. If this opinion be\nwell founded, we have to lament the loss of the works of Cratinus, perhaps\nprincipally on account of the light they would have thrown on the manners\nof the times, and the knowledge they might have afforded of the Athenian\nconstitution, while the loss of the works of Eupolis is to be regretted,\nchiefly for the comic form in which they were delivered.\n\n_Plutus_ was one of the earlier pieces of the poet, but as we have\nit, it is one of his last works; for the first piece was afterwards recast\nby him. In its essence it belongs to the Old Comedy, but in the\nsparingness of personal satire, and in the mild tone which prevails\nthroughout, we may trace an approximation to the Middle Comedy. The Old\nComedy indeed had not yet received its death-blow from a formal enactment,\nbut even at this date Aristophanes may have deemed it prudent to avoid a\nfull exercise of the democratic privilege of comedy. It has even been said\n(perhaps without any foundation, as the circumstance has been denied by\nothers) that Alcibiades ordered Eupolis to be drowned on account of a\npiece which he had aimed at him. Dangers of this description would repress\nthe most ardent zeal of authorship: it is but fair that those who seek to\nafford pleasure to their fellow-citizens should at least be secure of\ntheir life.\n\n\nAPPENDIX TO THE TWELFTH LECTURE.\n\nAs we do not, so far as I know, possess as yet a satisfactory poetical\ntranslation of Aristophanes, and as the whole works of this author must,\nfor many reasons, ever remain untranslatable, I have been induced to lay\nbefore my readers the scene in the _Acharnians_ where Euripides makes\nhis appearance; not that this play does not contain many other scenes of\nequal, if not superior merit, but because it relates to the character of\nthis tragedian as an artist, and is both free from indecency, and,\nmoreover, easily understood.\n\nThe Acharnians, country-people of Attica, who have greatly suffered from\nthe enemy, are highly enraged at Dikaiopolis for concluding a peace with\nthe Lacedaemonians, and determine to stone him. He undertakes to speak in\ndefence of the Lacedaemonians, standing the while behind a block, as he is\nto lose his head if he does not succeed in convincing them. In this\nticklish predicament, he calls on Euripides, to lend him the tattered\ngarments in which that poet's heroes were in the habit of exciting\ncommiseration. We must suppose the house of the tragic poet to occupy the\nmiddle of the back scene.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n'Tis time I pluck up all my courage then,\nAnd pay a visit to Euripides.\nBoy, boy!\n\nCEPHISOPHON.\n           Who's there?\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                         Is Euripides within?\n\nCEPHISOPHON.\nWithin, and not within: Can'st fathom that?\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nHow within, yet not within?\n\nCEPHISOPHON.\n                             'Tis true, old fellow.\nHis mind is out collecting dainty verses, [1]\nAnd not within. But he's himself aloft\nWriting a tragedy.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                  Happy Euripides,\nWhose servant here can give such witty answers.\nCall him.\n\nCEPHISOPHON.\n                  It may not be.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                                I say, you must though--\nFor hence I will not budge, but knock the door down.\nEuripides, Euripides, my darling! [2]\nHear me, at least, if deaf to all besides.\n'Tis Dikaiopolis of Chollis calls you.\n\nEURIPIDES.\n                                 I have not time.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nAt least roll round. [3]\n\nEURIPIDES.\n                        I can't. [4]\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                                    You must.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nWell, I'll roll round. Come down I can't; I'm busy.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nEuripides!\n\nEURIPIDES.\n             What would'st thou with thy bawling.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS\nWhat! you compose aloft and not below.\nNo wonder if your muse's bantlings halt.\nAgain, those rags and cloak right tragical,\nThe very garb for sketching beggars in!\nBut sweet Euripides, a boon, I pray thee.\nGive me the moving rags of some old play;\nI've a long speech to make before the Chorus,\nAnd if I falter, why the forfeit's death.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nWhat rags will suit you? Those in which old Oeneus,\nThat hapless wight, went through his bitter conflict?\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nNot Oeneus, no,--but one still sorrier.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nThose of blind Phoenix?\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                            No, not Phoenix either;\nBut another, more wretched still than Phoenix\n\nEURIPIDES.\nWhose sorry tatters can the fellow want?\n'Tis Philoctetes' sure! You mean that beggar.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nNo; but a person still more beggarly.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nI have it. You want the sorry garments\nBellerophon, the lame man, used to wear.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nNo,--not Bellerophon. Though the man I mean\nWas lame, importunate, and bold of speech.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nI know, 'Tis Telephus the Mysian.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                                      Right.\nYes, Telephus: lend me his rags I pray you.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nHo, boy! Give him the rags of Telephus.\nThere lie they; just upon Thyestes' rags,\nAnd under those of Ino.\n\nCEPHISOPHON.\n                           Here! take them.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS (_putting them on_).\nNow Jove! who lookest on, and see'st through all, [5]\nYour blessing, while thus wretchedly I garb me.\nPr'ythee, Euripides, a further boon,\nIt goes, I think, together with these rags:\nThe little Mysian bonnet for my head;\n\"For sooth to-day I must put on the beggar,\nAnd be still what I am, and yet not seem so.\" [6]\nThe audience here may know me who I am,\nBut like poor fools the chorus stand unwitting,\nWhile I trick them with my flowers of rhetoric.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nA rare device, i'faith! Take it and welcome.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n\"For thee. my blessing; for Telephus, my thoughts.\" [7]\n'Tis well; already, words flow thick and fast.\nOh! I had near forgot--A beggar's staff, I pray.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nHere, take one, and thyself too from these doors.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n(_Aside_.) See'st thou, my soul,--he'd drive thee from his door\nStill lacking many things. Become at once\nA supple, oily beggar. (_Aloud_.) Good Euripides,\nLend me a basket, pray;--though the bottom's\nScorch'd, 'twill do.\n\nEURIPIDES.\n                      Poor wretch! A basket? What's thy need on't?\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nNo need beyond the simple wish to have it.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nYou're getting troublesome. Come pack--be off.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n(_Aside_.) Faugh! Faugh!\n(_Aloud_.) May heaven prosper thee as--thy good mother. [8]\n\nEURIPIDES.\nBe off, I say!\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n                  Not till thou grant'st my prayer.\nOnly a little cup with broken rim.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nTake it and go; for know you're quite a plague.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\n(_Aside_.) Knows he how great a pest he is himself?\n(_Aloud_.) But, my Euripides! my sweet! one thing more:\nGive me a cracked pipkin stopped with sponge.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nThe man would rob me of a tragedy complete.\nThere--take it, and begone.\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nWell! I am going.\nYet what to do? One thing I lack, whose want\nUndoes me. Good, sweet Euripides!\nGrant me but this, I'll ask no more, but go--\nSome cabbage-leaves--a few just in my basket!\n\nEURIPIDES.\nYou'll ruin me. See there! A whole play's gone!\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS (_seemingly going off_).\nNothing more now. I'm really off. I am, I own,\nA bore, wanting in tact to please the great.\nWoe's me! Was ever such a wretch? Alas!\nI have forgot the very chiefest thing of all.\nHear me, Euripides, my dear! my darling.\nChoicest ills betide me! if e'er I ask\nAught more than this; but one--this one alone:\nThrow me a pot-herb from thy mother's stock.\n\nEURIPIDES.\nThe fellow would insult me--shut the door.\n(_The Encyclema revolves, and Euripides and Cephisophon retire_.)\n\nDIKAIOPOLIS.\nSoul of me, thou must go without a pot-herb!\nWist thou what conflict thou must soon contend in\nTo proffer speech and full defence for Sparta?\nForward, my soul! the barriers are before thee.\nWhat, dost loiter? hast not imbibed Euripides?\nAnd yet I blame thee not. Courage, sad heart!\nAnd forward, though it be to lay thy head\nUpon the block. Rouse thee, and speak thy mind.\nForward there! forward again! bravely heart, bravely.\n\n\nNOTES\n\n[1] The Greek diminutive _epullia_ is here correctly expressed by the\nGerman _verschen_, but versicle would not be tolerated in English.--TRANS.\n\n[2] Euripidion--in the German Euripidelein.--TRANS.\n\n[3] A technical expression from the Encyclema, which was thrust out.\n\n[4] Euripides appears in the upper story; but as in an altana, or sitting\nto an open gallery.\n\n[5] Alluding to the holes in the mantle which he holds up to the light.\n\n[6] These lines are from Euripides' tragedy of _Telephus_.\n\n[7] An allusion (which a few lines lower is again repeated) to his mother\nas a poor retailer of vegetables.\n\n[8] See previous footnote.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XIII.\n\nWhether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species--Origin of the New\nComedy--A mixed species--Its prosaic character--Whether versification is\nessential to Comedy--Subordinate kinds--Pieces of Character, and of\nIntrigue--The Comic of observation, of self-consciousness, and arbitrary\nComic--Morality of Comedy--Plautus and Terence as imitators of the Greeks\nhere cited and characterised for want of the Originals--Moral and social\naim of the Attic Comedy--Statues of two Comic Authors.\n\n\nAncient critics assume the existence of a _Middle Comedy_, between\nthe _Old_ and the _New_. Its distinguishing characteristics are variously\ndescribed: by some its peculiarity is made to consist in the abstinence\nfrom personal satire and introduction of real characters, and by others in\nthe abolition of the chorus. But the introduction of real persons under\ntheir true names was never an indispensable requisite. Indeed, in several,\neven of Aristophanes' plays, we find characters in no respect historical,\nbut altogether fictitious, but bearing significant names, after the manner\nof the New Comedy; while personal satire is only occasionally employed.\nThis right of personal satire was no doubt, as I have already shown,\nessential to the Old Comedy, and the loss of it incapacitated the poets\nfrom throwing ridicule on public actions and affairs of state. When\naccordingly they confined themselves to private life, the chorus ceased at\nonce to have any significance. However, accidental circumstances\naccelerated its abolition. To dress and train the choristers was an\nexpensive undertaking; now, as Comedy with the forfeiture of its political\nprivileges lost also its festal dignity, and was degraded into a mere\namusement, the poet no longer found any rich patrons willing to take upon\nthemselves the expense of furnishing the chorus.\n\nPlatonius mentions a further characteristic of the Middle Comedy. On\naccount, he says, of the danger of alluding to public affairs, the comic\nwriters had turned all their satire against serious poetry, whether epic\nor tragic, and sought to expose its absurdities and contradictions. As a\nspecimen of this kind he gives the _Aeolosikon_, one of Aristophanes'\nlatest works. This description coincides with the idea of parody, which we\nplaced foremost in our account of the Old Comedy. Platonius adduces also\nanother instance in the _Ulysses_ of Cratinus, a burlesque of the\n_Odyssey_. But, in order of time, no play of Cratinus could belong to\nthe Middle Comedy; for his death is mentioned by Aristophanes in his\n_Peace_. And as to the drama of Eupolis, in which he described what\nwe call an Utopia, or Lubberly Land, what else was it but a parody of the\npoetical legends of the golden age? But in Aristophanes, not to mention\nhis parodies of so many tragic scenes, are not the Heaven-journey of\nTrygaeus, and the Hell-journey of Bacchus, ludicrous imitations of the\ndeeds of Bellerophon and Hercules, sung in epic and tragic poetry? In vain\ntherefore should we seek in this restriction to parody any distinctive\npeculiarity of the so-called Middle Comedy. Frolicsome caprice, and\nallegorical significance of composition are, poetically considered, the\nonly essential criteria of the Old Comedy. In this class, therefore, we\nshall rank every work where we find these qualities, in whatever times,\nand under whatever circumstances, it may have been composed.\n\nAs the New Comedy arose out of a mere negation, the abolition, viz., of\nthe old political freedom, we may easily conceive that there would be an\ninterval of fluctuating, and tentative efforts to supply its place, before\na new comic form could be developed and fully established. Hence there may\nhave been many kinds of the Middle Comedy, many intermediate gradations,\nbetween the Old and the New; and this is the opinion of some men of\nlearning. And, indeed, historically considered, there appears good grounds\nfor such a view; but in an artistic point of view, a transition does not\nitself constitute a species.\n\nWe proceed therefore at once to the New Comedy, or that species of poetry\nwhich with us receives the appellation of Comedy. We shall, I think, form\na more correct notion of it, if we consider it in its historical\nconnexion, and from a regard to its various ingredients explain it to be a\nmixed and modified species, than we should were we to term it an original\nand pure species, as those do who either do not concern themselves at all\nwith the Old Comedy, or else regard it as nothing better than a mere rude\ncommencement. Hence, the infinite importance of Aristophanes, as we have\nin him a kind of poetry of which there is no other example to be found in\nthe world.\n\nThe New Comedy may, in certain respects, be described as the Old, tamed\ndown; but in productions of genius, tameness is not generally considered a\nmerit. The loss incurred by the prohibition of an unrestricted freedom of\nsatire the new comic writers endeavoured to compensate by a mixture of\nearnestness borrowed from tragedy, both in the form of representation and\nthe general structure, and also in the impressions which they laboured to\nproduce. We have seen how, in its last epoch, tragic poetry descended from\nits ideal elevation, and came nearer to common reality, both in the\ncharacters and in the tone of the dialogue, but more especially in its\nendeavour to convey practical instruction respecting the conduct of civil\nand domestic life in all their several requirements. This utilitarian turn\nin Euripides was the subject of Aristophanes' ironical commendation\n[Footnote: The _Frogs_, v. 971-991.]. Euripides was the precursor of\nthe New Comedy; and all the poets of this species particularly admired\nhim, and acknowledged him as their master.--The similarity of tone and\nspirit is even so great between them, that moral maxims of Euripides have\nbeen ascribed to Menander, and others of Menander to Euripides. On the\nother hand, among the fragments of Menander, we find topics of consolation\nwhich frequently rise to the height of the true tragic tone.\n\nNew Comedy, therefore, is a mixture of earnestness and mirth. [Footnote:\nThe original here is not susceptible of an exact translation into English.\nThough the German language has this great advantage, that there are few\nideas which may not be expressed in it in words of Teutonic origin, yet\nwords derived from Greek and Latin are also occasionally used\nindiscriminately with the Teutonic synonymes, for the sake of variety or\notherwise. Thus the generic word _spiel_ (play), is formed into\n_lustspiel_ (comedy), _trauerspiel_ (tragedy), _sing-spiel_ (opera),\n_schauspiel_ (drama); but the Germans also use _tragoedie_, _komoedie_,\nopera and drama. In the text, the author proposes, for the sake of\ndistinction, to give the name of _lustspiel_ to the New Comedy, to\ndistinguish it from the old; but having only the single term comedy in\nEnglish, I must, in translating _lustspiel_, make use of the two words,\n_New Comedy_.--TRANS.] The poet no longer turns poetry and the world into\nridicule, he no longer abandons himself to an enthusiasm of fun, but seeks\nthe sportive element in the objects themselves; he depicts in human\ncharacters and situations whatever occasions mirth, in a word, what is\npleasant and laughable. But the ridiculous must no longer come forward as\nthe pure creation of his own fancy, but must be verisimilar, that is, seem\nto be real. Hence we must consider anew the above described _comic ideal_\nof human nature under the restrictions which this law of composition\nimposes, and determine accordingly the different kinds and gradations of\nthe Comic.\n\nThe highest tragic earnestness, as I have already shown, runs ever into\nthe infinite; and the subject of Tragedy (properly speaking) is the\nstruggle between the outward finite existence, and the inward infinite\naspirations. The subdued earnestness of the New Comedy, on the other hand,\nremains always within the sphere of experience. The place of Destiny is\nsupplied by Chance, for the latter is the empirical conception of the\nformer, as being that which lies beyond our power or control. And\naccordingly we actually find among the fragments of the Comic writers as\nmany expressions about Chance, as we do in the tragedians about Destiny.\nTo unconditional necessity, moral liberty could alone be opposed; as for\nChance, every one must use his wits, and turn it to his own profit as he\nbest can. On this account, the whole moral of the New Comedy, just like\nthat of the Fable, is nothing more than a theory of prudence. In this\nsense, an ancient critic has, with inimitable brevity, given us the whole\nsum of the matter: that Tragedy is a running away from, or making an end\nof, life; Comedy its regulation.\n\nThe idea of the Old Comedy is a fantastic illusion, a pleasant dream,\nwhich at last, with the exception of the general effect, all ends in\nnothing. The New Comedy, on the other hand, is earnest in its form. It\nrejects every thing of a contradictory nature, which might have the effect\nof destroying the impressions of reality. It endeavours after strict\ncoherence, and has, in common with Tragedy, a formal complication and\nd\u00e9nouement of plot. Like Tragedy, too, it connects together its incidents,\nas cause and effect, only that it adopts the law of existence as it\nmanifests itself in experience, without any such reference as Tragedy\nassumes to an idea. As the latter endeavours to satisfy our feelings at\nthe close, in like manner the New Comedy endeavours to provide, at least,\nan apparent point of rest for the understanding. This, I may remark in\npassing, is by no means an easy task for the comic writer: he must\ncontrive at last skilfully and naturally to get rid of the contradictions\nwhich with their complication and intricacy have diverted us during the\ncourse of the action; if he really smooths them all off by making his\nfools become rational, or by reforming or punishing his villains, then\nthere is an end at once of everything like a pleasant and comical\nimpression.\n\nSuch were the comic and tragic ingredients of the New Comedy, or Comedy in\ngeneral. There is yet a third, however, which in itself is neither comic\nnor tragic, in short, not even poetic. I allude to its portrait-like\ntruthfulness. The ideal and caricature, both in the plastic arts and in\ndramatic poetry, lay claim to no other truth than that which lies in their\nsignificance: their individual beings even are not intended to appear\nreal. Tragedy moves in an ideal, and the Old Comedy in a fanciful or\nfantastical world. As the creative power of the fancy was circumscribed in\nthe New Comedy, it became necessary to afford some equivalent to the\nunderstanding, and this was furnished by the probability of the subjects\nrepresented, of which it was to be the judge. I do not mean the\ncalculation of the rarity or frequency of the represented incidents (for\nwithout the liberty of depicting singularities, even while keeping within\nthe limits of every-day life, comic amusement would be impossible), but\nall that is here meant is the individual truth of the picture. The New\nComedy must be a true picture of the manners of the day, and its tone must\nbe local and national; and even if we should see comedies of other times,\nand other nations, brought upon the stage, we shall still be able to trace\nand be pleased with this resemblance. By portrait-like truthfulness I do\nnot mean that the comic characters must be altogether individual. The most\nstriking features of different individuals of a class may be combined\ntogether in a certain completeness, provided they are clothed with a\nsufficient degree of peculiarity to have an individual life, and are not\nrepresented as examples of any partial and incomplete conception. But in\nso far as Comedy depicts the constitution of social and domestic life in\ngeneral, it is a portrait; from this prosaic side it must be variously\nmodified, according to time and place, while the comic motives, in respect\nof their poetical principle, are always the same.\n\nThe ancients themselves acknowledged the New Comedy to be a faithful\npicture of life. Full of this idea, the grammarian Aristophanes exclaimed\nin a somewhat affected, though highly ingenious turn of expression: \"O\nlife and Menander! which of you copied the other?\" Horace informs us that\n\"some doubted whether Comedy be a poem; because neither in its subject nor\nin its language is there the same impressive elevation which distinguished\nfrom ordinary discourse by the versification.\" But it was urged by others,\nthat Comedy occasionally elevates her tone; for instance, when an angry\nfather reproaches a son for his extravagance. This answer, however, is\nrejected by Horace as insufficient. \"Would Pomponius,\" says he, with a\nsarcastic application, \"hear milder reproaches if his father were living?\"\nTo answer the doubt, we must examine wherein Comedy goes beyond individual\nreality. In the first place it is a simulated whole, composed of congruous\nparts, agreeably to the scale of art. Moreover, the subject represented is\nhandled according to the laws of theatrical exhibition; everything foreign\nand incongruous is kept out, while all that is essential to the matter in\nhand is hurried on with swifter progress than in real life; over the\nwhole, viz., the situations and characters, a certain clearness and\ndistinctness of appearance is thrown, which the vague and indeterminate\noutlines of reality seldom possess. Thus the form constitutes the poetic\nelement of Comedy, while its prosaic principle lies in the matter, in the\nrequired assimilation to something individual and external.\n\nWe may now fitly proceed to the consideration of the much mooted question,\nwhether versification be essential to Comedy, and whether a comedy written\nin prose is an imperfect production. This question has been frequently\nanswered in the affirmative on the authority of the ancients, who, it is\ntrue, had no theatrical works in prose; this, however, may have arisen\nfrom accidental circumstances, for example, the great extent of their\nstage, in which verse, from its more emphatic delivery, must have been\nbetter heard than prose. Moreover, these critics forget that the Mimes of\nSophron, so much admired by Plato, were written in prose. And what were\nthese Mimes? If we may judge of them from the statement that some of the\nIdylls of Theocritus were imitations of them in hexameters, they were\npictures of real life, in which every appearance of poetry was studiously\navoided. This consists in the coherence and connexion of a drama, which\ncertainly is not found in these pieces; they are merely so many detached\nscenes, in which one thing succeeds another by chance, and without\npreparation, as the particular hour of any working-day or holiday brought\nit about. The want of dramatic interest was supplied by the mimic element,\nthat is, by the most accurate representation of individual peculiarities\nin action and language, which arose from nationality as modified by local\ncircumstances, and from sex, age, rank, occupations, and so forth.\n\nEven in versified Comedy, the language must, in the choice of words and\nphrases, differ in no respect, or at least in no perceptible degree, from\nthat of ordinary life; the licences of poetical expression, which are\nindispensable in other departments of poetry, are here inadmissible. Not\nonly must the versification not interfere with the common, unconstrained,\nand even careless tone of conversation, but it must also seem to be itself\nunpremeditated. It must not by its lofty tone elevate the characters as in\nTragedy, where, along with the unusual sublimity of the language, it\nbecomes as it were a mental Cothurnus. In Comedy the verse must serve\nmerely to give greater lightness, spirit, and elegance to the dialogue.\nWhether, therefore, a particular comedy ought to be versified or not, must\ndepend on the consideration whether it would be more suitable to the\nsubject in hand to give to the dialogue this perfection of form, or to\nadopt into the comic imitation all rhetorical and grammatical errors, and\neven physical imperfections of speech. The frequent production, however,\nof prose comedies in modern times has not been owing so much to this cause\nas to the ease and convenience of the author, and in some degree also of\nthe player. I would, however, recommend to my countrymen, the Germans, the\ndiligent use of verse, and even of rhyme, in Comedy; for as our national\nComedy is yet to be formed, the whole composition, by the greater\nstrictness of the form, would gain in keeping and appearance, and we\nshould be enabled at the very outset to guard against many important\nerrors. We have not yet attained such a mastery in this matter as will\nallow us to abandon ourselves to an agreeable negligence.\n\nAs we have pronounced the New Comedy to be a mixed species, formed out of\ncomic and tragic, poetic and prosaic elements, it is evident that this\nspecies may comprise several subordinate kinds, according to the\npreponderance of one or other of the ingredients. If the poet plays in a\nsportive humour with his own inventions, the result is a farce; if he\nconfines himself to the ludicrous in situations and characters, carefully\navoiding all admixture of serious matter, we have a pure comedy\n(_lustspiel_); in proportion as earnestness prevails in the scope of\nthe whole composition, and in the sympathy and moral judgment it gives\nrise to, the piece becomes what is called Instructive or Sentimental\nComedy; and there is only another step to the familiar or domestic\ntragedy. Great stress has often been laid on the two last mentioned\nspecies as inventions entirely new, and of great importance, and peculiar\ntheories have been devised for them, &c. In the lacrymose drama of\nDiderot, which was afterwards so much decried, the failure consisted\naltogether in that which was new; the affectation of nature, the pedantry\nof the domestic relations, and the lavish use of pathos. Did we still\npossess the whole of the comic literature of the Greeks, we should,\nwithout doubt, find in it the models of all these species, with this\ndifference, however, that the clear head of the Greeks assuredly never\nallowed them to fall into a chilling monotony, but that they arrayed and\ntempered all in due proportion. Have not we, even among the few pieces\nthat remain to us, the _Captives_ of Plautus, which may be called a\npathetic drama, the _Step-Mother_ of Terence, a true family picture; while\nthe _Amphitryo_ borders on the fantastic boldness of the Old Comedy, and\nthe _Twin-Brothers_ (_Menaechmi_) is a wild piece of intrigue? Do we not\nfind in all Terence's plays serious, impassioned, and touching passages?\nWe have only to call to mind the first scene of the _Heautontimorumenos_.\nFrom our point of view we hope in short to find a due place for all\nthings. We see here no distinct species, but merely gradations in the tone\nof the composition, which are marked by transitions more or less\nperceptible.\n\nNeither can we allow the common division into _Plays of Character_ and\n_Plays of Intrigue_, to pass without limitation. A good comedy ought\nalways to be both, otherwise it will be deficient either in body or\nanimation. Sometimes, however, the one and sometimes the other will, no\ndoubt, preponderate. The development of the comic characters requires\nsituations to place them in strong contrast, and these again can result\nfrom nothing but that crossing of purposes and events, which, as I have\nalready shown, constitutes intrigue in the dramatic sense. Every one knows\nthe meaning of intriguing in common life; namely, the leading others by\ncunning and dissimulation, to further, without their knowledge and against\ntheir will, our own hidden designs. In the drama both these significations\ncoincide, for the cunning of the one becomes a cross-purpose for the\nother.\n\nWhen the characters are only slightly sketched, so far merely as is\nnecessary to account for the actions of the characters in this or that\ncase; when also the incidents are so accumulated, that little room is left\nfor display of character; when the plot is so wrought up, that the motley\ntangle of misunderstandings and embarrassments seems every moment on the\npoint of being loosened, and yet the knot is only drawn tighter and\ntighter: such a composition may well be called a Play of Intrigue. The\nFrench critics have made it fashionable to consider this kind of play much\nbelow the so-called Play of Character, perhaps because they look too\nexclusively to how much of a play may be retained by us and carried home.\nIt is true, the Piece of Intrigue, in some degree, ends at last in\nnothing: but why should it not be occasionally allowable to divert oneself\ningeniously, without any ulterior object? Certainly, a good comedy of this\ndescription requires much inventive wit: besides the entertainment which\nwe derive from the display of such acuteness and ingenuity, the wonderful\ntricks and contrivances which are practised possess a great charm for the\nfancy, as the success of many a Spanish piece proves.\n\nTo the Play of Intrigue it is objected, that it deviates from the natural\ncourse of things, that it is improbable. We may admit the former without\nhowever admitting the latter. The poet, no doubt, exhibits before us what\nis unexpected, extraordinary, and singular, even to incredibility; and\noften he even sets out with a great improbability, as, for example, the\nresemblance between two persons, or a disguise which is not seen through;\nafterwards, however, all the incidents must have the appearance of truth,\nand all the circumstances by means of which the affair takes so marvellous\na turn, must be satisfactorily explained. As in respect to the events\nwhich take place, the poet gives us but a light play of wit, we are the\nmore strict with him respecting the _how_ by which they are brought about.\n\nIn the comedies which aim more at delineation of character, the dramatic\npersonages must be skilfully grouped so as to throw light on each other's\ncharacter. This, however, is very apt to degenerate into too systematic a\nmethod, each character being regularly matched with its symmetrical\nopposite, and thereby an unnatural appearance is given to the whole. Nor\nare those comedies deserving of much praise, in which the rest of the\ncharacters are introduced only, as it were, to allow the principal one to\ngo through all his different probations; especially when that character\nconsists of nothing but an opinion, or a habit (for instance,\n_L'Optimiste_, _Le Distrait_), as if an individual could thus be made up\nentirely of one single peculiarity, and must not rather be on all sides\nvariously modified and affected.\n\nWhat was the sportive ideal of human nature in the Old Comedy I have\nalready shown. Now as the New Comedy had to give to its representation a\nresemblance to a definite reality, it could not indulge in such studied\nand arbitrary exaggeration as the old did. It was, therefore, obliged to\nseek for other sources of comic amusement, which lie nearer the province\nof earnestness, and these it found in a more accurate and thorough\ndelineation of character.\n\nIn the characters of the New Comedy, either the _Comic of Observation_ or\nthe _Self-Conscious_ and _Confessed Comic_, will be found to prevail. The\nformer constitutes the more refined, or what is called High Comedy, and\nthe latter Low Comedy or Farce.\n\nBut to explain myself more distinctly: there are laughable peculiarities,\nfollies, and obliquities, of which the possessor himself is unconscious,\nor which, if he does at all perceive them, he studiously endeavours to\nconceal, as being calculated to injure him in the opinion of others. Such\npersons consequently do not give themselves out for what they actually\nare; their secret escapes from them unwittingly, or against their will.\nRightly, therefore, to portray such characters, the poet must lend us his\nown peculiar talent for observation, that we may fully understand them.\nHis art consists in making the character appear through slight hints and\nstolen glimpses, and in so placing the spectator, that whatever delicacy\nof observation it may require, he can hardly fail to see through them.\n\nThere are other moral defects, which are beheld by their possessor with a\ncertain degree of satisfaction, and which he even makes it a principle not\nto get rid of, but to cherish and preserve. Of this kind is all that,\nwithout selfish pretensions, or hostile inclinations, merely originates in\nthe preponderance of the animal being. This may, without doubt, be united\nto a high degree of intellect, and when such a person applies his mental\npowers to the consideration of his own character, laughs at himself,\nconfesses his failings or endeavours to reconcile others to them, by\nsetting them in a droll light, we have then an instance of the _Self-\nConscious_ Comic This species always supposes a certain inward duality\nof character, and the superior half, which rallies and laughs at the\nother, has in its tone and occupation a near affinity to the comic poet\nhimself. He occasionally delivers over his functions entirely to this\nrepresentative, allowing him studiously to overcharge the picture which he\ndraws of himself, and to enter into a tacit understanding with the\nspectators, that he and they are to turn the other characters into\nridicule. We have in this way the _Comedy of Caprice_, which generally\nproduces a powerful effect, however much critics may depreciate it. In it\nthe spirit of the Old Comedy is still at work. The privileged merry-maker,\nwho, under different names, has appeared on almost all stages, whose part\nis at one time a display of shrewd wit, and at another of coarse\nclownishness, has inherited something of the licentious enthusiasm, but\nwithout the rights and privileges of the free and unrestrained writers of\nthe Old Comedy. Could there be a stronger proof that the Old Comedy, which\nwe have described as the original species, was not a mere Grecian\npeculiarity, but had its root and principle in the very nature of things?\n\nTo keep the spectators in a mirthful tone of mind Comedy must hold them as\nmuch as possible aloof from all moral appreciation of its personages, and\nfrom all deep interest in their fortunes, for in both these cases an\nentrance will infallibly be given to seriousness. How then does the poet\navoid agitating the moral feeling, when the actions he represents are of\nsuch a nature as must give rise sometimes to disgust and contempt, and\nsometimes to esteem and love? By always keeping within the province of the\nunderstanding, he contrasts men with men as mere physical beings, just to\nmeasure on each other their powers, of course their mental powers as well\nas others, nay, even more especially. In this respect Comedy bears a very\nnear affinity to Fable: in the Fable we have animals endowed with reason,\nand in Comedy we have men serving their animal propensities with their\nunderstanding. By animal propensities I mean sensuality, or, in a still\nmore general sense, self-love. As heroism and self-sacrifice raise the\ncharacter to a tragic elevation, so the true comic personages are complete\negotists. This must, however, be understood with due limitation: we do not\nmean that Comedy never portrays the social instincts, only that it\ninvariably represents them as originating in the natural endeavour after\nour own happiness. Whenever the poet goes beyond this, he leaves the comic\ntone. It is not his purpose to direct our feelings to a sense of the\ndignity or meanness, the innocence or corruption, the goodness or baseness\nof the acting personages; but to show us whether they act stupidly or\nwisely, adroitly or clumsily, with silliness or ability.\n\nExamples will place the matter in the clearest light. We possess an\ninvoluntary and immediate veneration for truth, and this belongs to the\ninnermost emotions of the moral sense. A malignant lie, which threatens\nmischievous consequences, fills us with the highest indignation, and\nbelongs to Tragedy. Why then are cunning and deceit admitted to be\nexcellent as comic motives, so long as they are used with no malicious\npurpose, but merely to promote our self-love, to extricate one's-self from\na dilemma, or to gain some particular object, and from which no dangerous\nconsequences are to be dreaded? It is because the deceiver having already\nwithdrawn from the sphere of morality, truth and untruth are in themselves\nindifferent to him, and are only considered in the light of means; and so\nwe entertain ourselves merely with observing how great an expenditure of\nsharpness and ready-wittedness is necessary to serve the turn of a\ncharacter so little exalted. Still more amusing is it when the deceiver is\ncaught in his own snare; for instance, when he is to keep up a lie, but\nhas a bad memory. On the other hand, the mistake of the deceived party,\nwhen not seriously dangerous, is a comic situation, and the more so in\nproportion as this error of the understanding arises from previous abuse\nof the mental powers, from vanity, folly, or obliquity. But above all when\ndeceit and error cross one another, and are by that means multiplied, the\ncomic situations produced are particularly excellent. For instance, two\nmen meet with the intention of deceiving one another; each however is\nforewarned and on his guard, and so both go away deceived only in respect\nto the success of their deception. Or again, one wishes to deceive\nanother, but unwittingly tells him the truth; the other person, however,\nbeing suspicious, falls into the snare, merely from being over-much, on\nhis guard. We might in this way compose a sort of comic grammar, which\nshould show how the separate motives are to be entangled one with another,\nwith continually increasing effect, up to the most artificial\ncomplication. It might also point out how that tangle of misunderstanding\nwhich constitutes a Comedy of Intrigue is by no means so contemptible a\npart of the comic art, as the advocates of the fine-spun Comedy of\nCharacter are pleased to assert.\n\nAristotle describes the laughable as an imperfection, an impropriety which\nis not productive of any essential harm. Excellently said! for from the\nmoment that we entertain a real compassion for the characters, all\nmirthful feeling is at an end. Comic misfortune must not go beyond an\nembarrassment, which is to be set right at last, or at most, a deserved\nhumiliation. Of this description are corporeal means of education applied\nto grown people, which our finer, or at least more fastidious age, will\nnot tolerate on the stage, although Moli\u00e8re, Holberg, and other masters,\nhave frequently availed themselves of them. The comic effect arises from\nour having herein a pretty obvious demonstration of the mind's dependence\non external things: we have, as it were, motives assuming a palpable form.\nIn Comedy these chastisements hold the same place that violent deaths, met\nwith heroic magnanimity, do in Tragedy. Here the resolution remains\nunshaken amid all the terrors of annihilation; the man perishes but his\nprinciples survive; there the corporeal existence remains, but the\nsentiments suffer an instantaneous change.\n\nAs then Comedy must place the spectator in a point of view altogether\ndifferent from that of moral appreciation, with what right can moral\ninstruction be demanded of Comedy, with what ground can it be expected?\nWhen we examine more closely the moral apophthegms of the Greek comic\nwriters, we find that they are all of them maxims of experience. It is\nnot, however, from experience that we gain a knowledge of our duties, of\nwhich conscience gives us an immediate conviction; experience can only\nenlighten us with respect to what is profitable or detrimental. The\ninstruction of Comedy does not turn on the dignity of the object proposed\nbut on the sufficiency of the means employed. It is, as has been already\nsaid, the doctrine of prudence; the morality of consequences and not of\nmotives. Morality, in its genuine acceptation, is essentially allied to\nthe spirit of Tragedy.\n\nMany philosophers have on this account reproached Comedy with immorality,\nand among others, Rousseau, with much eloquence, in his _Epistle on the\nDrama_. The aspect of the actual course of things in the world is, no\ndoubt, far from edifying; it is not, however, held up in Comedy as a model\nfor imitation, but as a warning and admonition. In the doctrine of morals\nthere is an applied or practical part: it may be called the Art of Living.\nWhoever has no knowledge of the world is perpetually in danger of making a\nwrong application of moral principles to individual cases, and, so with\nthe very best intentions in the world, may occasion much mischief both to\nhimself and others. Comedy is intended to sharpen our powers of\ndiscrimination, both of persons and situations; to make us shrewder; and\nthis is its true and only possible morality.\n\nSo much for the determination of the general idea, which must serve as our\nclue in the examination of the merits of the individual poets.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XIV.\n\nPlautus and Terence as Imitators of the Greeks, here examined and\ncharacterized in the absence of the Originals they copied--Motives of the\nAthenian Comedy from Manners and Society--Portrait-Statues of two\nComedians.\n\n\nOn the little of the New Comedy of the Greeks that has reached us, either\nin fragments or through the medium of Roman imitations, all I have to say\nmay be comprised in a few words.\n\nIn this department Greek literature was extremely rich: the mere list of\nthe comic writers whose works are lost, and of the names of their works,\nso far as they are known to us, makes of itself no inconsiderable\ndictionary. Although the New Comedy developed itself and flourished only\nin the short interval between the end of the Peloponnesian war and the\nfirst successors of Alexander the Great, yet the stock of pieces amounted\nto thousands; but time has made such havoc in this superabundance of\ntalented and ingenious works, that nothing remains in the original but a\nnumber of detached fragments, of which many are so disfigured as to be\nunintelligible, and, in the Latin, about twenty translations or recasts of\nGreek originals by Plautus, and six by Terence. Here is a fitting task for\nthe redintegrative labours of criticism, to put together all the\nfragmentary traces which we possess, in order to form from them something\nlike a just estimate and character of what is lost. The chief requisites\nin an undertaking of this kind, I will take upon myself to point out. The\nfragments and moral maxims of the comic writers are, in their\nversification and language, distinguished by extreme purity, elegance, and\naccuracy; moreover, the tone of society which speaks in them breathes a\ncertain Attic grace. The Latin comic poets, on the other hand, are\nnegligent in their versification; they trouble themselves very little\nabout syllabic quantity, and the very idea of it is almost lost amidst\ntheir many metrical licences. Their language also, at least that of\nPlautus, is deficient in cultivation and polish. Several learned Romans,\nand Varro among others, have, it is true, highly praised the style of this\npoet, but then we must make the due distinction between philological and\npoetical approbation. Plautus and Terence were among the most ancient\nRoman writers, and belonged to an age when a book-language had hardly yet\nan existence, and when every phrase was caught up fresh from the life.\nThis _na\u00efve_ simplicity had its peculiar charms for the later Romans\nof the age of learned cultivation: it was, however, rather the gift of\nnature than the fruit of poetical art. Horace set himself against this\nexcessive partiality, and asserted that Plautus and the other comic poets\nthrew off their pieces negligently, and wrote them in the utmost haste,\nthat they might be the sooner paid for them. We may safely affirm,\ntherefore, that in the graces and elegances of execution, the Greek poets\nhave always lost in the Latin imitations. These we must, in imagination,\nretranslate into the finished elegance which we perceive in the Greek\nfragments. Moreover, Plautus and Terence made many changes in the general\nplan, and these could hardly be improvements. The former at times omitted\nwhole scenes and characters, and the latter made additions, and\noccasionally ran two plays into one. Was this done with an artistic\ndesign, and were they actually desirous of excelling their Grecian\npredecessors in the structure of their pieces? I doubt it. Plautus was\nperpetually running out into diffuseness, and he was obliged to remedy in\nsome other way the lengthening which this gave to the original; the\nimitations of Terence, on the other hand, from his lack of invention,\nturned out somewhat meagre, and he filled up the gaps with materials\nborrowed from other pieces. Even his contemporaries reproached him with\nhaving falsified or corrupted a number of Greek pieces, for the purpose of\nmaking out of them a few Latin ones.\n\nPlautus and Terence are generally mentioned as writers in every respect\noriginal. In Romans this was perhaps pardonable: they possessed but little\nof the true poetic spirit, and their poetical literature owed its origin,\nfor the most part, first to translation, then to free imitation, and\nfinally to appropriation and new modelling, of the Greek. With them,\ntherefore, a particular sort of adaptation passed for originality. Thus we\nfind, from Terence's apologetic prologues, that they had so lowered the\nnotion of plagiarism, that he was accused of it, because he had made use\nof matter which had been already adapted from the Greek. As we cannot,\ntherefore, consider these writers in the light of creative artists, and\nsince consequently they are only important to us in so far as we may by\ntheir means become acquainted with the shape of the Greek New Comedy, I\nwill here insert the few remarks I have to make on their character and\ndifferences, and then return to the Greek writers of the New Comedy.\n\nAmong the Greeks, poets and artists were at all times held in honour and\nestimation; among the Romans, on the contrary, polite literature was at\nfirst cultivated by men of the lowest rank, by needy foreigners, and even\nby slaves. Plautus and Terence, who closely followed each other in time,\nand whose lifetime belongs to the last years of the second Punic war, and\nto the interval between the second and third, were of the lowest rank: the\nformer, at best a poor day labourer, and the latter, a Carthaginian slave,\nand afterwards a freed man. Their fortunes, however, were very different.\nPlautus, when he was not employed in writing comedies, was fain to hire\nhimself out to do the work of a beast of burthen in a mill; Terence was\ndomesticated with the elder Scipio and his bosom friend Laelius, who\ndeigned to admit him to such familiarity, that he fell under the\nhonourable imputation of being assisted in the composition of his pieces\nby these noble Romans, and it was even said that they allowed their own\nlabours to pass under his name. The habits of their lives are perceptible\nin their respective modes of writing: the bold, coarse style of Plautus,\nand his famous jests, betray his intercourse with the vulgar; in that of\nTerence, we discern the traces of good society. They are further\ndistinguished by their choice of matter. Plautus generally inclines to the\nfarcical, to overwrought, and often disgusting drollery; Terence prefers\nthe more delicate shades of characterization, and, avoiding everything\nlike exaggeration, approaches the seriously instructive and sentimental\nkind. Some of the pieces of Plautus are taken from Diphilus and Philemon,\nbut there is reason to believe that he added a considerable degree of\ncoarseness to his originals; from whom he derived the others is unknown,\nunless, perhaps, the assertion of Horace, \"It is said that Plautus took\nfor his model the Sicilian Epicharmus,\" will warrant the conjecture that\nhe borrowed the _Amphitryo_, a piece which is quite different in kind\nfrom all his others, and which he himself calls a Tragi-comedy, from that\nold Doric comedian, who we know employed himself chiefly on mythological\nsubjects. Among the pieces of Terence, whose copies, with the exception of\ncertain changes of the plan and structure, are probably much more faithful\nin detail than those of the other, we find two from Apollodorus, and the\nrest from Menander. Julius Caesar has honoured Terence with some verses,\nin which he calls him a half Menander, praising the smoothness of his\nstyle, and only lamenting that he has lost a certain comic vigour which\nmarked his original.\n\nThis naturally brings us back to the Grecian masters. Diphilus, Philemon,\nApollodorus, and Menander, are certainly four of the most celebrated names\namong them. The palm, for elegance, delicacy, and sweetness, is with one\nvoice given to Menander, although Philemon frequently carried off the\nprize before him, probably because he studied more the taste of the\nmultitude, or because he availed himself of adscititious means of\npopularity. This was at least insinuated by Menander, who when he met his\nrival one day said to him, \"Pray, Philemon, dost thou not blush when thou\ngainest a victory over me?\"\n\nMenander flourished after the times of Alexander the Great, and was the\ncontemporary of Demetrius Phalereus. He was instructed in philosophy by\nTheophrastus, but his own opinions inclined him to that of Epicurus, and\nhe boasted in an epigram, \"that if Themistocles freed his country from\nslavery, Epicurus freed it from irrationality.\" He was fond of the\nchoicest sensual enjoyments: Phaedrus, in an unfinished tale, describes\nhim to us as even in his exterior, an effeminate voluptuary; and his amour\nwith the courtesan Glycera is notorious. The Epicurean philosophy, which\nplaced the supreme happiness of life in the benevolent affections, but\nneither spurred men on to heroic action, nor excited any sense of it in\nthe mind, could hardly fail to be well received among the Greeks, after\nthe loss of their old and glorious freedom: with their cheerful mild way\nof thinking, it was admirably calculated to console them. It is perhaps\nthe most suitable for the comic poet, as the stoical philosophy is for the\ntragedian. The object of the comedian is merely to produce mitigated\nimpressions, and by no means to excite a strong indignation at human\nfrailties. On the other hand, we may easily comprehend why the Greeks\nconceived a passion for the New Comedy at the very period when they lost\ntheir freedom, as it diverted them from sympathy with the course of human\naffairs in general, and with political events, and absorbed their\nattention wholly in domestic and personal concerns.\n\nThe Grecian theatre was originally formed for higher walks of the drama;\nand we do not attempt to dissemble the inconveniences and disadvantages\nwhich its structure must have occasioned to Comedy. The frame was too\nlarge, and the picture could not fill it. The Greek stage was open to the\nheavens, and it exhibited little or nothing of the interior of the houses\n[Footnote: To serve this purpose recourse was had to the encyclema, which,\nno doubt, in the commencement of the _Clouds_, exhibited Strepsiades\nand his son sleeping on their beds. Moreover, Julius Pollux mentions among\nthe decorations of New Comedy, a sort of tent, hut, or shed, adjoining to\nthe middle edifice, with a doorway, originally a stable, but afterwards\napplicable to many purposes. In the _Sempstresses_ of Antiphanes, it\nrepresented a sort of workshop. Here, or in the encyclema, entertainments\nwere given, which in the old comedies sometimes took place before the eyes\nof the spectators. With the southern habits of the ancients, it was not,\nperhaps, so unnatural to feast with open doors, as it would be in the\nnorth of Europe. But no modern commentator has yet, so far as I know,\nendeavoured to illustrate in a proper manner the theatrical arrangement of\nthe plays of Plautus and Terence. [See the Fourth Lecture, &c., and the\nAppendix on the Scenic Arrangement of the Greek Theatre.]]. The New Comedy\nwas therefore under the necessity of placing its scene in the street. This\ngave rise to many inconveniences; thus people frequently come out of their\nhouses to tell their secrets to one another in public. It is true, the\npoets were thus also saved the necessity of changing the scene, by\nsupposing that the families concerned in the action lived in the same\nneighbourhood. It may be urged in their justification, that the Greeks,\nlike all other southern nations, lived a good deal out of their small\nprivate houses, in the open air. The chief disadvantage with which this\nconstruction of the stage was attended, was the limitation of the female\nparts. With that due observance of custom which the essence of the New\nComedy required, the exclusion of unmarried women and young maidens in\ngeneral was an inevitable consequence of the retired life of the female\nsex in Greece. None appear but aged matrons, female slaves, or girls of\nlight reputation. Hence, besides the loss of many agreeable situations,\narose this further inconvenience, that frequently the whole piece turns on\na marriage with, or a passion for, a young woman, who is never once seen.\n\nAthens, where the fictitious, as well as the actual, scene was generally\nplaced, was the centre of a small territory, and in no wise to be compared\nwith our capital cities, either in extent or population. Republican\nequality admitted of no marked distinction of ranks; there was no proper\nnobility: all were alike citizens, richer or poorer, and for the most part\nhad no other occupation than the management of their several properties.\nHence the Attic New Comedy could not well admit of the contrasts arising\nfrom diversity of tone and mental culture; it generally moves within a\nsort of middle rank, and has something citizen-like, nay, if I may so say,\nsomething of the manners of a small town about it, which is not at all to\nthe taste of those who would have comedy to portray the manners of a\ncourt, and the refinement or corruption of monarchical capitals.\n\nWith respect to the intercourse between the two sexes, the Greeks knew\nnothing of the gallantry of modern Europe, nor the union of love with\nenthusiastic veneration. All was sensual passion or marriage. The latter\nwas, by the constitution and manners of the Greeks, much more a matter of\nduty, or an affair of convenience, than of inclination. The laws were\nstrict only in one point, the preservation of the pure national extraction\nof the children, which alone was legitimate. The right of citizenship was\na great prerogative, and the more valuable the smaller the number of\ncitizens, which was not allowed to increase beyond a certain point. Hence\nmarriages with foreign women were invalid. The society of a wife, whom, in\nmost cases, the husband had not even seen before his marriage with her,\nand who passed her whole life within the walls of her house, could not\nafford him much entertainment; this was sought among women who had\nforfeited all title to strict respect, and who were generally foreigners\nwithout property, or freed slaves, and the like. With women of this\ndescription the easy morality of the Greeks allowed of the greatest\nlicense, especially to young unmarried men. The ancient writers,\ntherefore, of the New Comedy paint this mode of life with much less\ndisguise than we think decorous. Their comedies, like all comedies in the\nworld, frequently end with marriages (it seems this catastrophe brings\nseriousness along with it); but the marriage is often entered upon merely\nas a means of propitiating a father incensed at the irregularities of some\nillicit amour. It sometimes happens, however, that the amour is changed\ninto a lawful marriage by means of a discovery that the supposed foreigner\nor slave is by birth an Athenian citizen. It is worthy of remark, that the\nfruitful mind of the very poet who carried the Old Comedy to perfection,\nput forth also the first germ of the New. _Cocalus_, the last piece\nwhich Aristophanes composed, contained a seduction, a recognition, and all\nthe leading circumstances which were afterwards employed by Menander in\nhis comic pieces.\n\nFrom what has been said, it is easy to overlook the whole round of\ncharacters; nay, they are so few, and so perpetually recur, that they may\nbe almost all enumerated. The austere and stingy, or the mild easy father,\nthe latter not unfrequently under the dominion of his wife, and making\ncommon cause with his son against her; the housewife either loving and\nsensible, or scolding and domineering, and presuming on the accession she\nhas brought to the family property; the young man giddy and extravagant,\nbut frank and amiable, who even in a passion sensual at its commencement\nis capable of true attachment; the girl of light character, either\nthoroughly depraved, vain, cunning, and selfish, or still good-hearted and\nsusceptible of better feelings; the simple and clownish, and the cunning\nslave who assists his young master in cheating his old father, and by all\nmanner of knavish tricks procures him money for the gratification of his\npassions; (_as this character plays a principal part, I shall shortly\nmake some further observations on it_;) the flatterer or accommodating\nparasite, who, for the sake of a good meal, is ready to say or do any\nthing that may be required of him the sycophant, a man whose business it\nwas to set quietly disposed people by the ears, and stir up law-suits, for\nthe conduct of which he offered his services; the gasconading soldier,\nreturned from foreign service, generally cowardly and simple, but who\nassumes airs and boasts of his exploits abroad; and lastly, a servant or\npretended mother, who preaches very indifferent morals to the young girl\nentrusted to her care; and the slave-dealer, who speculates on the\nextravagant passions of young people, and regards nothing but his own\npecuniary advantage. The two last characters, with their revolting\ncoarseness, are, to our feelings, a real blot in the Greek Comedy; but its\nvery subject-matter rendered it impossible for it to dispense with them.\n\nThe knavish servant is generally also the buffoon, who takes pleasure in\navowing, and even exaggerating, his own sensuality and want of principle,\nand who jokes at the expense of the other characters, and occasionally\neven addresses the pit. This is the origin of the comic servants of the\nmoderns, but I am inclined to doubt whether, with our manners, there is\npropriety and truth in introducing such characters. The Greek servant was\na slave, subject for life to the arbitrary caprice of his master, and\nfrequently the victim of the most severe treatment. A man, who, thus\ndeprived by the constitution of society of all his natural rights, makes\ntrick and artifice his trade may well be pardoned: he is in a state of war\nwith his oppressors, and cunning is his natural weapon. But in our times,\na servant, who is free to choose his situation and his master, is a good-\nfor-nothing scoundrel if he assists the son to deceive the father. With\nrespect, on the other hand, to the open avowal of fondness of good eating\nand drinking which is employed to give a comic stamp to servants and\npersons in a low rank of life, it may still be used without impropriety:\nof those to whom life has granted but few privileges it does not require\nmuch; and they may boldly own the vulgarity of their inclinations, without\ngiving any shock to our moral feelings. The better the condition of\nservants in real life, the less adapted are they for the stage; and this\nat least redounds to the praise of our more humane age, that in our\n\"family picture\" tales we meet with servants who are right worthy\ncharacters, better fitted to excite our sympathy than our derision.\n\nThe repetition of the same characters was as it were acknowledged by the\nGreek comic writers, by their frequent use of the same names, and those\ntoo in part expressive of character. In this they did better than many\ncomic poets of modern times, who, for the sake of novelty of character,\ntorture themselves to attain complete individuality, by which efforts no\nother effect generally is produced than that of diverting our attention\nfrom the main business of the piece, and dissipating it on accessory\ncircumstances. And then after all they imperceptibly fall back again into\nthe old well-known character. It is better to delineate the characters at\nfirst with a certain breadth, and to leave the actor room to touch them up\nmore accurately, and to add the nicer and more personal traits, according\nto the requirements of each composition. In this respect the use of masks\nadmits of justification; which, like many other peculiarities of the\nancient theatre, (such as the acting in the open air,) were still\nretained, though originally designed for other departments of the drama,\nand though they seem a greater incongruity in the New Comedy than in the\nOld, and in Tragedy. But certainly it was unsuitable to the spirit of the\nNew, that, while in other respects the representation approached nature\nwith a more exact, nay, illusive resemblance, the masks deviated more from\nit than in the Old, being overcharged in the features, and almost to\ncaricature. However singular this may appear, it is too expressly and\nformally attested to admit of a doubt. [Footnote: See Platonius, in\n_Aristoph. cur. K\u00fcster_, p. xi.] As they were prohibited from bringing\nportraits of real persons on the stage they were, after the loss of their\nfreedom, very careful lest they should accidentally stumble upon any\nresemblance, and especially to any of their Macedonian rulers; and in\nthis way they endeavoured to secure themselves against the danger. Yet the\nexaggeration in question was hardly without its meaning. Accordingly we\nfind it stated, that an unsymmetrical profile, with one eyebrow drawn up\nand the other down, denoted an idle, inquisitive, and intermeddling busy-\nbody, [Footnote: See _Jul. Pollux_, in the section of comic masks.\nCompare Platonius as above, and Quinctilian, 1. xi. c. 3. The supposed\nwonderful discovery of Voltaire respecting tragic masks, which I mentioned\nin the fourth Lecture, will hardly be forgotten.] and we may in fact\nremark that men, who are in the habit of looking at things with anxious\nexact observation, are apt to acquire distortions of this kind.\n\nAmong other peculiarities the masks in comedy have this advantage, that\nfrom the unavoidable repetition of the same characters the spectator knew\nat once what he had to expect. I once witnessed at Weimar a representation\nof the _Adelphi_ of Terence, entirely in ancient costume, which, under the\ndirection of Goethe, furnished us a truly Attic evening. The actors used\npartial masks, cleverly fitted to the real countenance, [Footnote: This\nalso was not unknown to the ancients, as it proved by many comic masks\nhaving in the place of the mouth a circular opening of considerable width,\nthrough which the mouth and the adjoining features were allowed to appear;\nand which, with their distorted movements, must have produced a highly\nludicrous effect, from the contrast in the fixed distortion of the rest of\nthe countenance.] and notwithstanding the smallness of the theatre, I did\nnot find that they were in any way prejudicial to vivacity. The mask was\npeculiarly favourable for the jokes of the roguish slave: his uncouth\nphysiognomy, as well as his apparel, stamped him at once as a man of a\npeculiar race, (as in truth the slaves were, partly even by extraction,)\nand he might therefore well be allowed to act and speak differently from\nthe rest of the characters.\n\nOut of the limited range of their civil and domestic life, and out of the\nsimple theme of the characters above mentioned, the invention of the Greek\ncomic writers contrived to extract an inexhaustible multitude of\nvariations, and yet, what is deserving of high praise, even in that on\nwhich they grounded their development and catastrophe, they ever remained\ntrue to their national customs.\n\nThe circumstances of which they availed themselves for this purpose were\ngenerally the following:--Greece consisted of a number of small separate\nstates, lying round about Athens on the coast and islands. Navigation was\nfrequent, piracy not unusual, which, moreover, was directed against human\nbeings in order to supply the slave-market. Thus, even free-born children\nmight be kidnapped. Not unfrequently, too, they were exposed by their own\nparents, in virtue of their legal rights, and being unexpectedly saved\nfrom destruction, were afterwards restored to their families. All this\nprepared a ground-work for the recognitions in Greek Comedy between\nparents and children, brothers and sisters, &c., which as a means of\nbringing about the d\u00e9nouement, was borrowed by the comic from the tragic\nwriters. The complicated intrigue is carried on within the represented\naction, but the singular and improbable accident on which it is founded,\nis removed to a distance both of time and place, so that the comedy,\nthough taken from every-day life, has still, in some degree, a marvellous\nromantic back-ground.\n\nThe Greek Comic writers were acquainted with Comedy in all its extent, and\nemployed themselves with equal diligence on all its varieties, the Farce,\nthe Play of Intrigue, and the various kinds of the Play of Character, from\ncaricature to the nicest delicacy of delineation, and even the serious or\nsentimental drama. They possessed moreover a most enchanting species, of\nwhich, however, no examples are now remaining. From the titles of their\npieces, and other indications, it appears they sometimes introduced\nhistorical personages, as for instance the poetess Sappho, with Alcaeus's\nand Anacreon's love for her, or her own passion for Phaon; the story of\nher leap from the Leucadian rock owes, perhaps, its origin, solely to the\ninvention of the comic writers. To judge from their subject-matter, these\ncomedies must have approached to our romantic drama; and the mixture of\nbeautiful passion with the tranquil grace of the ordinary comic\nrepresentation must undoubtedly have been very attractive.\n\nIn the above observations I have, I conceive, given a faithful picture of\nthe Greek Comedy. I have not attempted to disguise either its defects or\nits limitation. The ancient Tragedy and the Old Comedy are inimitable,\nunapproachable, and stand alone in the whole range of the history of art.\nBut in the New Comedy we may venture to measure our strength with the\nGreeks, and even attempt to surpass them. Whenever we descend from the\nOlympus of true poetry to the common earth, in other words, when once we\nmix the prose of a definite reality with the ideal creations of fancy, the\nsuccess of productions is no longer determined by the genius alone, and a\nfeeling for art, but the more or less favourable nature of circumstances.\nThe figures of the gods of the Grecian sculptors stand before us as the\nperfect models for all ages. The noble occupation of giving an ideal\nperfection to the human form having once been entered upon by the fancy,\nall that is left even to an equal degree of inspiration is but to make a\nrepetition of the same attempts. In the execution, however, of personal\nand individual resemblances, the modern statuary is the rival of the\nancient: but this is no pure creation of art; observation must here come\nin: and whatever degree of science, profundity, and taste may be displayed\nin the execution, the artist is still tied down to the object which is\nactually before him.\n\nIn the admirable portrait-statues of two of the most celebrated comic\nwriters, Menander and Posidippus (in the Vatican), the physiognomy of the\nGreek New Comedy appears to me to be almost visibly and personally\nexpressed! Clad in the most simple dress, and holding a roll in their\nhands, they are sitting in arm-chairs with all the ease and self-\npossession which mark the conscious superiority of the master; and in that\nmaturity of age which befits the undisturbed impartial observation which\nis requisite for Comedy, but yet hale and active, and free from all\nsymptoms of decay. We recognise in them that corporeal vigour, which\ntestifies at once to equal soundness both of mind and of temper; no lofty\nenthusiasm, but at the same time nothing of folly or extravagance; rather\ndoes a sage seriousness dwell on a brow wrinkled indeed, though not with\ncare, but with the exercise of thought; while in the quick-searching eye,\nand in the mouth half curling into a smile, we have the unmistakable\nindications of a light playful irony.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XV.\n\nRoman Theatre--Native kinds: Atellane Fables, Mimes, Comoedia Togata--\nGreek Tragedy transplanted to Rome--Tragic Authors of a former Epoch, and\nof the Augustan Age--Idea of a National Roman Tragedy--Causes of the want\nof success of the Romans in Tragedy--Seneca.\n\n\nThe examination of the nature of the Drama in general, as well as the\nconsideration of the Greek theatre, which was as peculiar in its origin as\nin its maturity it was actually perfect, have hitherto alone occupied our\nattention. Our notice of the dramatic literature of most of the other\nnations, which principally call for consideration, must be marked with\ngreater brevity; and yet, we are not afraid that we shall be accused in\neither case of either disproportionate length or conciseness.\n\nAnd first, with respect to the Romans, whose theatre is in every way\nimmediately attached to that of the Greeks, we have only, as it were, to\nnotice one great gap, which partly arises from their own want of creative\npowers in this department, and partly from the loss, with the exception of\na few fragments, of all that they did produce in it. The only works which\nhave descended to us from the good classical times are those of Plautus\nand Terence, whom I have already characterised as _copyists_ of the\nGreeks.\n\nPoetry in general had no native growth in Rome; it was first artificially\ncultivated along with other luxuries in those later times when the\noriginal character of Rome was being fast extinguished under an imitation\nof foreign manners. In the Latin we have an example of a language modelled\ninto poetical expression, altogether after foreign grammatical and\nmetrical forms. This imitation of the Greek was not accomplished easily\nand without force: the Graecising was carried even to the length of a\nclumsy intermixture of the two languages. Gradually only was the poetical\nstyle smoothed and softened, and in Catullus we still perceive the last\ntraces of its early harshness, which, however, are not without a certain\nrugged charm. Those constructions, and especially those compounds which\nwere too much at variance with the internal structure of the Latin, and\nfailed to become agreeable to the Roman ear, were in time rejected, and at\nlength, in the age of Augustus, the poets succeeded in producing the most\nagreeable combination of the peculiarities, native and borrowed. Hardly,\nhowever, had the desired equilibrium been attained when a pause ensued;\nall free development was checked, and the poetical style, notwithstanding\na seeming advance to greater boldness and learning, was irrevocably\nconfined within the round of already sanctioned modes of expression. Thus\nthe language of Latin poetry flourished only within the short interval\nwhich elapsed between the period of its unfinished state and its second\ndeath; and as to the spirit also of poetry, it too fared no better.\n\nTo the invention of theatrical amusements the Romans were not led from any\ndesire to enliven the leisure of their festivals with such exhibitions as\nwithdraw the mind from the cares and concerns of life; but in their\ndespondency under a desolating pestilence, against which all remedies\nseemed unavailing, they had recourse to the theatre, as a means of\nappeasing the anger of the gods, having previously been only acquainted\nwith the exercises of the gymnasium and the games of the circus. The\n_histriones_, however, whom for this purpose they summoned from Etruria,\nwere merely dancers, who probably did not attempt any pantomimic dances,\nbut endeavoured to delight their audience by the agility of their\nmovements. Their oldest spoken plays, the _Fabulae Atellanae_, the\nRomans borrowed from the Osci, the aboriginal inhabitants of Italy. With\nthese _saturae_, (so called because first they were improvisatory\nfarces, without dramatic connexion; _satura_ signifying a medley, or\nmixture of every thing,) they were satisfied till Livius Andronicus,\nsomewhat more than five hundred years after the foundation of Home, began\nto imitate the Greeks; and the regular compositions of Tragedy and the New\nComedy (the Old it was impossible to transplant) were then, for the first\ntime, introduced into Rome.\n\nThus the Romans owed the first idea of a play to the Etruscans, of the\neffusions of a sportive humour to the Oscans, and of a higher class of\ndramatic works to the Greeks. They displayed, however, more originality in\nthe comic than in the tragic department. The Oscans, whose language soon\nceasing to be spoken, survived only in these farces, were at least so near\nakin to the Romans, that their dialect was immediately understood by a\nRoman audience: for how else could the Romans have derived any amusement\nfrom the _Atellanae_? So completely did they domesticate this species\nof drama that Roman youths, of noble families, enamoured of this\nentertainment, used to exhibit it on their festivals; on which account\neven the players who acted in the Atellane fables for money enjoyed\npeculiar privileges, being exempt from the infamy and exclusion from the\ntribes which attached to all other theatrical artists, and were also\nexcused from military service.\n\nThe Romans had, besides, their own _Mimes_. The foreign name of these\nlittle pieces would lead us to conclude that they bore a great affinity to\nthe Greek _Mimes_; they differed, however, from them considerably in\nform; we know also that the manners portrayed in them had a local truth,\nand that the subject-matter was not derived from Greek compositions.\n\nIt is peculiar to Italy, that from the earliest times its people have\ndisplayed a native talent for a merry, amusing, though very rude\nbuffoonery, in extemporary speeches and songs, with accompanying\nappropriate gestures; though it has seldom been coupled with true dramatic\ntaste. This latter assertion will be fully justified when we shall have\nexamined all that has been accomplished in the higher walks of the Drama\nin that country, down to the most recent times. The former might be easily\nsubstantiated by a number of circumstances, which, however, would lead us\ntoo far from our object into the history of the Saturnalia and similar\ncustoms, Even of the wit which prevails in the dialogues of the\n_Pasquino_ and the _Marforio_ and of their apposite and popular ridicule\non passing events, many traces are to be found even in the times of the\nEmperors, however little disposed they were to be indulgent to such\nliberties. But what is more immediately connected with our present purpose\nis the conjecture--that in these _Mimes_ and _Atellane Fables_ we have\nperhaps the first germ of the _Commedia dell' arte_, the improvisatory\nfarce with standing masks. A striking affinity between the latter and the\n_Atellanae_ consists in the employment of dialects to produce a ludicrous\neffect. But how would Harlequin and Pulcinello be astonished were they to\nbe told that they descended in a direct line from the buffoons of the\nancient Romans, and even from the Oscans!--With what drollery would they\nrequite the labours of the antiquarian who should trace their glorious\npedigree to such a root! From the figures on Greek vases, we know that the\ngrotesque masks of the Old Comedy bore a dress very much resembling\ntheirs: long trousers, and a doublet with sleeves, articles of dress which\nthe Greeks, as well as the Romans, never used except on the stage. Even in\nthe present day _Zanni_ is one of the names of Harlequin; and _Sannio_ in\nthe Latin farces was a buffoon, who, according to the accounts of ancient\nwriters, had a shaven head, and a dress patched together of gay parti-\ncoloured pieces. The exact resemblance of the figure of Pulcinello is said\nto have been found among the frescoes of Pompeii. If he came originally\nfrom Atella, he is still mostly to be met with in the old land of his\nnativity. The objection that these traditions could not well have been\npreserved during the cessation for so many centuries of all theatrical\namusements, will be easily got over when we recollect the licences\nannually enjoyed at the Carnival, and the Feasts of Fools in the middle\nages.\n\nThe Greek Mimes were dialogues in prose, and not destined for the stage;\nthe Roman were in verse, were acted, and often delivered extempore. The\nmost celebrated authors of this kind were Laberius and Syrus,\ncontemporaries of Julius Caesar. The latter when dictator, by an imperial\nrequest, compelled Laberius, a Roman knight, to appear publicly in his own\nMimes, although the scenic employment was branded with the loss of civil\nrights. Laberius complained of this in a prologue, which is still extant,\nand in which the painful feeling of annihilated self-respect is nobly and\naffectingly expressed. We cannot well conceive how, in such a state of\nmind, he could be capable of making ludicrous jokes, nor how, with so\nbitter an example of despotic degradation [Footnote: What humiliation\nCaesar would have inwardly felt, could he have foreseen that, within a few\ngenerations, Nero, his successor in absolute authority, out of a lust for\nself-degradation, would expose himself frequently to infamy in the same\nmanner as he, the first despot, had exposed a Roman of the middle rank,\nnot without exciting a general feeling of indignation.] before their eyes,\nthe spectators could take any delight in them. Caesar, on his part, kept\nhis engagement: he gave Laberius a considerable sum of money, and invested\nhim anew with the equestrian rank, which, however, could not re-instate\nhim in the opinion of his fellow-citizens. On the other hand, he took his\nrevenge for the prologue and other allusions by bestowing the prize on\nSyrus, the slave, and afterward the freedman and scholar of Laberius in\nthe mimetic art. Of the Mimes of Syrus we have still extant a number of\nsentences, which, in matter and elegant conciseness of expression, are\ndeserving of a place by the side of Menander's. Some of them even go\nbeyond the moral horizon of serious Comedy, and assume an almost stoical\nelevation. How was the transition from low farce to such elevation\neffected? And how could such maxims be at all introduced, without the same\nimportant involution of human relations as that which is exhibited in\nperfect Comedy? At all events, they are calculated to give us a very\nfavourable idea of the Mimes. Horace, indeed, speaks slightingly of the\nliterary merit of Laberius' Mimes, either on account of the arbitrary\nnature of their composition, or of the negligent manner in which they were\nworked out. However, we ought not to allow our own opinion to be too much\ninfluenced against him by this critical poet; for, from motives which are\neasy to understand, he lays much greater stress on the careful use of the\nfile, than on original boldness and fertility of invention. A single\nentire Mime, which time unfortunately has denied us, would have thrown\nmore light on this question than all the confused notices of grammarians,\nand all the conjectures of modern scholars.\n\nThe regular Comedy of the Romans was, for the most part, _palliata_,\nthat is, it appeared in a Grecian costume, and represented Grecian\nmanners. This is the case with all the comedies of Plautus and Terence.\nBut they had also a _comoedia togata_; so called from the Roman dress\nwhich was usually worn in it. Afranius is celebrated as the principal\nwriter in this walk. Of these comedies we have no remains whatever, and\nthe notices of them are so scanty, that we can-not even determine with\ncertainty whether the togatae were original comedies of an entirely new\ninvention, or merely Greek comedies recast with Roman manners. The latter\ncase is the more probable, as Afranius lived in a period when Roman genius\nhad not yet ventured to try a flight of original invention; although, on\nthe other hand, it is not easy to conceive how the Attic comedies could,\nwithout great violence and constraint, have been adapted to local\ncircumstances so entirely different. The tenor of Roman life was, in\ngeneral, earnest and grave, although in private society they had no small\nturn for wit and joviality. The diversity of ranks among the Romans,\npolitically, was very strongly marked, and the opulence of private\nindividuals was frequently almost kingly; their women lived much more in\nsociety, and acted a much more important part than the Grecian women did,\nand from this independence they fully participated in the overwhelming\ntide of corruption which accompanied external refinement. The differences\nbeing so essential, an original Roman comedy would have been a remarkable\nphenomenon, and would have enabled us to see these conquerors of the world\nin an aspect altogether new. That, however, this was not accomplished by\nthe _comoedia togata_, is proved by the indifferent manner in which\nit is mentioned by the ancients. Quinctilian does not scruple to say, that\nthe Latin literature limps most in comedy; this is his expression, word\nfor word.\n\nWith respect to Tragedy, we must, in the first place, remark, that the\nGrecian theatre was not introduced into Rome without considerable changes\nin its arrangement. The chorus, for instance, had no longer a place in the\norchestra, where the most distinguished spectators, the knights and\nsenators, now sat; but it remained on the stage itself. Here, then, was\nthe very disadvantage which we alleged in objection to the modern attempts\nto introduce the chorus. Other deviations from the Grecian mode of\nrepresentation were also sanctioned, which can hardly be considered as\nimprovements. At the very first introduction of the regular drama, Livius\nAndronicus, a Greek by birth, and the first tragic poet and actor of Rome,\nin his monodies (lyrical pieces which were sung by a single person, and\nnot by the whole chorus), separated the song from the mimetic dancing, the\nlatter only remaining to the actor, in whose stead a boy, standing beside\nthe flute-player, accompanied him with his voice. Among the Greeks, in\nbetter times, the tragic singing, and the accompanying rhythmical\ngestures, were so simple, that a single person was able to do at the same\ntime ample justice to both. The Romans, however, it would seem, preferred\nseparate excellence to harmonious unity. Hence arose, at an after period,\ntheir fondness for pantomime, of which the art was carried to the greatest\nperfection in the time of Augustus. Prom the names of the most celebrated\nof the performers, Pylades, Bathyllus, &c., it would appear that it was\nGreeks that practised this mute eloquence in Rome; and the lyric pieces\nwhich were expressed by their dances were also delivered in Greek. Lastly,\nRoscius frequently played without a mask, and in this respect probably he\ndid not stand alone; but, as far as we know, there never was any instance\nof it among the Greeks. The alteration in question might be favourable to\nthe more brilliant display of his own skill, and the Romans, who were\npleased with it, showed here also that they had a higher relish for the\ndisproportionate and prominent talents of a virtuoso, than for the\nharmonious impression of a work of art considered as a whole.\n\nIn the tragic literature of the Romans, two epochs are to be\ndistinguished: the first that of Livius Andronicus, Naevius, Ennius, and\nalso Pacuvius and Attius, who both flourished somewhat later than Plautus\nand Terence; and the second, the refined epoch of the Augustan age. The\nformer produced none but translators and remodellers of Greek works, but\nit is probable that they succeeded better in Tragedy than in Comedy.\nElevation of expression is usually somewhat awkward in a language as yet\nimperfectly cultivated, but still its height may be attained by\nperseverance; but to hit off the negligent grace of social wit requires\nnatural humour and refinement Here, however, (as well as in the case of\nPlautus and Terence,) we do not possess a single fragment of any work\nwhose Greek original is extant, to enable us to judge of the accuracy and\ngeneral felicity of the copy; but a speech of considerable length from\nAttius' _Prometheus Unbound_, is in no respect unworthy of--Aeschylus, and\nthe versification, also, is much more careful [Footnote: In what metres\ncould these tragedians have translated the Greek choral odes? Horace\ndeclares the imitation, in Latin, of Pindar, whose lyrical productions\nbear great resemblance to those of Tragedy, altogether impracticable.\nProbably they never ventured into the labyrinths of the choral strophes,\nwhich were neither calculated for the language nor for the ear of the\nRomans. Beyond the anapest, the tragedies of Seneca never ascend higher\nthan a sophic or choriambic verse, which, when monotonously repeated, is\nvery disagreeable to the ear.] than that of the Latin comic writers\ngenerally. This earlier style was carried to perfection by Pacuvius and\nAttius, whose pieces alone kept their place on the stage, and seem to have\nhad many admirers down to the times of Cicero, and even still later.\nHorace directs his jealous criticism against these, as well as all\nthe other old poets.\n\nIt was the ambition of the contemporaries of Augustus, to measure their\npowers with the Greeks in a more original manner; but their labours were\nnot attended with equal success in every department. The number of\namateurs who attempted to shine in Tragedy was particularly great; and\nworks of this kind by the Emperor himself even are mentioned. Hence there\nis much in favour of the conjecture that Horace wrote his epistle to the\nPisos, chiefly with the view of deterring these young men from so\ndangerous a career, being, in all probability, infected by the universal\npassion, without possessing the requisite talents. One of the most\nrenowned tragic poets of this age was the famous Asinius Pollio, a man of\na violently impassioned disposition, as Pliny informs us, and who was fond\nof whatever bore the same character in works of fine art. It was he who\nbrought with him from Rhodes, and erected at Rome, the well-known group of\nthe Farnese Bull. If his tragedies bore the same relation to those of\nSophocles, which this bold, wild, but somewhat overwrought group does to\nthe calm sublimity of the Niobe, we have every reason to regret their\nloss. But Pollio's political influence might easily blind his\ncontemporaries to the true value of his poetical labours. Ovid, who tried\nso many departments of poetry, also attempted Tragedy, and was the author\nof a _Medea_. To judge from the wordy and commonplace displays of\npassion in his _Heroides_, we might expect from him, in Tragedy, at\nmost, a caricature of Euripides. Quinctilian, however, asserts that he\nproved here, for once, what he might have done, had he chosen to restrain\nhimself instead of yielding to his natural propensity to diffuseness.\n\nThis, and all the other tragic attempts of the Augustan age, have\nperished. We cannot estimate with certainty the magnitude of the loss\nwhich we have here suffered, but from all appearances it is not\nextraordinarily great.--First of all the Grecian Tragedy had in Rome to\nstruggle with all the disadvantages of a plant removed to a foreign soil;\nthe Roman religion was in some degree akin to that of the Greeks, (though\nby no means so completely identical with it as many people suppose,) but\nat all events the heroic mythology of Greece was first introduced into\nRome by the poets, and was in no wise interwoven with the national\nrecollections, as was the case in so many ways with those of Greece. The\nideal of a genuine Roman Tragedy floats before me dimly indeed, and in the\nbackground of ages, and with all the indistinctness which must surround an\nentity, which never issued out of the womb of possibility into reality. It\nwould be altogether different in form and significance from that of the\nGreeks, and, in the old Roman sense, religious and patriotic. All truly\ncreative poetry must proceed from the inward life of a people, and from\nreligion, the root of that life. The spirit of the Roman religion was\nhowever originally, and before the substance of it was sacrificed to\nforeign ornament, quite different from that of the Grecian. The latter was\nyielding and flexible to the hand of art, the former immutable beneath the\nrigorous jealousy of priestcraft. The Roman faith, and the customs founded\non it, were more serious, more moral, and pious, displaying more insight\ninto nature, and more magical and mysterious, than the Greek religion, at\nleast than that part of it which was extrinsecal to the mysteries. As the\nGreek Tragedy represented the struggle of the free man with destiny, a\ntrue Roman Tragedy would exhibit the subjection of human motives to the\nholy and binding force of _religion_, and its visible presence in all\nearthly things. But this spirit had been long extinct, before the want of\na cultivated poetry was first felt by them. The Patricians, originally an\nEtruscan sacerdotal school, had become mere secular statesmen and\nwarriors, who regarded their hereditary priesthood in no other light than\nthat of a political form. Their sacred books, their _Vedas_, were become\nunintelligible to them, not so much from obsoleteness of character,\nas because they no longer possessed the higher knowledge which was the key\nto that sanctuary. What the heroic tales of the Latins might have become\nunder an earlier development, as well as their peculiar colouring, we may\nstill see, from some traces in Virgil, Propertius, and Ovid, although even\nthese poets did but handle them as matters of antiquity.\n\nMoreover, desirous as the Romans were of becoming thorough Hellenists,\nthey wanted for it that milder humanity which is so distinctly traceable\nin Grecian history, poetry, and art, even in the time of Homer. Prom the\nmost austere virtue, which buried every personal inclination, as Curtius\ndid his life, in the bosom of father-land, they passed with fearful\nrapidity to a state of corruption, by avarice and luxury, equally without\nexample. Never in their character did they belie the legend that their\nfirst founder was suckled, not at the breast of woman, but of a ravening\nshe-wolf. They were the tragedians of the world's history, who exhibited\nmany a deep tragedy of kings led in chains and pining in dungeons; they\nwere the iron necessity of all other nations; universal destroyers for the\nsake of raising at last, out of the ruins, the mausoleum of their own\ndignity and freedom, in the midst of the monotonous solitude of an\nobsequious world. To them, it was not given to excite emotion by the\ntempered accents of mental suffering, and to touch with a light and\ndelicate hand every note in the scale of feeling. They naturally sought\nalso in Tragedy, by overleaping all intervening gradations, to reach at\nonce the extreme, whether in the stoicism of heroic fortitude, or in the\nmonstrous fury of criminal desire. Of all their ancient greatness nothing\nremained to them but the contempt of pain and death whenever an\nextravagant enjoyment of life must finally be exchanged for them. This\nseal, therefore, of their former grandeur they accordingly impressed on\ntheir tragic heroes with a self-satisfied and ostentatious profusion.\n\nFinally, even in the age of cultivated literature, the dramatic poets were\nstill in want of a poetical public among a people fond, even to a degree\nof madness, of shows and spectacles. In the triumphal processions, the\nfights of gladiators, and of wild beasts, all the magnificence of the\nworld, all the renders of every clime, were brought before the eye of the\nspectator, who was glutted with the most violent scenes of blood. On\nnerves so steeled what effect could the more refined gradations of tragic\npathos produce? It was the ambition of the powerful to exhibit to the\npeople in one day, on stages erected for the purpose, and immediately\nafterwards destroyed, the enormous spoils of foreign or civil war. The\nrelation which Pliny gives of the architectural decoration of the stage\nerected by Scaurus, borders on the incredible. When magnificence could be\ncarried no farther, they endeavoured to surprise by the novelty of\nmechanical contrivances. Thus, a Roman, at his father's funeral solemnity,\ncaused two theatres to be constructed, with their backs resting against\neach other, and made moveable on a single pivot, so that at the end of the\nplay they were wheeled round with all the spectators within them, and\nformed into one circus, in which gladiator combats were exhibited. In the\ngratification of the eye that of the ear was altogether lost; rope-dancers\nand white elephants were preferred to every kind of dramatic\nentertainment; the embroidered purple robe of the actor was applauded, as\nwe are told by Horace, and so far was the great body of the spectators\nfrom being attentive and quiet, that he compares their noise to that of\nthe roar of the ocean, or of a mountain forest in a storm.\n\nOnly one sample of the tragical talent of the Romans has come down to us,\nfrom which, however, it would be unjust to form a judgment of the\nproductions of better times; I allude to the ten tragedies which pass\nunder Seneca's name. Their claim to this title appears very doubtful;\nperhaps it is founded merely on a circumstance which would lead rather to\na different conclusion; that, namely, in one of them, the _Octavia_,\nSeneca himself appears among the dramatic personages. The opinions of the\nlearned are very much divided on the subject; some ascribe them partly to\nSeneca the philosopher, and partly to his father the rhetorician; others,\nagain, assume the existence of a Seneca, a tragedian, a different person\nfrom both. It is generally allowed that the several pieces are neither all\nfrom the same hand, nor were of the same age. For the honour of the Roman\ntaste, one would be disposed to consider them the productions of a very\nlate period of antiquity: but Quinctilian quotes a verse from the _Medea_\nof Seneca, which is found in the play of that name in our collection, and\ntherefore no doubt can be raised against the authenticity of this piece,\nthough it seems to be in no way pre-eminent above the rest. [Footnote: The\nauthor of this _Medea_ makes the heroine strangle her children before the\neyes of the people, notwithstanding the admonition of Horace, who probably\nhad some similar example of the Roman theatre before his eyes; for a Greek\nwould hardly have committed this error The Roman tragedians must have had\na particular rage for novelty and effect to seek them in such atrocities.]\nWe find also in Lucan, a contemporary of Nero, a similar display of\nbombast, which distorts everything great into nonsense. The state of\nconstant outrage in which Rome was kept by a series of blood-thirsty\ntyrants, gave an unnatural character even to eloquence and poetry.\nThe same effect has been observed in similar periods of modern history.\nUnder the wise and mild government of a Vespasian and a Titus, and more\nespecially of a Trajan, the Romans returned to a purer taste. But whatever\nperiod may have given birth to the tragedies of Seneca, they are beyond\ndescription bombastic and frigid, unnatural both in character and action,\nrevolting from their violation of propriety, and so destitute of\ntheatrical effect, that I believe they were never meant to leave the\nrhetorical schools for the stage. With the old tragedies, those sublime\ncreations of the poetical genius of the Greeks, these have nothing in\ncommon, but the name, the outward form, and the mythological materials;\nand yet they seem to have been composed with the obvious purpose of\nsurpassing them; in which attempt they succeed as much as a hollow\nhyperbole would in competition with a most fervent truth. Every tragical\ncommon-place is worried out to the last gasp; all is phrase; and even the\nmost common remark is forced and stilted. A total poverty of sentiment is\ndressed out with wit and acuteness. There is fancy in them, or at least a\nphantom of it; for they contain an example of the misapplication of every\nmental faculty. The authors have found out the secret of being diffuse,\neven to wearisomeness, and at the same time so epigrammatically laconic,\nas to be often obscure and unintelligible. Their characters are neither\nideal nor real beings, but misshapen gigantic puppets, who are set in\nmotion at one time by the string of an unnatural heroism, and at another\nby that of a passion equally unnatural, which no guilt nor enormity can\nappal.\n\nIn a history, therefore, of Dramatic Art, I should altogether have passed\nover the tragedies of Seneca, if, from a blind prejudice for everything\nwhich has come down to us from antiquity, they had not been often imitated\nin modern times. They were more early and more generally known than the\nGreek tragedies. Not only scholars, without a feeling for art, have judged\nfavourably of them, nay, preferred them to the Greek tragedies, but even\npoets have accounted them worth studying. The influence of Seneca on\nCorneille's idea of tragedy cannot be mistaken; Racine too, in his\n_Phaedra_, has condescended to borrow a good deal from him, and among\nother things, nearly the whole scene of the declaration of love; as may be\nseen in Brumoy's enumeration.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XVI.\n\nThe Italians--Pastoral Dramas of Tasso and Guarini--Small progress in\nTragedy--Metastasio and Alfieri--Character of both--Comedies of Ariosto,\nAretin, Porta--Improvisatore Masks--Goldoni--Gozzi--Latest state.\n\n\nLeaving now the productions of Classical Antiquity, we proceed to the\ndramatic literature of the moderns. With respect to the order most\nconvenient for treating our present subject, it may be doubtful whether it\nis better to consider, _seriatim_, what each nation has accomplished\nin this domain, or to pass continually from one to another, in the train\nof their reciprocal but fluctuating influences. Thus, for instance, the\nItalian theatre, at its first revival, exercised originally an influence\non the French, to be, however, greatly influenced in its turn by the\nlatter. So, too, the French, before their stage attained its full\nmaturity, borrowed still more from the Spaniards than from the Italians;\nin later times, Voltaire attempted to enlarge their theatrical circle, on\nthe model of the English; the attempt, however, was productive of no great\neffect, even because everything had already been immutably fixed, in\nconformity with their ideas of imitation of the ancients, and their taste\nin art. The English and Spanish stages are nearly independent of all the\nrest, and also of each other; on those of other countries, however, they\nhave exercised a great influence, but experienced very little in return.\nBut, to avoid the perplexity and confusion which would attend such a plan,\nit will be advisable to treat the several literatures separately, pointing\nout, at the same time, whatever effects foreign influence may have\nproduced. This course is also rendered necessary, by the circumstance that\namong modern nations the principle of imitation of the ancients has in\nsome prevailed, without check or modification; while in others, the\nromantic spirit predominated, or at least an originality altogether\nindependent of classical models The former is the case with the Italians\nand French, and the latter with the English and Spaniards.\n\nI have already indicated, in passing, how even before the eruption of the\nnorthern conquerors had put an end to everything like art, the diffusion\nof Christianity led to the abolition of plays, which, both with Greeks and\nRomans, had become extremely corrupt. After the long sleep of the dramatic\nand theatrical spirit in the middle ages, which, however uninfluenced by\nthe classical models, began to awake again in the Mysteries and\nMoralities, the first attempt to imitate the ancients in the theatre, as\nwell as in the other arts and departments of poetry, was made by the\nItalians. The _Sophonisba_ of Trissino, which belongs to the beginning of\nthe sixteenth century, is generally named as the first regular tragedy.\nThis literary curiosity I cannot boast of having read, but from other\nsources I know the author to be a spiritless pedant. Those even of the\nlearned, who are most zealous for the imitation of the ancients, pronounce\nit a dull laboured work, without a breath of true poetical spirit; we may\ntherefore, without further examination, safely appeal to their judgment\nupon it. It is singular, that while all ancient forms, even the Chorus,\nare scrupulously retained, the province of mythology is abandoned for that\nof Roman history.\n\nThe pastoral dramas of Tasso and Guarini (which belong to the middle of\nthe sixteenth century), whose subjects, though for the most part not\ntragical, are yet noble, not to say ideal, may be considered to form an\nepoch in the history of dramatic poetry. They are furnished with choruses\nof the most ravishing beauty, which, however, are but so many lyrical\nvoices floating in the air; they do not appear as personages, and still\nless are they introduced with due regard to probability as constant\nwitnesses of the represented actions. These compositions were, there is no\ndoubt, designed for the theatre; and they were represented at Ferrara and\nat Turin with great pomp, and we may presume with eminent taste. This\nfact, however, serves to give us an idea of the infantine state of the\ntheatre at that time; although, as a whole, they have each their plot and\ncatastrophe, the action nevertheless stands still in some scenes. Their\npopularity, therefore, would lead us to conclude that the spectators,\nlittle accustomed to theatrical amusements, were consequently not\ndifficult to please, and patiently followed the progress of a beautiful\npoem, even though deficient in dramatic development. The _Pastor Fido_, in\nparticular, is an inimitable production; original and yet classical;\nromantic in the spirit of the love which it portrays; in its form\nimpressed with the grand but simple stamp of classical antiquity; and\nuniting with the sweet triflings of poetry, the high and chaste beauty of\nfeeling. No poet has succeeded so well as Guarini in combining the\npeculiarities of the modern and antique. He displays a profound feeling of\nthe essence of Ancient Tragedy; for the idea of fate pervades the subject-\nmatter, and the principal characters may be said to be ideal: he has also\nintroduced caricatures, and on that account called the composition a\nTragi-Comedy; but it is not from the vulgarity of their manners that they\nare caricatures, as from their over-lofty sentiments, just as in Ancient\nTragedy the subordinate personages ever are invested with more or less of\nthe general dignity.\n\nThe great importance of this work, however, belongs rather to the History\nof Poetry in general; on Dramatic Poetry it had no effect, as in truth it\nwas not calculated to produce any.\n\nI then return to what may properly be called the Tragedy of the Italians.\nAfter the _Sophonisba_, and a few pieces of the same period, which\nCalsabigi calls the first tragic lispings of Italy, a number of works of\nthe sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries are cited; but of\nthese none made, or at any rate maintained any considerable reputation.\nAlthough all these writers, in intention at least, laboured, to follow the\nrules of Aristotle, their tragical abortions are thus described by\nCalsabigi, a critic entirely devoted to the French system:--\"Distorted,\ncomplicated, improbable plots, ill-understood scenic regulations, useless\npersonages, double plots, inconsistent characters, gigantic or childish\nthoughts, feeble verses, affected phrases, the poetry neither harmonious\nnor natural; all this decked out with ill-timed descriptions and similes,\nor idle philosophical and political disquisitions; in every scene some\nsilly amour, with all the trite insipidity of common-place sentimentality;\nof true tragic energy, of the struggle of conflicting passions, of\noverpowering theatrical catastrophes, not the slightest trace.\" Amongst\nthe lumber of this forgotten literature we cannot stop to rummage, and we\nshall therefore proceed immediately to the consideration of the\n_Merope_ of Maffei, which appeared in the beginning of the eighteenth\ncentury. Its success in Italy, on its first publication, was great; and in\nother countries, owing to the competition of Voltaire, it also obtained an\nextraordinary reputation. The object of both Maffei and Voltaire was, from\nHyginus' account of its contents, to restore in some measure a lost piece\nof Euripides, which the ancients highly commended. Voltaire, pretending to\neulogize, has given a rival's criticism of Maffei's _Merope_; there\nis also a lengthened criticism on it in the _Dramaturgie_ of Lessing,\nas clever as it is impartial. He pronounces it, notwithstanding its purity\nand simplicity of taste, the work of a learned antiquary, rather than of a\nmind naturally adapted for, and practised in the dramatic art. We must\ntherefore judge accordingly of the previous state of the drama in the\ncountry where such a work could arrive at so great an estimation.\n\nAfter Maffei came Metastasio and Alfieri; the first before the middle, and\nthe other in the latter half of the eighteenth century. I here include the\nmusical dramas of Metastasio, because they aim in general at a serious and\npathetic effect, because they lay claim to ideality of conception, and\nbecause in their external form there is a partial observance of what is\nconsidered as belonging to the regularity of a tragedy. Both these poets,\nthough totally differing in their aim, were nevertheless influenced in\ncommon by the productions of the French stage. Both, it is true, declared\nthemselves too decidedly against the authority of this school to be\nconsidered properly as belonging to it; they assure us that, in order to\npreserve their own originality, they purposely avoided reading the French\nmodels. But this very precaution appears somewhat suspicious: whoever\nfeels himself perfectly firm and secure in his own independence, may\nwithout hesitation study the works of his predecessors; he will thus be\nable to derive from them many an improvement in his art, and yet stamp on\nhis own productions a peculiar character. But there is nothing on this\nhead that I can urge in support of these poets: if it be really true that\nthey never, or at least not before the completion of their works, perused\nthe works of French tragedians, some invisible influence must have\ndiffused itself through the atmosphere, which, without their being\nconscious of it, determined them. This is at once conceivable from the\ngreat estimation which, since the time of Louis XIV, French Tragedy has\nenjoyed, not only with the learned, but also with the great world\nthroughout Europe; from the new-modelling of several foreign theatres to\nthe fashion of the French; from the prevailing spirit of criticism, with\nwhich negative correctness was everything, and in which France gave the\ntone to the literature of other countries. The affinity is in both\nundeniable, but, from the intermixture of the musical element in\nMetastasio, it is less striking than in Alfieri. I trace it in the total\nabsence of the romantic spirit; in a certain fanciless insipidity of\ncomposition; in the manner of handling mythological and historical\nmaterials, which is neither properly mythological nor historical; lastly,\nin the aim to produce a tragic purity, which degenerates into monotony.\nThe unities of both place and time have been uniformly observed by\nAlfieri; the latter only could be respected by Metastasio, as change of\nscene is necessary to the opera poet. Alfieri affords in general no food\nfor the eyes. In his plots he aimed at the antique simplicity, while\nMetastasio, in his rich intrigues, followed Spanish models, and in\nparticular borrowed largely from Calderon. [Footnote: This is expressly\nasserted by the learned Spaniard Arteaga, in his Italian work on the\n_History of the Opera_.] Yet the harmonious ideality of the ancients\nwas as foreign to the one, as the other was destitute of the charm of the\nromantic poets, which arises from the indissoluble mixture of elements\napparently incongruous.\n\nEven before Metastasio, Apostolo Zeno had, as it is called, purified the\nopera, a phrase which, in the sense of modern critics, often means\nemptying a thing of all its substance and vigour. He formed it on the\nmodel of Tragedy, and more especially of French Tragedy; and a too\nfaithful, or rather too slavish approximation to this model, is the very\ncause why he left so little room for musical development, on which account\nhis pieces were immediately driven from the stage of the opera by those of\nhis more expert successor. It is in general an artistic mistake for one\nspecies to attempt, at evident disadvantage, that which another more\nperfectly accomplishes, and in the attempt, to sacrifice its own peculiar\nexcellencies. It originates in a chilling idea of regularity, once for all\nestablished for every kind alike, instead of ascertaining the spirit and\npeculiar laws of each distinct species.\n\nMetastasio quickly threw Zeno into the shade, since, with the same object\nin view, he displayed greater flexibility in accommodating himself to the\nrequisitions of the musician. The merits which have gained for him the\nreputation of a classic among the Italians of the present day, and which,\nin some degree, have made him with them what Racine is with the French,\nare generally the perfect purity, clearness, elegance, and sweetness of\nhis language, and, in particular, the soft melody and the extreme\nloveliness of his songs. Perhaps no poet ever possessed in a greater\ndegree the talent of briefly bringing together all the essential features\nof a pathetic situation; the songs with which the characters make their\nexit, are almost always the purest concentrated musical extract of their\nstate of mind. But, at the same time, we must own that all his\ndelineations of passion are general: his pathos is purified, not only from\nall characteristic, as well as from all contemplative matter; and,\nconsequently, the poetic representation, unencumbered thereby, proceeds\nwith a light and easy motion, leaving to the musician the care of a richer\nand fuller development. Metastasio is musical throughout; but, to follow\nup the simile, we may observe, that of poetical music, melody is the only\npart that he possesses, being deficient in harmonious compass, and in the\nmysterious effects of counterpoint. Or, to express myself in different\nterms, he is musical, but in no respect picturesque. His melodies are\nlight and pleasant, but they are constantly repeated with little or no\nvariation: when we have read a few of his pieces, we know them all; and\nthe composition as a whole is always without significance. His heroes,\nlike those of Corneille, are gallant; his heroines tender, like those of\nRacine; but this has been too severely censured by many, without a due\nconsideration of the requirements of the Opera. To me he appears\ncensurable only for the selection of subjects, whose very seriousness\ncould not without great incongruity be united with such triflings. Had\nMetastasio not adopted great historical names--had he borrowed his\nsubject-matter more frequently from mythology, or from still more fanciful\nfictions--had he made always the same happy choice as that in his\n_Achilles in Scyros_, where, from the nature of the story, the Heroic\nis interwoven with the Idyllic, we might then have pardoned him if he\ninvariably depicts his personages as in love. Then should we, if only we\nourselves understood what ought to be expected from an opera, willingly\nhave permitted him to indulge in feats of fancy still more venturesome. By\nhis tragical pretensions he has injured himself: his powers were\ninadequate to support them, and the seductive movingness at which he aimed\nwas irreconcileable with overpowering energy. I have heard a celebrated\nItalian poet assert that his countrymen were moved to tears by Metastasio.\nWe cannot get over such a national testimony as this, except by throwing\nit back on the nation itself as a symptom of its own moral temperament. It\nappears to me undeniable, that a certain melting softness in the\nsentiments, and the expression of them, rendered Metastasio the delight of\nhis contemporaries. He has lines which, from their dignity and vigorous\ncompression, are perfectly suited to Tragedy, and yet we perceive in them\nan indescribable something, which seems to show that they were designed\nfor the flexible throat of a soprano singer.\n\nThe astonishing success of Metastasio throughout all Europe, and\nespecially at courts, must also in a great measure be attributed to his\nbeing a court poet, not merely by profession, but also by the style in\nwhich he composed, and which was in every respect that of the tragedians\nof the era of Louis XIV. A brilliant surface without depth; prosaic\nsentiments and thoughts decked out with a choice poetical language; a\ncourtly moderation throughout, whether in the display of passion, or in\nthe exhibition of misfortune and crime; observance of the proprieties, and\nan apparent morality, for in these dramas voluptuousness is but breathed,\nnever named, and the heart is always in every mouth; all these properties\ncould not fail to recommend such tragical miniatures to the world of\nfashion. There is an unsparing pomp of noble sentiments, but withal most\nstrangely associated with atrocious baseness. Not unfrequently does an\ninjured fair one dispatch a despised lover to stab the faithless one from\nbehind. In almost every piece there is a crafty knave who plays the\ntraitor, for whom, however, there is ready prepared some royal\nmagnanimity, to make all right at the last. The facility with which base\ntreachery is thus taken into favour, as if it were nothing more than an\namiable weakness, would have been extremely revolting, if there had been\nanything serious in this array of tragical incidents. But the poisoned cup\nis always seasonably dashed from the lips; the dagger either drops, or is\nforced from the murderous hand, before the deadly blow can be struck; or\nif injury is inflicted, it is never more than a slight scratch; and some\nsubterranean exit is always at hand to furnish the means of flight from\nthe dungeon or other imminent peril. The dread of ridicule, that\nconscience of all poets who write for the world of fashion, is very\nvisible in the care with which he avoids all bolder flights as yet\nunsanctioned by precedent, and abstains from everything supernatural,\nbecause such a public carries not with it, even to the fantastic stage of\nthe opera, a belief in wonders. Yet this fear has not always served as a\nsure guide to Metastasio: besides such an extravagant use of the \"aside,\"\nas often to appear ludicrous, the subordinate love-stories frequently\nassume the appearance of being a parody on the others. Here the Abb\u00e9,\nthoroughly acquainted with the various gradations of Cicisbeism, its pains\nand its pleasures, at once betrays himself. To the favoured lover there is\ngenerally opposed an importunate one, who presses his suit without return,\nthe _soffione_ among the _cicisbei_; the former loves in silence, and\nfrequently finds no opportunity till the end of the piece, of offering his\nlittle word of declaration; we might call him the _patito_. This\nunintermitting love-chase is not confined to the male parts, but extended\nalso to the female, that everywhere the most varied and brilliant\ncontrasts may offer themselves.\n\nA few only of the operas of Metastasio still keep possession of the stage,\nowing to the change of musical taste, which demands a different\narrangement of the text. Metastasio seldom has choruses, and his airs are\nalmost always for a single voice: with these the scenes uniformly close,\nand with them the singer never fails to make his exit. It appears as if,\nproud of having played off this highest triumph of feeling, he left the\nspectators to their astonishment at witnessing the chirping of the\npassions in the recitatives rising at last in the air, to the fuller\nnightingale tones. At present we require in an opera more frequent duos\nand trios, and a crashing finale. In fact, the most difficult problem for\nthe opera poet is to reduce the mingled voices of conflicting passions in\none pervading harmony, without destroying any one of them: a problem,\nhowever, which is generally solved by both poet and musician in a very\narbitrary manner.\n\nAlfieri, a hold and proud man, disdained to please by such meretricious\nmeans as those of which Metastasio had availed himself: he was highly\nindignant at the lax immorality of his countrymen, and the degeneracy of\nhis contemporaries in general. This indignation stimulated him to the\nexhibition of a manly strength of mind, of stoical principles and free\nopinions, and on the other hand, led him to depict the horrors and\nenormities of despotism. This enthusiasm, however, was by far more\npolitical and moral than poetical, and we must praise his tragedies rather\nas the actions of the man than as the works of the poet. From his great\ndisinclination to pursue the same path with Metastasio, he naturally fell\ninto the opposite extreme: I might not unaptly call him a Metastasio\nreversed. If the muse of the latter he a love-sick nymph, Alfieri's muse\nis an Amazon. He gave her a Spartan education; he aimed at being the Cato\nof the theatre; but he forgot that, though the tragic poet may himself he\na stoic, tragic poetry itself, if it would move and agitate us, must never\nbe stoical. His language is so barren of imagery, that his characters seem\naltogether devoid of fancy; it is broken and harsh: he wished to steel it\nanew, and in the process it not only lost its splendour, but became\nbrittle and inflexible. Not only is he not musical, but positively anti-\nmusical; he tortures our feelings by the harshest dissonances, without any\nsoftening or solution. Tragedy is intended by its elevating sentiments in\nsome degree to emancipate our minds from the sensual despotism of the\nbody; but really to do this, it must not attempt to strip this dangerous\ngift of heaven of its charms: but rather it must point out to us the\nsublime majesty of our existence, though surrounded on all sides by\ndangerous abysses. When we read the tragedies of Alfieri, the world looms\nupon us dark and repulsive. A style of composition which exhibits the\nordinary course of human affairs in a gloomy and troublous light, and\nwhose extraordinary catastrophes are horrible, resembles a climate where\nthe perpetual fogs of a northern winter should be joined with the fiery\ntempests of the torrid zone. Profound and delicate delineation of\ncharacter is as little to be looked for in Alfieri as in Metastasio: he\ndoes but exhibit the opposite but equally partial view of human nature.\nHis characters also are cast in the mould of naked general notions, and he\nfrequently paints the extremes of black and white, side by side, and in\nunrelieved contrast. His villains for the most part betray all their\ndeformity, in their outward conduct; this might, perhaps, be allowed to\npass, although indeed such a picture will hardly enable us to recognise\nthem in real life; but his virtuous persons are not amiable, and this is a\ndefect open to much graver censure. Of all seductive graces, and even of\nall subordinate charms and ornaments, (as if the degree in which nature\nherself had denied them to this caustic genius had not been sufficient,)\nhe studiously divested himself, because as he thought it would best\nadvance his more earnest moral aim, forgetting, however, that the poet has\nno other means of swaying the minds of men than the fascinations of his\nart.\n\nFrom the tragedy of the Greeks, with which he did not become acquainted\nuntil the end of his career, he was separated by a wide chasm; and I\ncannot consider his pieces as an improvement on the French tragedy. Their\nstructure is more simple, the dialogue in some cases less conventional; he\nhas also got rid of confidants, and this has been highly extolled as a\ndifficulty overcome, and an improvement on the French system; he had the\nsame aversion to chamberlains and court ladies in poetry as in real life.\nBut in captivating and brilliant eloquence, his pieces bear no comparison\nwith the better French tragedies; they also display much less skill in the\nplot, its gradual march, preparations, and transitions. Compare, for\ninstance, the _Britannicus_ of Racine with the _Octavia_ of Alfieri. Both\ndrew their materials from Tacitus: but which of them has shown the more\nperfect understanding 01 this profound master of the human heart? Racine\nappears here before us as a man who was thoroughly acquainted with all the\ncorruptions of a court, and had beheld ancient Rome under the Emperors,\nreflected in this mirror of observation. On the other hand, if Alfieri did\nnot expressly assure us that his Octavia was a daughter of Tacitus, we\nshould be inclined to believe that it was modelled on that of the\npretended Seneca. The colours with which he paints his tyrants are\nborrowed from the rhetorical exercises of the school. Who can recognise,\nin his blustering and raging Nero, the man who, as Tacitus says, seemed\nformed by nature \"to veil hatred with caresses?\"--the cowardly Sybarite,\nfantastically vain till the very last moment of his existence, cruel at\nfirst, from fear, and afterwards from inordinate lust.\n\nIf Alfieri has, in this case, been untrue to Tacitus, in the _Conspiracy\nof the Pazzi_ he has equally failed in his attempt to translate Macchiavel\ninto the language of poetry. In this and other pieces from modern history,\nthe _Filippo_ for instance, and the _Don Garcia_, he has by no means hit\nthe spirit and tone of modern times, nor even of his own nation: his ideas\nof the tragic style were opposed to the observance of everything like a\nlocal and determinate costume. On the other hand it is astonishing to\nobserve the subjects which he has borrowed from the tragic cycles of the\nGreeks, such as the _Orestiad_, for instance, losing under his hands all\ntheir heroic magnificence, and assuming a modern, not to say a vulgar air.\nHe has succeeded best in painting the public life of the Roman republic;\nand it is a great merit in the _Virginia_ that the action takes place in\nthe forum, and in part before the eyes of the people. In other pieces,\nwhile the Unity of Place is strictly observed, the scene chosen is for the\nmost part so invisible and indeterminate, that one would fain imagine it\nis some out-of-the-way corner, where nobody comes but persons involved in\npainful and disagreeable transactions. Again, the stripping his kings and\nheroes, for the sake of simplicity, of all their external retinue,\nproduces the impression that the world is actually depopulated around\nthem. This stage-solitude is very striking in _Saul_, where the scene is\nlaid before two armies in battle-array, on the point of a decisive\nengagement. And yet, in other respects this piece is favourably\ndistinguished from the rest, by a certain Oriental splendour, and the\nlyrical sublimity in which the troubled mind of Saul gives utterance to\nitself. _Myrrha_ is a perilous attempt to treat with propriety a subject\nequally revolting to the senses and the feelings. The Spaniard Arteaga has\ncriticised this tragedy and the _Filippo_ with great severity but with\ngreat truth.\n\nI reserve for my notice of the present condition of the Italian theatre\nall that I have to remark on the successors of Alfieri, and go back in\norder of time in order to give a short sketch of the history of Comedy.\n\nIn this department the Italians began with an imitation of the ancients,\nwhich was not sufficiently attentive to the difference of times and\nmanners, and translations of Plautus and Terence were usually represented\nin their earliest theatres; they soon fell, however, into the most\nsingular extravagancies. We have comedies of Ariosto and Macchiavelli--\nthose of the former are in rhymeless verse, _versi sdruccioli_, and\nthose of the latter in prose. Such men could produce nothing which did not\nbear traces of their genius. But Ariosto in the structure of his pieces\nkept too close to the stories of the ancients, and, therefore, did not\nexhibit any true living picture of the manners of his own times. In\nMacchiavelli this is only the case in his _Clitia_, an imitation of\nPlautus; the _Mandragola_, and another comedy, which is without a\nname, are sufficiently Florentine; but, unfortunately, they are not of a\nvery edifying description. A simple deceived husband, and a hypocritical\nand pandering monk, form the principal parts. Tales, in the style of the\nfree and merry tales of Boccacio, are boldly and bluntly, I cannot say,\ndramatised: for with respect to theatrical effect they are altogether\ninartificial, but given in the form of dialogue. As _Mimes_, that is,\nas pictures of the language of ordinary life with all its idioms, these\nproductions are much to be commended. In one point they resemble the Latin\ncomic poets; they are not deficient in indecency. This was, indeed, their\ngeneral tone. The comedies of Pietro Aretino are merely remarkable for\ntheir shameless immodesty. It almost seems as if these writers, deeming\nthe spirit of refined love inconsistent with the essence of Comedy, had\nexhausted the very lees of the sensual amours of Greek Comedy.\n\nAt a still earlier period, in the beginning, namely, of the sixteenth\ncentury, an unsuccessful attempt had been made in the _Virginia_ of\nAccolti to dramatise a serious novel, as a middle species between Comedy\nand Tragedy, and to adorn it with poetical splendour. Its subject is the\nsame story on which Shakspeare's _All's Well that Ends Well_, is founded.\nI have never had an opportunity of reading it, but the unfavourable report\nof a literary man disposes me to think favourably of it. [Footnote:\nBouterwek's _Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit.--Ersten Band_, s.\n334, &c.] According to his description, it resembles the older pieces of\nthe Spanish stage before it had attained to maturity of form, and in\ncommon with them it employs the stanza for its metre. The attempts at\nromantic drama have always failed in Italy; whereas in Spain, on the\ncontrary, all endeavours to model the theatre according to the rules of\nthe ancients, and latterly of the French, have from the difference of\nnational taste uniformly been abortive.\n\nWe have a comedy of Tasso's, _Gli Intrichi d'Amore_, which ought rather to\nbe called a lengthy romance in the form of dialogue. So many and such\nwonderful events are crowded together within the narrow limit of five\nacts, that one incident treads closely upon the heels of another, without\nbeing in the least accounted for by human motives, so as to give to the\nwhole an insupportable hardness. Criminal designs are portrayed with\nindifference, and the merriment is made to consist in the manner in which\nsome accident or other invariably frustrates their consequences. We cannot\nhere recognise the Tasso whose nice sense of love, chivalry, and honour\nspeaks so delightfully in the _Jerusalem Delivered_, and on this ground it\nhas even been doubted whether this work be really his. The richness of\ninvention, if we may give this name to a rude accumulation of incidents,\nis so great, that the attention is painfully tortured in the endeavour to\nkeep clear and disentangled the many and diversely crossing threads.\n\nWe have of this date a multitude of Italian comedies on a similar plan,\nonly with less order and connexion, and whoso aim apparently is to delight\nby means of indecency. A parasite and procuress are standing characters in\nall. Among the comic poets of this class, Giambatista Porta deserves to be\ndistinguished. His plots, it is true, are like the rest, imitations of\nPlautus and Terence, or dramatised tales; but, throughout the love-\ndialogues, on which he seems to have laboured with peculiar fondness,\nthere breathes a tender feeling which rises even from the midst of the\nrudeness of the old Italian Comedy, and its generally uncongenial\nmaterials.\n\nIn the seventeenth century, when the Spanish theatre flourished in all its\nglory, the Italians seem to have borrowed frequently from it; but not\nwithout misemploying and disfiguring whatever they so acquired. The\nneglect of the regular stage increased with the all-absorbing passion for\nthe opera, and with the growing taste of the multitude for improvisatory\nfarces with standing masks. The latter are not in themselves to be\ndespised: they serve to fix, as it were, so many central points of the\nnational character in the comic exhibition, by the external peculiarities\nof speech, dress, &c. Their constant recurrence does not by any means\npreclude the greatest possible diversity in the plot of the pieces, even\nas in chess, with a small number of men, of which each has his fixed\nmovement, an endless number of combinations is possible. But as to\nextemporary playing, it no doubt readily degenerates into insipidity; and\nthis may have been the case even in Italy, notwithstanding the great fund\nof drollery and fantastic wit, and a peculiar felicity in farcical\ngesticulation, which the Italians possess.\n\nAbout the middle of the last century, Goldoni appeared as the reformer of\nItalian Comedy, and his success was so great, that he remained almost\nexclusively in possession of the comic stage. He is certainly not\ndeficient in theatrical skill; but, as the event has proved, he is wanting\nin that solidity, that depth of characterization, that novelty and\nrichness of invention, which are necessary to ensure a lasting reputation.\nHis pictures of manners are true, but not sufficiently elevated above the\nrange of every-day life; he has exhausted the surface of life; and as\nthere is little progression in his dramas, and every thing turns usually\non the same point, this adds to the impression of shallowness and ennui,\nas characteristic of the existing state of society. Willingly would he\nhave abolished masks altogether, but he could hardly have compensated for\nthem out of his own resources; however, he retained only a few of them, as\nHarlequin, Brighella, and Pantaloon, and limited their parts. And yet he\nfell again into a great uniformity of character, which, indeed, he partly\nconfesses in his repeated use of the same names: for instance, his\nBeatrice is always a lively, and his Rosaura a feeling young maiden; and\nas for any farther distinction, it is not to be found in him.\n\nThe excessive admiration of Goldoni, and the injury sustained thereby by\nthe masked comedy, for which the company of Sacchi in Venice possessed the\nhighest talents, gave rise to the dramas of Gozzi. They are fairy tales in\na dramatic form, in which, however, along side of the wonderful,\nversified, and more serious part, he employed the whole of the masks, and\nallowed them full and unrestrained development of their peculiarities.\nThey, if ever any were, are pieces for effect, of great boldness of plot,\nstill more fantastic than romantic; even though Gozzi was the first among\nthe comic poets of Italy to show any true feeling for honour and love. The\nexecution does not betoken either care or skill, but is sketchily dashed\noff. With all his whimsical boldness he is still quite a popular writer;\nthe principal motives are detailed with the most unambiguous perspicuity,\nall the touches are coarse and vigorous: he says, he knows well that his\ncountrymen are fond of _robust_ situations. After his imagination had\nrevelled to satiety among Oriental tales, he took to re-modelling Spanish\nplays, and particularly those of Calderon; but here he is, in my opinion,\nless deserving of praise. By him the ethereal and delicately-tinted poetry\nof the Spaniard is uniformly vulgarised, and deepened with the most\nglaring colours; while the weight of his masks draws the aerial tissue to\nthe ground, for the humorous introduction of the _gracioso_ in the\nSpanish is of far finer texture. On the other hand, the wonderful\nextravagance of the masked parts serves as an admirable contrast to the\nwild marvels of fairy tale. Thus the character of these pieces was, in the\nserious part, as well as in the accompanying drollery, equally removed\nfrom natural truth. Here Gozzi had fallen almost accidentally on a fund of\nwhose value he was not, perhaps, fully aware: his prosaical, and for the\nmost part improvisatory, masks, forming altogether of themselves the irony\non the poetical part. What I here mean by irony, I shall explain more\nfully when I come to the justification of the mixture of the tragic and\ncomic in the romantic drama of Shakspeare and Calderon. At present I shall\nonly observe, that it is a sort of confession interwoven into the\nrepresentation itself, and more or less distinctly expressed, of its\novercharged one-sidedness in matters of fancy and feeling, and by means of\nwhich the equipoise is again restored. The Italians were not, however,\nconscious of this, and Gozzi did not find any followers to carry his rude\nsketches to a higher degree of perfection. Instead of combining like him,\nonly with greater refinement, the charms of wonderful poetry with\nexhilarating mirth; instead of comparing Gozzi with the foreign masters of\nthe romantic drama, whom he resembles notwithstanding his great disparity,\nand from the unconscious affinity between them in spirit and plan, drawing\nthe conclusion that the principle common to both was founded in nature;\nthe Italians contented themselves with considering the pieces of Gozzi as\nthe wild offspring of an extravagant imagination, and with banishing them\nfrom the stage. The comedy with masks is held in contempt by all who\npretend to any degree of refinement, as if they were too wise for it, and\nis abandoned to the vulgar, in the Sunday representations at the theatres\nand in the puppet-shows. Although this contempt must have had an injurious\ninfluence on the masks, preventing, as it does, any actor of talent from\ndevoting himself to them, so that there are no examples now of the spirit\nand wit with which they were formerly filled up, still the _Commedia\ndell' Arte_ is the only one in Italy where we can meet with original\nand truly theatrical entertainment. [Footnote: A few years ago, I saw in\nMilan an excellent Truffaldin or Harlequin, and here and there in obscure\ntheatres, and even in puppet-shows, admirable representations of the old\ntraditional jokes of the country. [Unfortunately, on my last visit to\nMilan, my friend was no longer to be met with. Under the French rule,\nHarlequin's merry occupation had been proscribed in the Great Theatres,\nfrom a care, it was alleged, for the dignity of man. The Puppet-theatre of\nGerolamo still flourishes, however but a stranger finds it difficult to\nfollow the jokes of the Piedmontese and Milan Masks.--LAST EDITION.]]\n\nIn Tragedy the Italians generally imitate Alfieri, who, although it is the\nprevailing fashion to admire him, is too bold and manly a thinker to be\ntolerated on the stage. They have produced some single pieces of merit,\nbut the principles of tragic art which Alfieri followed are altogether\nfalse, and in the bawling and heartless declamation of their actors, this\ntragic poetry, stripped with stoical severity of all the charms of\ngrouping, of musical harmony, and of every tender emotion, is represented\nwith the most deadening uniformity and monotony. As all the rich rewards\nare reserved for the singers, it is only natural that their players, who\nare only introduced as a sort of stop-gaps between singing and dancing,\nshould, for the most part, not even possess the very elements of their\nart, viz., pure pronunciation, and practised memory. They seem to have no\nidea that their parts can be got by heart, and hence, in an Italian\ntheatre, we hear every piece as it were twice over; the prompter speaking\nas loud as a good player elsewhere, and the actors in order to be\ndistinguished from him bawling most insufferably. It is exceedingly\namusing to see the prompter, when, from the general forgetfulness, a scene\nthreatens to fall into confusion, labouring away, and stretching out his\nhead like a serpent from his hole, hurrying through the dialogue before\nthe different speakers. Of all the actors in the world, I conceive those\nof Paris to have their parts best by heart; in this, as well as in the\nknowledge of versification, the Germans are far inferior to them.\n\nOne of their living poets, Giovanni Pindemonti, has endeavoured to\nintroduce greater extent, variety, and nature into his historical plays,\nbut he has been severely handled by their critics for descending from the\nheight of the cothurnus to attain that truth of circumstance without which\nit is impossible for this species of drama to exist; perhaps also for\ndeviating from the strict observation of the traditional rules, so blindly\nworshipped by them. If the Italian verse be in fact so fastidious as not\nto consort with many historical peculiarities, modern names and titles for\ninstance, let them write partly in prose, and call the production not a\ntragedy, but an historical drama. It seems in general to be assumed as an\nundoubted principle, that the _verso sciolto_, or rhymeless line, of\neleven syllables, is alone fit for the drama, but this does not seem to me\nto be by any means proved. This verse, in variety and metrical\nsignification, is greatly inferior to the English and German rhymeless\niambic, from its uniform feminine termination, and from there being merely\nan accentuation in Italian, without any syllabic measure. Moreover, from\nthe frequent transition of the sense from verse to verse, according to\nevery possible division, the lines flow into one another without its being\npossible for the ear to separate them. Alfieri imagined that he had found\nout the genuine dramatic manner of treating this verse correspondent to\nthe form of his own dialogue, which consists of simply detached periods,\nor rather of propositions entirely unperiodical and abruptly terminated.\nIt is possible that he carried into his works a personal peculiarity, for\nhe is said to have been extremely laconic; he was also, as he himself\nrelates, influenced by the example of Seneca: but how different a lesson\nmight he have learned from the Greeks! We do not, it is true, in\nconversation, connect our language so closely as in an oratorical\nharangue, but the opposite extreme is equally unnatural. Even in our\ncommon discourses, we observe a certain continuity, we give a development\nboth to arguments and objections, and in an instant passion will animate\nus to fulness of expression, to a flow of eloquence, and even to lyrical\nsublimity. The ideal dialogue of Tragedy may therefore find in actual\nconversation all the various tones and turns of poetry, with the exception\nof epic repose. The metre therefore of Metastasio, and before him, of\nTasso and Guarini, in their pastoral dramas, seems to me much more\nagreeable and suitable than the monotonous verse of eleven syllables: they\nintermingle with it verses of seven syllables, and occasionally, after a\nnumber of blank lines, introduce a pair of rhymes, and even insert a rhyme\nin the middle of a verse. From this the transition to more measured\nstrophes, either in _ottave rime_, or in direct lyrical metres, would\nbe easy. Rhyme, and the connexion which it forms, have nothing in them\ninconsistent with the essence of dramatic dialogue, and the objection to\nchange of measure in the drama rests merely on a chilling idea of\nregularity.\n\nNo suitable versification for Comedy has yet been invented in Italy. The\n_verso sciolto_, it is well known, does not answer; it is not sufficiently\nfamiliar. The verse of twelve syllables, with a _sdrucciolo_ termination\nselected by Ariosto, is much better, resembling the trimeter of the\nancients, but is still somewhat monotonous. It has been, however, but\nlittle cultivated. The Martellian verse, a bad imitation of the\nAlexandrine, is a downright torture to the ear. Chiari, and occasionally\nGoldoni, came at last to use it, and Gozzi by way of derision. It still\nremains therefore to the prejudice of a more elegant style of prose.\n\nOf Comedy, the modern Italians have nothing worth the name. What they\nhave, are nothing but pictures of manners still more dull and superficial\nthan those of Goldoni, without drollery, or invention, and from their\nevery-day commonplace, downright disagreeable. They have, on the other\nhand, acquired a true relish for the sentimental drama and familiar\ntragedy; they frequent with great partiality the representation of popular\nGerman pieces of this description, and even produce the strangest and\noddest imitations of them. Long accustomed to operas and ballets, as their\nfavourite entertainments, wherein nothing is ever attempted beyond a\nbeautiful air or an elegant movement, the public seems altogether to have\nlost all sense of dramatic connexion: they are perfectly satisfied with\nseeing the same evening two acts from different operas, or even the last\nact of an opera before the first.\n\nWe believe, therefore, that we are not going too far if we affirm, that\nboth dramatic poetry and the histrionic art are in a lamentable state of\ndecline in Italy, that not even the first foundations of a true national\ntheatre have yet been laid, and that there is no prospect of it, till the\nprevailing ideas on the subject shall have undergone a total change.\n\nCalsabigi attributes the cause of this state to the want of permanent\ncompanies of players, and of a capital. In this last reason there is\ncertainly some foundation: in England, Spain, and France, a national\nsystem of dramatic art has been developed and established; in Italy and\nGermany, where there are only capitals of separate states, but no general\nmetropolis, great difficulties are opposed to the improvement of the\ntheatre. Calsabigi could not adduce the obstacles arising from a false\ntheory, for he was himself under their influence.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XVII.\n\nAntiquities of the French Stage--Influence of Aristotle and the Imitation\nof the Ancients--Investigation of the Three Unities--What is Unity of\nAction?--Unity of Time--Was it observed by the Greeks?--Unity of Place as\nconnected with it.\n\n\nWe now proceed to the Dramatic Literature of France. We have no intention\nof dwelling at length on the first beginnings of Tragedy in this country,\nand therefore leave to French critics the task of depreciating the\nantiquities of their own literature, which, with the mere view of adding\nto the glory of the later age of Richelieu and Louis XIV., they so\nzealously enter upon. Their language, it is true, was at this time first\ncultivated, from an indescribable waste of tastelessness and barbarity,\nwhile the harmonious diction of the Italian and Spanish poetry, which had\nlong before spontaneously developed itself in the most beautiful\nluxuriance, was rapidly degenerating. Hence we are not to be astonished if\nthe French lay such great stress on negative excellences, and so carefully\nendeavour to avoid everything like impropriety, and that from dread of\nrelapse into rudeness this has ever since been the general object of their\ncritical labours. When La Harpe says of the tragedies of Corneille, that\n\"their tone rises above flatness, only to fall into the opposite extreme\nof affectation,\" judging from the proofs which he adduces, we see no\nreason to differ from him. The publication recently of Legouv\u00e9's _Death\nof Henry the Fourth_, has led to the reprinting of a contemporary piece\non the same subject, which is not only written in a ludicrous style, but\nin the general plan and distribution of the subject, with its prologue\nspoken by Satan, and its chorus of pages, with its endless monologues and\nwant of progress and action, betrays the infancy of the dramatic art; not\na na\u00efve infancy, full of hope and promise, but one disfigured by the most\npedantic bombast and absurdity. For a character of the earlier tragical\nattempts of the French in the last half of the sixteenth and the first\nthirty or forty years of the seventeenth century, we refer to Fontenelle,\nLa Harpe, and the _M\u00e9langes Litt\u00e9raires_ of Suard and Andr\u00e9. We shall\nconfine ourselves to the characteristics of three of their most celebrated\ntragic poets, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, who, it would seem, have\ngiven an immutable shape to their tragic stage. Our chief object, however,\nis an examination of the _system of tragic art_ practically followed\nby these poets, and by them, in part, but by the French critics\nuniversally, considered as alone entitled to any authority, and every\ndeviation from it viewed as an offence against good taste. If only the\nsystem be in itself the right one, we shall be compelled to allow that its\nexecution is masterly, perhaps not to be surpassed. But the great question\nhere is: how far the French tragedy is in spirit and inward essence\nrelated to the Greek, and whether it deserves to be considered as an\nimprovement upon it?\n\nOf the earlier attempts it is only necessary for us to observe, that the\nendeavour to imitate the ancients showed itself from the very earliest\nperiod in France. Moreover, they considered it the surest method of\nsucceeding in this endeavour to observe the outward regularity of form, of\nwhich their notion was derived from Aristotle, and especially from Seneca,\nrather than from any intimate acquaintance with the Greek models\nthemselves. In the first tragedies that were represented, the _Cleopatra_,\nand _Dido_ of Jodelle, a prologue and chorus were introduced; Jean de la\nPeruse translated the _Medea_ of Seneca; and Garnier's pieces are all\ntaken from the Greek tragedies or from Seneca, but in the execution they\nbear a much closer resemblance to the latter. The writers of that day,\nmoreover, modelled themselves diligently on the _Sophonisbe_ of Trissino,\nin good confidence of its classic form. Whoever is acquainted with the\nprocedure of true genius, how it is impelled by an almost unconscious and\nimmediate contemplation of great and important truths, and in no wise by\nconvictions obtained mediately, and by circuitous deductions, will be on\nthat ground alone extremely suspicious of all activity in art which\noriginates in an abstract theory. But Corneille did not, like an\nantiquary, execute his dramas as so many learned school exercises, on the\nmodel of the ancients. Seneca, it is true, led him astray, but he knew and\nloved the Spanish theatre, and it had a great influence on his mind. The\nfirst of his pieces, with which, according to general admission, the\nclassical aera of French tragedy commences, and which is certainly one of\nhis best, the _Cid_, is well known to have been borrowed from the Spanish.\nIt violates in a great degree the unity of place, if not also that of\ntime, and it is animated throughout by the spirit of chivalrous love and\nhonour. But the opinion of his contemporaries, that a tragedy must be\nframed in strict accordance with the rules of Aristotle, was so\nuniversally predominant, that it bore down all opposition. Almost at the\nclose of his dramatic career, Corneille began to entertain scruples of\nconscience, and in a separate treatise endeavoured to prove that, although\nin the composition of his pieces he had never even thought of Aristotle,\nthey were yet all accurately written according to his rules. This was no\neasy task, and he was obliged to have recourse to all manner of forced\nexplanations. If he had been able to establish his case satisfactorily, it\nwould but lead to the inference that the rules of Aristotle must be very\nloose and indeterminate, if works so dissimilar in spirit and form, as the\ntragedies of the Greeks and those of Corneille are yet equally true to\nthem.\n\nIt is quite otherwise with Racine: of all the French poets he was, without\ndoubt, the one who was best acquainted with the ancients; and not merely\ndid he study them as a scholar, he felt them also as a poet. He found,\nhowever, the practice of the theatre already firmly established, and he\ndid not, for the sake of approaching these models, undertake to deviate\nfrom it. He contented himself, therefore, with appropriating the separate\nbeauties of the Greek poets; but, whether from deference to the taste of\nhis age, or from inclination, he remained faithful to the prevailing\ngallantry so alien to the spirit of Greek tragedy, and, for the most part,\nmade it the foundation of the complication of his plots.\n\nSuch, nearly, was the state of the French theatre before the appearance of\nVoltaire. His knowledge of the Greeks was very limited, although he now\nand then spoke of them with enthusiasm, in order, on other occasions, to\nrank them below the more modern masters of his own nation, including\nhimself still, he always felt himself bound to preach up the grand\nseverity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to Tragedy. He censured\nthe deviations of his predecessors therefrom as mistakes, and insisted on\npurifying and at the same time enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion,\nfrom the constraint of court manners, it had been almost straitened to the\ndimensions of an antechamber. He at first spoke of Shakspeare's bursts of\ngenius, and borrowed many things from this poet, at that time altogether\nunknown to his countrymen; he insisted, too, on greater depth in the\ndelineation of passion--on a stronger theatrical effect; he called for a\nscene more majestically ornamented; and, lastly, he frequently endeavoured\nto give to his pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether\nforeign to poetry. His labours hare unquestionably been of utility to the\nFrench stage, although in language and versification (which in the\nclassification of dramatic excellences ought only to hold a secondary\nplace, though in France they alone almost decide the fate of a piece), he\nis, by most critics, considered inferior to his predecessors, or at least\nto Racine. It is now the fashion to attack this idol of a bygone\ngeneration on every point, and with the most unrelenting and partial\nhostility. His innovations on the stage are therefore cried down as so\nmany literary heresies, even by watchmen of the critical Zion, who seem to\nthink that the age of Louis XIV. has left nothing for all succeeding time,\nto the end of the world, but a passive admiration of its perfections,\nwithout a presumptuous thought of making improvements of its own. For\nauthority is avowed with so little disguise as the first principle of the\nFrench critics, that this expression of literary heresy is quite current\nwith them.\n\nIn so far as we have to raise a doubt of the unconditional authority of\nthe rules followed by the old French tragic authors, of the pretended\naffinity between the spirit of their works and the spirit of the Greek\ntragedians, and of the indispensableness of many supposed proprieties, we\nfind an ally in Voltaire. But in many other points he has, without\nexamination, nay even unconsciously, adopted the maxims of his\npredecessors, and followed their practice. He is alike implicated with\nthem in many opinions, which are perhaps founded more on national\npeculiarities than on human nature and the essence of tragic poetry in\ngeneral. On this account we may include him in a common examination with\nthem; for we are here concerned not with the execution of particular\nparts, but with the general principles of tragic art which reveal\nthemselves in the shape of the works.\n\nThe consideration of the dramatic regularity for which these critics\ncontend brings us back to the so-called Three Unities of Aristotle. We\nshall therefore examine the doctrine delivered by the Greek philosopher on\nthis subject: how far the Greek tragedians knew or observed these rules;\nwhether the French poets have in reality overcome the difficulty of\nobserving them without the sacrifice of freedom and probability, or merely\ndexterously avoided it; and finally, whether the merit of this observance\nis actually so great and essential as it has been deemed, and does not\nrather entail the sacrifice of still more essential beauties.\n\nThere is, however, another aspect of French Tragedy from which it cannot\nappeal to the authority of the ancients: this is, the tying of poetry to a\nnumber of merely conventional proprieties. On this subject the French are\nfar less clear than on that of the rules; for nations are not usually more\ncapable of knowing and appreciating themselves than individuals are. It\nis, however, intimately connected with the spirit of French poetry in\ngeneral, nay, rather of their whole literature and the very language\nitself. All this, in France, has been formed under the guardianship of\nsociety, and, in its progressive development, has uniformly been guided\nand determined by it--the guardianship of a society which zealously\nimitated the tone of the capital, which again took its direction from the\nreigning modes of a brilliant court. If, as there is indeed no difficulty\nin proving, such be really the case, we may easily conceive why French\nliterature, of and since the age of Louis XIV., has been, and still is, so\nwell received in the upper ranks of society and the fashionable world\nthroughout Europe, whereas the body of the people, everywhere true to\ntheir own customs and manners, have never shown anything like a cordial\nliking for it. In this way, even in foreign countries, it again in some\nmeasure finds the place of its birth.\n\nThe far-famed Three Unities, which have given rise to a whole Iliad of\ncritical wars, are the Unities of Action, Time, and Place.\n\nThe validity of the first is universally allowed, but the difficulty is to\nagree about its true meaning; and, I may add, that it is no easy matter to\ncome to an understanding on the subject.\n\nThe Unities of Time and of Place are considered by some quite a\nsubordinate matter, while others lay the greatest stress upon them, and\naffirm that out of the pale of them there is no safety for the dramatic\npoet. In France this zeal is not confined merely to the learned world, but\nseems to be shared by the whole nation in common. Every Frenchman who has\nsucked in his Boileau with his mother's milk, considers himself a born\nchampion of the Dramatic Unities, much in the same way that the kings of\nEngland since Henry VIII. are hereditary Defenders of the Faith.\n\nIt is amusing enough to see Aristotle driven perforce to lend his name to\nthese three Unities, whereas the only one of which he speaks with any\ndegree of fulness is the first, the Unity of Action. With respect to the\nUnity of Time he merely throws out a vague hint; while of the Unity of\nPlace he says not a syllable.\n\nI do not, therefore, find myself in a polemical relation to Aristotle, for\nI by no means contest the Unity of Action properly understood: I only\nclaim a greater latitude with respect to place and time for many species\nof the drama, nay, hold it essential to them. In order, however, that we\nmay view the matter in its true light, I must first say a few words on the\n_Poetics_ of Aristotle, those few pages which have given rise to such\nvoluminous commentaries.\n\nIt is well established that this treatise is merely a fragment, for it\ndoes not even touch upon many important matters. Several scholars have\neven been of opinion, that it is not a fragment of the true original, but\nof an abridgment which some one had made for his own improvement. On one\npoint all philological critics are unanimous: namely, that the text is\nvery much corrupted, and they have endeavoured to restore it by\nconjectural emendations. Its great obscurity is either expressly\ncomplained of by commentators, or substantiated by the fact, that all in\nturn reject the interpretations of their predecessors, while they cannot\napprove their own to those who succeed them.\n\nVery different is it with the _Rhetoric_ of Aristotle. It is undoubtedly\ngenuine, perfect, and easily understood. But how does he there consider\nthe oratorical art? As a sister of Logic: for as this produces conviction\nby its syllogism, so must Rhetoric in a kindred manner operate persuasion.\nThis is about the same as to consider architecture simply as the art of\nbuilding solidly and conveniently. This is, certainly, the first\nrequisite, but a great deal more is still necessary before we can consider\nit as one of the fine arts. What we require of architecture is, that it\nshould combine these essential objects of an edifice with beauty of plan\nand harmony of proportion, and give to the whole a correspondent\nimpression. Now when we see how Aristotle, without allowing for\nimagination or feeling, has viewed oratory only on that side which is\naccessible to the understanding, and is subservient to an external aim,\ncan it surprise us if that he has still less fathomed the mystery of\npoetry, that art which is absolved from every other aim but its own\nunconditional one of creating the beautiful by free invention and clothing\nit in suitable language?--Already have I had the hardihood to maintain\nthis heresy, and hitherto I have seen no reason for retracting my opinion.\nLessing thought otherwise. But what if Lessing, with his acute analytical\ncriticism, split exactly on the same rock? This species of criticism is\ncompletely victorious when it exposes the contradictions for the\nunderstanding in works composed exclusively with the understanding; but it\ncould hardly rise to the idea of a work of art created by the true genius.\n\nThe philosophical theory of the fine arts collectively was, as a distinct\nscience, little cultivated among the ancients; of technical works on the\nseveral arts individually, in which the means of execution were alone\nconsidered, they had no lack. Were I to select a guide from among the\nancient philosophers, it should undoubtedly be Plato, who acquired the\nidea of the beautiful not by dissection, which never can give it, but by\nintuitive inspiration, and in whose works the germs of a genuine\nPhilosophy of Art, are every where scattered.\n\nLet us now hear what Aristotle says on the Unity of Action.\n\n\"We affirm that Tragedy is the imitation of a perfect and entire action\nwhich has a certain magnitude: for there may be a whole without any\nmagnitude whatever. Now a whole is what has a beginning, middle, and end.\nA beginning is that which is not necessarily after some other thing, but\nthat which from its nature has something after it, or arising out of it.\nAn end, on the other hand, is that which from its nature is after\nsomething else, either necessarily, or usually, but after which there is\nnothing, A middle, what is itself after some other thing, and after which\nalso there is something. Hence poems which are properly composed must\nneither begin nor end accidentally, but according to the principles above\nlaid down.\"\n\nStrictly speaking, it is a contradiction in terms to say that a whole,\nwhich has parts, can be without magnitude. But Aristotle goes on to state,\nin explanation, that by \"magnitude\" as a requisition of beauty, he means,\na certain measure which is neither so small as to preclude us from\ndistinguishing its parts, nor so extensive as to prevent us from taking\nthe whole in at one view. This is, therefore, merely an external\ndefinition of the beautiful, derived from experience, and founded on the\nquality of our organs of sense and our powers of comprehension. However,\nhis application of it to the drama is remarkable. \"It must have an\nextension, but such as may easily be taken in by the memory. The\ndetermination of the length according to the wants of the representation,\ndoes not come within the province of Art. With respect to the essence of\nthe thing, the composition will be the more beautiful the more extensive\nit is without prejudice to its comprehensibility.\" This assertion would be\nhighly favourable for the compositions of Shakspeare and of other romantic\npoets, who have included in one picture a more extensive circle of life,\ncharacters, and events, than is to be found in the simple Greek tragedy,\nif only we could show that they have given it the necessary unity, and\nsuch a magnitude as can be clearly taken in at a view, and this we have no\nhesitation in affirming to be actually the case.\n\nIn another place Aristotle requires the same unity of action from the epic\nas from the dramatic poet; he repeats the preceding definitions, and says\nthat the poet must not resemble the historian, who relates contemporary\nevents, although they have no bearing on one another. Here we have still a\nmore express demand of that connexion of cause and effect between the\nrepresented events, which before, in his explanation of the parts of a\nwhole, was at most implied. He admits, however, that the epic poet may\ntake in a much greater number of events connected with one main action,\nsince the narrative form enables him to describe many things as going on\nat the same time; on the other hand, the dramatic poet cannot represent\nseveral simultaneous actions, but only so much as is going on upon the\nstage, and the part which the persons who appear there take in one action.\nBut what if a different construction of the scene, and a more skilful\ntheatric perspective, should enable the dramatic poet, duly and without\nconfusion, although in a more compressed space, to develope a fable not\ninferior in extent to the epic poem? Where would be the objection, if the\nonly obstacle were the supposed impossibility?\n\nThis is nearly all that is to be found in the _Poetics_ of Aristotle\non Unity of Action. A short investigation will serve to show how very much\nthese anatomical ideas, which have been stamped as rules, are below the\nessential requisites of poetry.\n\nUnity of Action is required. What is action? Most critics pass over this\npoint, as if it were self-evident In the higher, proper signification,\naction is an activity dependent on the will of man. Its unity will consist\nin the direction towards a single end; and to its completeness belongs all\nthat lies between the first determination and the execution of the deed.\n\nThis idea of action is applicable to many tragedies of the ancients (for\ninstance, Orestes' murder of his mother, Oedipus' determination to\ndiscover and punish the murderer of Laius), but by no means to all; still\nless does it apply to the greater part of modern tragedies, at least if\nthe action is to be sought in the principal characters. What comes to pass\nthrough them, and proceeds with them, has frequently no more connexion\nwith a voluntary determination, than a ship's striking on a rock in a\nstorm. But further, in the term action, as understood by the ancients, we\nmust include the resolution to bear the consequences of the deed with\nheroic magnanimity, and the execution of this determination will belong to\nits completion. The pious resolve of Antigone to perform the last duties\nto her unburied brother is soon executed and without difficulty; but\ngenuineness, on which alone rests its claim to be a fit subject for a\ntragedy, is only subsequently proved when, without repentance, and without\nany symptoms of weakness, she suffers death as its penalty. And to take an\nexample from quite a different sphere, is not Shakspeare's _Julius\nCaesar_, as respects the action, constructed on the same principle?\nBrutus is the hero of the piece; the completion of his great resolve does\nnot consist in the mere assassination of Caesar (an action ambiguous in\nitself, and of which the motives might have been ambition and jealousy),\nbut in this, that he proves himself the pure champion of Roman liberty, by\nthe calm sacrifice of his amiable life.\n\nFarther, there could be no complication of the plot without opposition,\nand this arises mostly out of the contradictory motives and views of the\nacting personages. If, therefore, we limit the notion of an action to the\ndetermination and the deed, then we shall, in most cases, have two or\nthree actions in a single tragedy. Which now is the principal action?\nEvery person thinks his own the most important, for every man is his own\ncentral point. Creon's determination to maintain his kingly authority, by\npunishing the burial of Polynices with death, is equally fixed with\nAntigone's determination, equally important, and, as we see at the end,\nnot less dangerous, as it draws after it the ruin of his whole house. It\nmay be perhaps urged that the merely negative determination is to be\nconsidered simply as the complement of the affirmative. But what if each\ndetermines on something not exactly opposite, but altogether different? In\nthe _Andromache_ of Bacine, Orestes wishes to move Hermione to return\nhis love; Hermione is resolved to compel Pyrrhus to marry her, or she will\nbe revenged on him; Pyrrhus wishes to be rid of Hermione, and to be united\nto Andromache; Andromache is desirous of saving her son, and at the same\ntime remaining true to the memory of her husband. Yet nobody ever\nquestioned the unity of this piece, as the whole has a common connexion,\nand ends with one common catastrophe. But which of the actions of the four\npersons is the main action? In strength of passion, their endeavours are\npretty nearly equal--in all the whole happiness of life is at stake; the\naction of Andromache has, however, the advantage in moral dignity, and\nRacine was therefore perfectly right in naming the piece after her.\n\nWe see here a new condition in the notion of action, namely, the reference\nto the idea of moral liberty, by which alone man is considered as the\noriginal author of his own resolutions. For, considered within the\nprovince of experience, the resolution, as the beginning of action, is not\na cause merely, but is also an effect of antecedent motives. It was in\nthis reference to a higher idea, that we previously found the _unity_\nand _wholeness_ of Tragedy in the sense of the ancients; namely, its\nabsolute beginning is the assertion of Free-will, and the acknowledgment\nof Necessity its absolute end. But we consider ourselves justified in\naffirming that Aristotle was altogether a stranger to this view; he\nnowhere speaks of the idea of Destiny as essential to Tragedy. In fact, we\nmust not expect from him a strict idea of action as a resolution and deed.\nHe says somewhere--\"The extent of a tragedy is always sufficiently great,\nif, by a series of probable or necessary consequences, a reverse from\nadversity to prosperity, or from happiness to misery, is brought about.\"\nIt is evident, therefore, that he, like all the moderns, understood by\n_action_ something merely that takes place. This action, according to\nhim, must have beginning, middle, and end, and consequently consist of a\nplurality of connected events. But where are the limits of this plurality?\nIs not the concatenation of causes and effects, backwards and forwards,\nwithout end? and may we then, with equal propriety, begin and break off\nwherever we please? In this province, can there be either beginning or\nend, corresponding to Aristotle's very accurate definition of these\nnotions? Completeness would therefore be altogether impossible. If,\nhowever, for the unity of a plurality of events nothing more is requisite\nthan casual connexion, then this rule is indefinite in the extreme, and\nthe unity admits of being narrowed or enlarged at pleasure. For every\nseries of incidents or actions, which are occasioned by each other,\nhowever much it be prolonged, may always be comprehended under a single\npoint of view, and denoted by a single name. When Calderon in a single\ndrama describes the conversion of Peru to Christianity, from its very\nbeginning (that is, from the discovery of the country) down to its\ncompletion, and when nothing actually occurs in the piece which had not\nsome influence on that event, does he not give us as much Unity in the\nabove sense as the simplest Greek tragedy, which, however, the champions\nof Aristotle's rules will by no means allow?\n\nCorneille was well aware of the difficulty of a proper definition of\nunity, as applicable to an inevitable plurality of subordinate actions;\nand in this way did he endeavour to get rid of it. \"I assume,\" says he,\n\"that in Comedy, Unity of Action consists in Unity of the Intrigue; that\nis, of the obstacles raised to the designs of the principal persons; and\nin Tragedy, in the unity of the danger, whether the hero sinks under, or\nextricates himself from it. By this, however, I do not mean to assert that\nseveral dangers in Tragedy, and several intrigues or obstacles in Comedy,\nmay not be allowable, provided only that the personage falls necessarily\nfrom one into the other; for then the escape from the first danger does\nnot make the action complete, for it draws a second after it, as also the\nclearing up of one intrigue does not place the acting persons at their\nease, because it involves them in another.\"\n\nIn the first place the difference here assumed between tragic and comic\nUnity is altogether unessential. For the manner of putting the play\ntogether is not influenced by the circumstance, that the incidents in\nTragedy are more serious, as affecting person and life; the embarrassment\nof the characters in Comedy when they cannot accomplish their design and\nintrigues, may equally be termed a danger. Corneille, like most others,\nrefers all to the idea of connexion between cause and effect. No doubt\nwhen the principal persons, either by marriage or death, are set at rest,\nthe drama comes to a close; but if nothing more is necessary to its Unity\nthan the uninterrupted progress of an opposition, which serves to keep up\nthe dramatic movement, simplicity will then come but poorly off: for,\nwithout violating this rule of Unity, we may go on to an almost endless\naccumulation of events, as in the _Thousand and One Nights_, where\nthe thread of the story is never once broken.\n\nDe la Motte, a French author, who wrote against the Unities in general,\nwould substitute for Unity of action, the _Unity of interest_. If the\nterm be not confined to the interest in the destinies of some single\npersonage, but is taken to mean in general the direction which the mind\ntakes at the sight of an event, this explanation, so understood, seems\nmost satisfactory and very near the truth.\n\nBut we should derive but little advantage from groping about empirically\nwith the commentators on Aristotle. The idea of _One_ and _Whole_ is in no\nway whatever derived from experience, but arises out of the primary and\nspontaneous activity of the human mind. To account for the manner in which\nwe in general arrive at this idea, and come to think of one and a whole,\nwould require nothing short of a system of metaphysics.\n\nThe external sense perceives in objects only an indefinite plurality of\ndistinguishable parts; the judgment, by which we comprehend these into an\nentire and perfect unity, is in all cases founded on a reference to a\nhigher sphere of ideas. Thus, for example, the mechanical unity of a watch\nconsists in its aim of measuring time; this aim, however, exists only for\nthe understanding, and is neither visible to the eye, nor palpable to the\ntouch: the organic unity of a plant or an animal consists in the idea of\nlife; but the inward intuition of life, which, in itself uncorporeal,\nnevertheless manifests itself through the medium of the corporeal world,\nis brought by us to the observation of the individual living object,\notherwise we could not obtain it from that object.\n\nThe separate parts of a work of art, and (to return to the question before\nus,) the separate parts, consequently, of a tragedy, must not be taken in\nby the eye and ear alone, but also comprehended by the understanding.\nCollectively, however, they are all subservient to one common aim, namely,\nto produce a joint impression on the mind. Here, therefore, as in the\nabove examples, the Unity lies in a higher sphere, in the feeling or in\nthe reference to ideas. This is all one; for the feeling, so far as it is\nnot merely sensual and passive, is our sense, our organ for the Infinite,\nwhich forms itself into ideas for us.\n\nFar, therefore, from rejecting the law of a perfect Unity in Tragedy as\nunnecessary, I require a deeper, more intrinsic, and more mysterious unity\nthan that with which most critics are satisfied. This Unity I find in the\ntragical compositions of Shakspeare, in as great perfection as in those of\nAeschylus and Sophocles; while, on the contrary, I do not find it in many\nof those tragedies which nevertheless are lauded as correct by the critics\nof the dissecting school.\n\nLogical coherence, the causal connexion, I hold to be equally essential to\nTragedy and every serious drama, because all the mental powers act and\nreact upon each other, and if the Understanding be compelled to take a\nleap, Imagination and Feeling do not follow the composition with equal\nalacrity. But unfortunately the champions of what is called regularity\nhave applied this rule with a degree of petty subtlety, which can have no\nother effect than that of cramping the poet, and rendering true excellence\nimpossible.\n\nWe must not suppose that the order of sequences in a tragedy resembles a\nslender thread, of which we are every moment in anxious dread lest it\nshould snap. This simile is by no means applicable, for it is admitted\nthat a plurality of subordinate actions and interests is inevitable; but\nrather let us suppose it a mighty stream, which in its impetuous course\novercomes many obstructions, and loses itself at last in the repose of the\nocean. It springs perhaps from different sources, and certainly receives\ninto itself other rivers, which hasten towards it from opposite regions.\nWhy should not the poet be allowed to carry on several, and, for a while,\nindependent streams of human passions and endeavours, down to the moment\nof their raging junction, if only he can place the spectator on an\neminence from whence he may overlook the whole of their course? And if\nthis great and swollen body of waters again divide into several branches,\nand pour itself into the sea by several mouths, is it not still one and\nthe same stream?\n\nSo much for the Unity of Action. With respect to the Unity of Time, we\nfind in Aristotle no more than the following passage: \"Moreover, the Epos\nis distinguished from Tragedy by its length: for the latter seeks as far\nas possible to circumscribe itself within one revolution of the sun, or to\nexceed it but little; the Epos is unlimited in point of time, and in that\nrespect differs from Tragedy. At first, however, the case was in this\nrespect alike in tragedies and epic poems.\"\n\nWe may in the first place observe that Aristotle is not giving a precept\nhere, but only making historical mention of a peculiarity which he\nobserved in the Grecian examples before him. But what if the Greek\ntragedians had particular reasons for circumscribing themselves within\nthis extent of time, which with the constitution of our theatres no longer\nexist? We shall immediately see that this was really the case.\n\nCorneille with great reason finds the rule extremely inconvenient; he\ntherefore prefers the more lenient interpretation, and says, \"he would not\nscruple to extend the duration of the action even to thirty hours.\"\nOthers, however, most rigorously insist on the principle that the action\nshould not occupy a longer period than that of its representation, that is\nto say, from two to three hours.--The dramatic poet must, according to\nthem, be punctual to his hour. In the main, the latter plead a sounder\ncause than the more lenient critics. For the only ground of the rule is\nthe observation of a probability which they suppose to be necessary for\nillusion, namely, that the actual time and that of the representation\nshould be the same. If once a discrepancy be allowed, such as the\ndifference between two hours and thirty, we may upon the same principle go\nmuch farther. This idea of illusion has occasioned great errors in the\ntheory of art. By this term there has often been understood the\nunwittingly erroneous belief that the represented action is reality. In\nthat case the terrors of Tragedy would be a true torture to us, they would\nbe like an Alpine load on the fancy. No, the theatrical as well as every\nother poetical illusion, is a waking dream, to which we voluntarily\nsurrender ourselves. To produce it, the poet and actors must powerfully\nagitate the mind, and the probabilities of calculation do not in the least\ncontribute towards it. This demand of literal deception, pushed to the\nextreme, would make all poetic form impossible; for we know well that the\nmythological and historical persons did not speak our language, that\nimpassioned grief does not express itself in verse, &c. What an unpoetical\nspectator were he who, instead of following the incidents with his\nsympathy, should, like a gaoler, with watch or hour-glass in hand, count\nout to the heroes of the tragedy, the minutes which they still have to\nlive and act! Is our soul then a piece of clock-work, that tells the hours\nand minutes with infallible accuracy? Has it not rather very different\nmeasures of time for agreeable occupation and for wearisomeness? In the\none case, under an easy and varied activity, the hours fly apace; in the\nother, while we feel all our mental powers clogged and impeded, they are\nstretched out to an immeasurable length. Thus it is during the present,\nbut in memory quite the reverse: the interval of dull and empty uniformity\nvanishes in a moment; while that which marks an abundance of varied\nimpressions grows and widens in the same proportion. Our body is subjected\nto external astronomical time, because the organical operations are\nregulated by it; but our mind has its own ideal time, which is no other\nbut the consciousness of the progressive development of our beings. In\nthis measure of time the intervals of an indifferent inactivity pass for\nnothing, and two important moments, though they lie years apart, link\nthemselves immediately to each other. Thus, when we have been intensely\nengaged with any matter before we fell asleep, we often resume the very\nsame train of thought the instant we awake and the intervening dreams\nvanish into their unsubstantial obscurity. It is the same with dramatic\nexhibition: our imagination overleaps with ease the times which are\npresupposed and intimated, but which are omitted because nothing important\ntakes place in them; it dwells solely on the decisive moments placed\nbefore it, by the compression of which the poet gives wings to the lazy\ncourse of days and hours.\n\nBut, it will be objected, the ancient tragedians at least observed the\nUnity of Time. This expression is by no means precise; it should at least\nbe the identity of the imaginary with the material time. But even then it\ndoes not apply to the ancients: what they observe is nothing but the\n_seeming_ continuity of time. It is of importance to attend to this\ndistinction--the seeming; for they unquestionably allow much more to take\nplace during the choral songs than could really happen within their actual\nduration. Thus the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus comprises the whole interval,\nfrom the destruction of Troy to his arrival in Mycenae, which, it is\nplain, must have consisted of a very considerable number of days; in\nthe _Trachiniae_ of Sophocles, during the course of the play, the voyage\nfrom Thessaly to Euboea is thrice performed; and again, in the _Supplices_\nof Euripides, during a single choral one, the _entire_ march of an army\nfrom Athens to Thebes is supposed to take place, a battle to be fought,\nand the General to return victorious. So far were the Greeks from this\nsort of minute and painful calculations! They had, however, a particular\nreason for observing the seeming continuity of time in the constant\npresence of the Chorus. When the Chorus leaves the stage, the continuous\nprogress is interrupted; of this we have a striking instance in the\n_Eumenides_ of Aeschylus, where the whole interval is omitted which was\nnecessary to allow Orestes to proceed from Delphi to Athens. Moreover,\nbetween the three pieces of a trilogy, which were acted consecutively, and\nwere intended to constitute a whole, there were saps of time as\nconsiderable as those between the three acts of many a Spanish drama.\n\nThe moderns have, in the division of their plays into acts, which,\nproperly speaking, were unknown to Greek Tragedy, a convenient means of\nextending the period of representation without any ill effect. For the\npoet may fairly reckon so far on the spectator's imagination as to presume\nthat during the entire suspension of the representation, he will readily\nconceive a much longer interval to have elapsed than that which is\nmeasured by the rhythmical time of the music between the acts; otherwise\nto make it appear the more natural to him, it might be as well to invite\nhim to come and see the next act to-morrow. The division into acts had its\norigin with the New Comedy, in consequence of the exclusion of the chorus.\nHorace prescribes the condition of a regular play, that it should have\nneither more nor less than five acts. The rule is so unessential, that\nWieland thought Horace was here laughing at the young Pisos in urging a\nprecept like this with such solemnity of tone as if it were really of\nimportance. If in the ancient Tragedy we may mark it as the conclusion of\nan act wherever the stage remains empty, and the chorus is left alone to\nproceed with its dance and ode, we shall often have fewer than five acts,\nbut often also more than five. As an observation that in a representation,\nbetween two or three hours long, such a number of rests are necessary for\nthe attention, it may be allowed to pass. But, considered in any other\nlight, I should like to hear a reason for it, grounded on the nature of\nDramatic Poetry, why a drama must have so many and only so many divisions.\nBut the world is governed by prescription and tradition: a smaller number\nof acts has been tolerated; to transgress the consecrated number of five\n[Footnote: Three unities, five acts: why not seven persons? These rules\nseem to proceed according to odd numbers.] is still considered a dangerous\nand atrocious profanation.\n\nAs a general rule, the division into acts seems to me erroneous, when, as\nis so often the case in modern plays, nothing takes place in the intervals\nbetween them, and when the persons at the beginning of the new act are\nexhibited in exactly the same situation as at the close of the foregoing\none. And yet this stand-still has given much less offence than the\nassumption of a considerable interval, or of incidents omitted in the\nrepresentation, because the former is merely a negative error.\n\nThe romantic poets take the liberty even of changing the scene during the\ncourse of an act. As the stage is always previously left empty, these also\nare such interruptions of the continuity, as would warrant them in the\nassumption of as many intervals. If we stumble at this, but admit the\npropriety of a division into acts, we have only to consider these changes\nof scene in the light of a greater number of short acts. But then, it will\nperhaps be objected, this is but justifying one error by another, the\nviolation of the Unity of Time by the violation of the Unity of Place: we\nshall, therefore, proceed to examine more at length how far the last-\nmentioned rule is indispensable.\n\nIn vain, as we have already said, shall we look to Aristotle for any\nopinion on this subject. It is asserted that the rule was observed by the\nancients. Not always, only generally. Of seven plays by Aeschylus, and the\nsame number by Sophocles, there are two, the _Eumenides_ and the _Ajax_,\nin which the scene is changed. That they generally retain the same scene\nfollows naturally from the constant presence of the chorus, which must be\ngot rid of by some suitable device before there can be a change of place.\nAnd then, again, it must not be forgotten, that their scene represented a\nmuch wider extent than in most cases ours does; not a mere room, but the\nopen space before several buildings: and the disclosing the interior of a\nhouse by means of the encyclema, may be considered in the same light as\nthe drawing a back curtain on our stage.\n\nThe objection to the change of scene is founded on the same erroneous idea\nof illusion which we have already discussed. To transfer the action to\nanother place would, it is urged, dispel the illusion. But now if we are\nin reality to consider the imaginary for the actual place, then must stage\ndecoration and scenery be altogether different from what it now is.\n[Footnote: It is calculated merely for a single point of view: seen from\nevery other point, the broken lines betray the imperfection of the\nimitation. Even as to the architectural import, so little attention do the\naudience in general pay to these niceties, that they are not even shocked\nwhen the actors enter and disappear through a wall without a door, between\nthe side scenes.] Johnson, a critic who, in general, is an advocate for\nthe strict rules, very justly observes, that if our imagination once goes\nthe length of transporting us eighteen hundred years back to Alexandria,\nin order to figure to ourselves the story of Antony and Cleopatra as\nactually taking place before us, the next step, of transporting ourselves\nfrom Alexandria to Rome, is easier. The capability of our mind to fly in\nthought, with the rapidity of lightning, through the immensity of time and\nspace, is well known and acknowledged in common life; and shall poetry,\nwhose very purpose it is to add all manner of wings to our mind, and which\nhas at command all the magic of genuine illusion, that is, of a lively and\nenrapturing fiction, be alone compelled to renounce this universal\nprerogative?\n\nVoltaire wishes to derive the Unity of Place and Time from the Unity of\nAction, but his reasoning is shallow in the extreme. \"For the same\nreason,\" says he, \"the Unity of Place is essential, because no one action\ncan go on in several places at once.\" But still, as we have already seen,\nseveral persons necessarily take part in the one principal action, since\nit consists of a plurality of subordinate actions, and what should hinder\nthese from proceeding in different places at the same time? Is not the\nsame war frequently carried on simultaneously in Europe and India; and\nmust not the historian recount alike in his narrative the events which\ntake place on both these scenes?\n\n\"The Unity of Time,\" he adds, \"is naturally connected with the two first.\nIf the poet represents a conspiracy, and extends the action to fourteen\ndays, he must account to me for all that takes place in these fourteen\ndays.\" Yes, for all that belongs to the matter in hand; all the rest,\nbeing extraneous to it, he passes over in silence, as every good\nstoryteller would, and no person ever thinks of the omission. \"If,\ntherefore, he places before me the events of fourteen days, this gives at\nleast fourteen different actions, however small they may be.\" No doubt, if\nthe poet were so unskilful as to wind off the fourteen days one after\nanother with visible precision; if day and night are just so often to come\nand go and the characters to go to bed and get up again just so many\ntimes. But the clever poet thrusts into the background all the intervals\nwhich are connected with no perceptible progress in the action, and in his\npicture annihilates all the pauses of absolute stand-still, and contrives,\nthough with a rapid touch, to convey an accurate idea of the period\nsupposed to have elapsed. But why is the privilege of adopting a much\nwider space between the two extremes of the piece than the material time\nof the representation important to the dramatist, and even indispensable\nto him in many subjects? The example of a conspiracy given by Voltaire\ncomes in here very opportunely.\n\nA conspiracy plotted and executed in two hours is, in the first place, an\nincredible thing. Moreover, with reference to the characters of the\npersonages of the piece, such a plot is very different from one in which\nthe conceived purpose, however dangerous, is silently persevered in by all\nthe parties for a considerable time. Though the poet does not admit this\nlapse of time into his exhibition immediately, in the midst of the\ncharacters, as in a mirror, he gives us as it were a perspective view of\nit. In this sort of perspective Shakspeare is the greatest master I know:\na single word frequently opens to view an almost interminable vista of\nantecedent states of mind. Confined within the narrow limits of time, the\npoet is in many subjects obliged to mutilate the action, by beginning\nclose to the last decisive stroke, or else he is under the necessity of\nunsuitably hurrying on its progress: on either supposition he must reduce\nwithin petty dimensions the grand picture of a strong purpose, which is no\nmomentary ebullition, but a firm resolve undauntedly maintained in the\nmidst of all external vicissitudes, till the time is ripe for its\nexecution. It is no longer what Shakspeare has so often painted, and what\nhe has described in the following lines:--\n\n  Between the acting of a dreadful thing,\n  And the first motion, all the interim is\n  Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:\n  The genius, and the mortal instruments,\n  Are then in council; and the state of man,\n  Like to a little kingdom, suffers then\n  The nature of an insurrection.\n\nBut why are the Greek and romantic poets so different in their practice\nwith respect to place and time? The spirit of our criticism will not allow\nus to follow the practice of many critics, who so summarily pronounce the\nlatter to be barbarians. On the contrary, we conceive that they lived in\nvery cultivated times, and were themselves highly cultivated men. As to\nthe ancients, besides the structure of their stage, which, as we have\nalready said, led naturally to the seeming continuity of time and to the\nabsence of change of scene, their observance of this practice was also\nfavoured by the nature of the materials on which the Grecian dramatist had\nto work. These materials were mythology, and, consequently, a fiction,\nwhich, under the handling of preceding poets, had collected into\ncontinuous and perspicuous masses, what in reality was detached and\nscattered about in various ways. Moreover, the heroic age which they\npainted was at once extremely simple in its manners, and marvellous in its\nincidents; and hence everything of itself went straight to the mark of a\ntragic resolution.\n\nBut the principal cause of the difference lies in the plastic spirit of\nthe antique, and the picturesque spirit of the romantic poetry. Sculpture\ndirects our attention exclusively to the group which it sets before us, it\ndivests it as far as possible from all external accompaniments, and where\nthey cannot be dispensed with, it indicates them as slightly as possible.\nPainting, on the other hand, delights in exhibiting, along with the\nprincipal figures, all the details of the surrounding locality and all\nsecondary circumstances, and to open a prospect into a boundless distance\nin the background; and light and shade with perspective are its peculiar\ncharms. Hence the Dramatic, and especially the Tragic Art, of the\nancients, annihilates in some measure the external circumstances of space\nand time; while, by their changes, the romantic drama adorns its more\nvaried pictures. Or, to express myself in other terms, the principle of\nthe antique poetry is ideal; that of the romantic is mystical: the former\nsubjects space and time to the internal free-agency of the mind; the\nlatter honours these incomprehensible essences as supernatural powers, in\nwhich there is somewhat of indwelling divinity.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XVIII.\n\nMischief resulting to the French Stage from too narrow Interpretation of\nthe Rules of Unity--Influence of these rules on French Tragedy--Manner of\ntreating Mythological and Historical Materials--Idea of Tragical Dignity--\nObservation of Conventional Rules--False System of Expositions.\n\n\nI come now to the influence which the above rules of Unity, strictly\ninterpreted and received as inviolable, have, with other conventional\nrules, exercised on the shape of French tragedy.\n\nWith the stage of a wholly different structure, with materials for the\nmost part dissimilar, and handled in an opposite spirit, they were still\ndesirous of retaining the rules of the ancient Tragedy, so far as they are\nto be learnt from Aristotle.\n\nThey prescribed the same simplicity of action as the Grecian Tragedy\nobserved, and yet rejected the lyrical part, which is a protracted\ndevelopment of the present moment, and consequently a stand-still of the\naction. This part could not, it is true, be retained, since we no longer\npossess the ancient music, which was subservient to the poetry, instead of\noverbearing it as ours does. If we deduct from the Greek Tragedies the\nchoral odes, and the lyrical pieces which are occasionally put into the\nmouths of individuals, they will be found nearly one-half shorter than an\nordinary French tragedy. Voltaire, in his prefaces, frequently complains\nof the great difficulty in procuring materials for five long acts. How now\nhave the gaps arising from the omission of the lyrical parts been filled\nup? By intrigue. While with the Greeks the action, measured by a few great\nmoments, rolls on uninterruptedly to its issue, the French have introduced\nmany secondary characters almost exclusively with the view that their\nopposite purposes may give rise to a multitude of impeding incidents, to\nkeep up our attention, or rather our curiosity, to the close. There was\nnow an end therefore of everything like simplicity; still they flattered\nthemselves that they had, by means of an artificial coherence, preserved\nat least a unity for the understanding.\n\nIntrigue is not, in itself, a Tragical motive; to Comedy, it is essential,\nas we have already shown. Comedy, even at its close, must often be\nsatisfied with mere suppositions for the understanding; but this is by no\nmeans the poetic side of this demi-prosaic species of the Drama. Although\nthe French Tragedy endeavours in the details of execution to rise by\nearnestness, dignity, and pathos, as high as possible above Comedy, in its\ngeneral structure and composition, it still bears, in my opinion, but too\nclose an affinity to it. In many French tragedies I find indeed a Unity\nfor the Understanding, but the Feeling is left unsatisfied. Out of a\ncomplication of painful and violent situations we do, it is true, arrive\nat last, happily or unhappily, at a state of repose; but in the\nrepresented course of affairs there is no secret and mysterious revelation\nof a higher order of things; there is no allusion to any consolatory\nthoughts of heaven, whether in the dignity of human nature successfully\nmaintained in its conflicts with fate, or in the guidance of an over-\nruling providence. To such a tranquillizing feeling the so-called poetical\njustice is partly unnecessary, and partly also, so very questionably and\nobliquely is it usually administered, very insufficient. But even poetical\njustice (which I cannot help considering as a made-up example of a\ndoctrine false in itself, and one, moreover, which by no means tends to\nthe excitation of truly moral feelings) has not unfrequently been\naltogether neglected by the French tragedians.\n\nThe use of intrigue is certainly well calculated to effect the all-desired\nshort duration of an important action. For the intriguer is ever\nexpeditious, and loses no time in attaining to his object. But the mighty\ncourse of human destinies proceeds, like the change of seasons, with\nmeasured pace: great designs ripen slowly; stealthily and hesitatingly the\ndark suggestions of deadly malice quit the abysses of the mind for the\nlight of day; and, as Horace, with equal truth and beauty observes, \"the\nflying criminal is only limpingly followed by penal retribution.\"\n[Footnote:\n  Rar\u00f2 antecedentem scelestum\n  Deseruit pede paena claudo.--TRANS.] Let only the attempt be made, for\ninstance, to bring within the narrow frame of the Unity of Time\nShakspeare's gigantic picture of Macbeth's murder of Duncan, his\ntyrannical usurpation and final fall; let as many as may be of the events\nwhich the great dramatist successively exhibits before us in such dread\narray be placed anterior to the opening of the piece, and made the subject\nof an after recital, and it will be seen how thereby the story loses all\nits sublime significance. This drama does, it is true, embrace a\nconsiderable period of time: but does its rapid progress leave us leisure\nto calculate this? We see, as it were, the Fates weaving their dark web on\nthe whistling loom of time; and we are drawn irresistibly on by the storm\nand whirlwind of events, which hurries on the hero to the first atrocious\ndeed, and from it to innumerable crimes to secure its fruits with\nfluctuating fortunes and perils, to his final fall on the field of battle.\nSuch a tragic exhibition resembles a comet's course, which, hardly visible\nat first, and revealing itself only to the astronomic eye, appears at a\nnebulous distance in the heavens, but soon soars with unheard-of and\naccelerating rapidity towards the central point of our system, scattering\ndismay among the nations of the earth, till, in a moment, when least\nexpected, with its portentous tail it overspreads the half of the\nfirmament with resplendent flame.\n\nFor the sake of the prescribed Unity of Time the French poets must fain\nrenounce all those artistic effects which proceed from the gradually\naccelerated growth of any object in the mind, or in the external world,\nthrough the march of time, while of all that in a drama is calculated to\nfascinate the eye they were through their wretched arrangement of stage-\nscenery deprived in a great measure by the Unity of Place. Accidental\ncircumstances might in truth enforce a closer observance of this rule, or\neven render it indispensable. From a remark of Corneille's [Footnote: In\nhis _Premier Discours sur la Po\u00e9sie Dramatique_ he says: \"Une chanson\na quelquefois bonne gr\u00e2ce; et dans les pi\u00e8ces de machines cet ornement est\nredevenu n\u00e9cessaire pour remplir les oreilles du spectateur, _pendant\nque les machines descendent_.\"] we are led to conjecture that stage-\nmachinery in France was in his time extremely clumsy and imperfect. It was\nmoreover the general custom for a number of distinguished spectators to\nhave seats on both sides of the stage itself, which hardly left a breadth\nof ten paces for the free movements of the actors. Regnard, in _Le\nDistrait_, gives us an amusing description of the noise and disorder\nthese fashionable _petit-ma\u00eetres_ in his day kept up in this privileged\nplace, how chattering and laughing behind the backs of the actors they\ndisturbed the spectators, and drew away attention from the play to\nthemselves as the prominent objects of the stage. This evil practice\ncontinued even down to Voltaire's time, who has the merit of having by his\nzealous opposition to it obtained at last its complete abolition, on the\nappearance of his _Semiramis_. How could they have ventured to make a\nchange of scene in presence of such an unpoetical chorus as this, totally\nunconnected with the piece, and yet thrust into the very middle of the\nrepresentation? In the _Cid_, the scene of the action manifestly changes\nseveral times in the course of the same act, and yet in the representation\nthe material scene was never changed. In the English and Spanish plays of\nthe same date the case was generally the same; certain signs, however,\nwere agreed on which served to denote the change of place, and the docile\nimagination of the spectators followed the poet whithersoever he chose.\nBut in France, the young men of quality who sat on the stage lay in wait\nto discover something to laugh at; and as all theatrical effect requires a\ncertain distance, and when viewed too closely appears ludicrous, all\nattempt at it was, in such a state of things, necessarily abandoned, and\nthe poet confined himself principally to the dialogue between a few\ncharacters, the stage being subjected to all the formalities of an\nantechamber.\n\nAnd in truth, for the most part, the scene did actually represent an\nantechamber, or at least a hall in the interior of a palace. As the action\nof the Greek tragedies is always carried on in open places surrounded by\nthe abode or symbols of majesty, so the French poets have modified their\nmythological materials, from a consideration of the scene, to the manners\nof modern courts. In a princely palace no strong emotion, no breach of\nsocial etiquette is allowable; and as in a tragedy affairs cannot always\nproceed with pure courtesy, every bolder deed, therefore, every act of\nviolence, every thing startling and calculated strongly to impress the\nsenses, as transacted behind the scenes, and related merely by confidants\nor other messengers. And yet as Horace, centuries ago remarked, whatever\nis communicated to the ear excites the mind far more feebly than what is\nexhibited to the trusty eye, and the spectator informs himself of. What he\nrecommends to be withdrawn from observation is only the incredible and the\nrevoltingly cruel. The dramatic effect of the visible may, it is true, be\nliable to great abuse; and it is possible for a theatre to degenerate into\na noisy arena of mere bodily events, to which words and gestures may be\nbut superfluous appendages. But surely the opposite extreme of allowing to\nthe eye no conviction of its own, and always referring to something\nabsent, is deserving of equal reprobation. In many French tragedies the\nspectator might well entertain a feeling that great actions were actually\ntaking place, but that he had chosen a bad place to be witness of them. It\nis certain that the obvious impression of a drama is greatly impaired when\nthe effects, which the spectators behold, proceed from invisible and\ndistant causes. The converse procedure of this is preferable,--to exhibit\nthe cause itself, and to allow the effect to be simply recounted. Voltaire\nwas aware of the injury which theatrical effect sustained from the\nestablished practice of the tragic stage in France; he frequently insisted\non the necessity of richer scenical decorations; and he himself in his\npieces, and others after his example, have ventured to represent many\nthings to the eye, which before would have been considered as unsuitable,\nnot to say, ridiculous. But notwithstanding this attempt, and the still\nearlier one of Racine in his _Athalie_, the eye is now more out of\nfavour than ever with the fashionable critics. Wherever any thing is\nallowed to be seen, or an action is performed bodily before them, they\nscent a melodrama; and the idea that Tragedy, if its purity, or rather its\nbald insipidity, was not watchfully guarded, would be gradually\namalgamated with this species of play, (of which a word hereafter,) haunts\nthem as a horrible phantom.\n\nVoltaire himself has indulged in various infractions of the Unity of Time;\nnevertheless he has not dared directly to attack the rule itself as\nunessential. He did but wish to see a greater latitude given to its\ninterpretation. It would, he thought, be sufficient if the action took\nplace within the circuit of a palace or even of a town, though in a\ndifferent part of them. In order however, to avoid a change of scene, he\nwould have it so contrived as at once to comprise the several localities.\nHere he betrays very confused ideas, both of architecture and perspective.\nHe refers to Palladio's theatre at Vicenza, which he could hardly have\never seen: for his account of this theatre, which, as we have already\nobserved, is itself a misconception of the structure of the ancient stage,\nappears to be altogether founded on descriptions which clearly he did not\nunderstand. In the _Semiramis_, the play in which he first attempted\nto carry into practice his principles on this subject, he has fallen into\na singular error. Instead of allowing the persons to proceed to various\nplaces, he has actually brought the places to the persons. The scene in\nthe third act is a cabinet; this cabinet, to use Voltaire's own words,\ngives way (without--let it be remembered--the queen leaving it), to a\ngrand saloon magnificently furnished. The Mausoleum of Ninus too, which\nstood at first in an open place before the palace, and opposite to the\ntemple of the Magi, has also found means to steal to the side of the\nthrone in the centre of this hall. After yielding his spirit to the light\nof day, to the terror of many beholders, and again receiving it back, it\nrepairs in the following act to its old place, where it probably had left\nits obelisks behind. In the fifth act we see that the tomb is extremely\nspacious, and provided with subterraneous passages. What a noise would the\nFrench critics make were a foreigner to commit such ridiculous blunders.\nIn _Brutus_ we have another example of this running about of the\nscene with the persons. Before the opening of the first act we have a long\nand particular description of the scenic arrangement: the Senate is\nassembled between the Capitoline temple and the house of the Consuls, in\nthe open air. Afterwards, on the rising of the assembly, Arons and Albin\nalone remain behind, and of them it is now said: _qui sont suppos\u00e9s \u00eatre\nentr\u00e9s de la salle d'audience dans un autre appartement de la maison de\nBrutus_. What is the poet's meaning here? Is the scene changed without\nbeing empty, or does he trust so far to the imagination of his spectators,\nas to require them against the evidence of their senses, to take for a\nchamber a scene which is ornamented in quite a different style? And how\ndoes that which in the first description is a public place become\nafterwards a hall of audience? In this scenic arrangement there must be\neither legerdemain or a bad memory.\n\nWith respect to the Unity of Place, we may in general observe that it is\noften very unsatisfactorily observed, even in comedy, by the French poets,\nas well as by all who follow the same system of rules. The scene is not,\nit is true, changed, but things which do not usually happen in the same\nplace are made to follow each other. What can be more improbable than that\npeople should confide their secrets to one another in a place where they\nknow their enemies are close at hand? or that plots against a sovereign\nshould be hatched in his own antechamber? Great importance is attached to\nthe principle that the stage should never in the course of an act remain\nempty. This is called binding the scenes. But frequently the rule is\nobserved in appearance only, since the personages of the preceding scene\ngo out at one door the very moment that those of the next enter at\nanother. Moreover, they must not make their entrance or exit without a\nmotive distinctly announced: to ensure this particular pains are taken;\nthe confidants are despatched on missions, and equals also are expressly,\nand sometimes not even courteously, told to go out of the way. With all\nthese endeavours, the determinations of the places where things take place\nare often so vague and contradictory, that in many pieces, as a German\nwriter [Footnote: Joh. Elias Schlegel, in his _Gedanken zur Aufnahme des\nD\u00e4nischen Theatres_.] has well said, we ought to insert under the list\nof the _dramatis personae_--\"The scene is on the theatre.\"\n\nThese inconveniences arise almost inevitably from an anxious observance of\nthe Greek rules, under a total change of circumstances. To avoid the\npretended improbability which would lie in springing from one time and one\nplace to another, they have often involved themselves in real and grave\nimprobabilities. A thousand times have we reason to repeat the observation\nof the Academy, in their criticism on the _Cid_, respecting the crowding\ntogether so many events in the period of twenty-four hours: \"From the fear\nof sinning against the rules of art, the poet has rather chosen to sin\nagainst the rules of nature.\" But this imaginary contradiction between art\nand nature could only be suggested by a low and narrow range of artistic\nideas.\n\nI come now to a more important point, namely, to the handling of the\nsubject-matter unsuitably to its nature and quality. The Greek tragedians,\nwith a few exceptions, selected their subjects from the national\nmythology. The French tragedians borrow theirs sometimes from the ancient\nmythology, but much more frequently from the history of almost every age\nand nation, and their mode of treating mythological and historical\nsubjects respectively, is but too often not properly mythological, and not\nproperly historical. I will explain myself more distinctly. The poet who\nselects an ancient mythological fable, that is, a fable connected by\nhallowing tradition with the religious belief of the Greeks, should\ntransport both himself and his spectators into the spirit of antiquity; he\nshould keep ever before our minds the simple manners of the heroic ages,\nwith which alone such violent passions and actions are consistent and\ncredible; his personages should preserve that near resemblance to the gods\nwhich, from their descent, and the frequency of their immediate\nintercourse with them, the ancients believed them to possess; the\nmarvellous in the Greek religion should not be purposely avoided or\nunderstated, but the imagination of the spectators should be required to\nsurrender itself fully to the belief of it. Instead of this, however, the\nFrench poets have given to their mythological heroes and heroines the\nrefinement of the fashionable world, and the court manners of the present\nday; they have, because those heroes were princes (\"shepherds of the\npeople,\" Homer calls them), accounted for their situations and views by\nthe motives of a calculating policy, and violated, in every point, not\nmerely archaeological costume, but all the costume of character. In\n_Phaedra_, this princess is, upon the supposed death of Theseus, to\nbe declared regent during the minority of her son. How was this compatible\nwith the relations of the Grecian women of that day? It brings us down to\nthe times of a Cleopatra. Hermione remains alone, without the protection\nof a brother or a father, at the court of Pyrrhus, nay, even in his\npalace, and yet she is not married to him. With the ancients, and not\nmerely in the Homeric age, marriage consisted simply in the bride being\nreceived into the bridegroom's house. But whatever justification of\nHermione's situation may be found in the practice of European courts, it\nis not the less repugnant to female dignity, and the more indecorous, as\nHermione is in love with the unwilling Pyrrhus, and uses every influence\nto incline him to marriage. What would the Greeks have thought of this\nbold and indecent courtship? No doubt it would appear equally offensive to\na French audience, if Andromache were exhibited to them in the situation\nin which she appears in Euripides, where, as a captive, her person is\nenjoyed by the conqueror of her country. But when the ways of thinking of\ntwo nations are so totally different, why should there be so painful an\neffort to polish a subject founded on the manners of the one, with the\nmanners of the other? What is allowed to remain after this polishing\nprocess will always exhibit a striking incongruity with that which is new-\nmodelled, and to change the whole is either impossible, or in nowise\npreferable to a new invention. The Grecian tragedians certainly allowed\nthemselves a great latitude in changing the circumstances of their myths,\nbut the alterations were always consistent with the general and prevalent\nnotions of the heroic age. On the other hand, they always left the\ncharacters as they received them from tradition and an earlier fiction, by\nmeans of which the cunning of Ulysses, the wisdom of Nestor, and the wrath\nof Achilles, had almost become proverbial. Horace particularly insists on\nthe rule. But how unlike is the Achilles of Racine's _Iphigenia_ to\nthe Achilles of Homer! The gallantry ascribed to him is not merely a sin\nagainst Homer, but it renders the whole story improbable. Are human\nsacrifices conceivable among a people whose chiefs and heroes are so\nsusceptible of the tenderest emotions? In vain recourse is had to the\npowerful influences of religion: history teaches that a cruel religion\ninvariably becomes milder with the softening manners of a people.\n\nIn these new exhibitions of ancient fables, the marvellous has been\nstudiously rejected as alien to our belief. But when we are once brought\nfrom a world in which it was a part of the very order of things, into a\nworld entirely prosaical and historically settled, then whatever marvel\nthe poet may exhibit must, from the insulated state in which it stands,\nappear only so much the more incredible. In Homer, and in the Greek\ntragedians, everything takes place in the presence of the gods, and when\nthey become visible, or manifest themselves in some wonderful operation,\nwe are in no degree astonished. On the other hand, all the labour and art\nof the modern poets, all the eloquence of their narratives, cannot\nreconcile our minds to these exhibitions. Examples are superfluous, the\nthing is so universally known. Yet I cannot help cursorily remarking how\nsingularly Racine, cautious as he generally is, has on an occasion of this\nkind involved himself in an inconsistency. Respecting the origin of the\nfable of Theseus descending into the world below to carry off Proserpine\nfor his friend Pirith\u00f6us, he adopts the historical explanation of\nPlutarch, that he was the prisoner of a Thracian king, whose wife he\nendeavoured to carry off for his friend. On this he grounds the report of\nthe death of Theseus, which, at the opening of the play, was current. And\nyet he allows Phaedra [Footnote:\n  Je l'aime, non point tel que l'ont vu les enfers,\n  Volage adorateur de mille objets divers,\n  Qui va du dieu des morts d\u00e9shonorer la couche.] to mention the fabulous\ntradition as an earlier achievement of the hero. How many women then did\nTheseus wish to carry off for Pirith\u00f6us? Pradon manages this much better:\nwhen Theseus is asked by a confidant if he really had been in the world\nbelow, he answers, how could any sensible man possibly believe so silly a\ntale! he merely availed himself of the credulity of the people, and gave\nout this report from political motives.\n\nSo much with respect to the manner of handling mythological materials.\nWith respect to the historical, in the first place, the same objection\napplies, namely, that the French manners of the day are substituted to\nthose which properly belong to the several persons, and that the\ncharacters do not sufficiently bear the colour of their age and nation.\nBut to this we must add another detrimental circumstance. A mythological\nsubject is in its nature poetical, and ever ready to take a new poetical\nshape. In the French Tragedy, as in the Greek, an equable and pervading\ndignity is required, and the French language is even much more fastidious\nin this respect, as very many things cannot be at all mentioned in French\npoetry. But in history we are on a prosaic domain, and the truth of the\npicture requires conditions, circumstances, and features, which cannot be\ngiven without a greater or less descent from the elevation of the tragical\ncothurnus; such as has been made without hesitation by Shakspeare, the\nmost perfect of historical dramatists. The French tragedians, however,\ncould not bring their minds to submit to this, and hence their works are\nfrequently deficient in those circumstances which give life and truth to a\npicture; and when an obstinate prosaical circumstance must after all be\nmentioned, they avail themselves of laboured and artificial\ncircumlocutions.\n\nRespecting the tragic dignity of historical subjects, peculiar principles\nhave prevailed. Corneille was in the best way of the world when he brought\nhis _Cid_ on the stage, a story of the middle ages, which belonged to\na kindred people, characterized by chivalrous love and honour, and in\nwhich the principal characters are not even of princely rank. Had this\nexample been followed, a number of prejudices respecting the tragic\nCeremonial would have disappeared of themselves; Tragedy from its greater\nverisimilitude, and being most readily intelligible, and deriving its\nmotives from still current modes of thinking and acting, would have come\nmore home to the heart: the very nature of the subjects would alone have\nturned them from the stiff observation of the rules of the ancients, which\nthey did not understand, as indeed Corneille never deviated so far from\nthese rules as, in the train, no doubt, of his Spanish model, he does in\nthis very piece; in one word, the French Tragedy would have become\nnational and truly romantic. But I know not what malignant star was in the\nascendant: notwithstanding the extraordinary success of his _Cid_,\nCorneille did not go one step further, and the attempt which he made found\nno imitators. In the time of Louis XIV. it was considered as a matter\nestablished beyond dispute, that the French, nay generally the modern\nEuropean history was not adapted for the purposes of tragedy. They had\nrecourse therefore to the ancient universal history: besides the Romans\nand Grecians, they frequently hunted about among the Assyrians,\nBabylonians, Persians, and Egyptians, for events which, however obscure\nthey might often be, they could dress out for the tragic stage. Racine,\naccording to his own confession, made a hazardous attempt with the Turks;\nit was successful, and since that time the necessary tragical dignity has\nbeen allowed to this barbarous people, among whom the customs and habits\nof the rudest despotism and the most abject slavery are often united in\nthe same person, and nothing is known of love, but the most luxurious\nsensuality; while, on the other hand, it has been refused to the\nEuropeans, notwithstanding that their religion, their sense of honour, and\ntheir respect for the female sex, plead so powerfully in their behalf. But\nit was merely modern, and more particularly French names that, as\nuntragical and unpoetical, could not, for a moment, be tolerated; for the\nheroes of antiquity are with them Frenchmen in everything but the name;\nand antiquity was merely a thin veil beneath which the modern French\ncharacter might be distinctly recognized. Racine's Alexander is certainly\nnot the Alexander of history; but if under this name we imagine to\nourselves the great Cond\u00e9, the whole will appear tolerably natural. And\nwho does not suppose that Louis XIV. and the Duchess de la Valli\u00e8re are\nrepresented under the names Titus and Berenice? The poet has himself\nflatteringly alluded to his sovereign. Voltaire's expression is somewhat\nstrong, when he says that in reading the tragedies which succeeded those\nof Racine we might fancy ourselves perusing the romances of Mademoiselle\nScuderi, which paint citizens of Paris under the names of heroes of\nantiquity. He alluded herein more particularly to Crebillon. Corneille and\nRacine, however, deeply tainted as they were with the way of thinking of\ntheir own nation, were still at times penetrated with the spirit of true\nobjective exhibition. Corneille gives us a masterly picture of the\nSpaniards in the _Cid_; and this is conceivable enough, for he drew\nhis materials from the fountain-head. With the exception of the original\nsin of gallantry, he succeeded also pretty well with the Romans: of one\npart of their character, at least, he had a tolerable conception, their\npredominating patriotism, and unbending pride of liberty, and the\nmagnanimity of their political sentiments. All this, it is true, is nearly\nthe same as we find it in Lucan, varnished over with a certain inflation\nand self-conscious pomp. The simple republican austerity, and their\nreligious submissiveness, was beyond his reach. Racine has admirably\npainted the corruptions of the Romans of the Empire, and the first timid\noutbreaks of Nero's tyranny. It is true, as he himself gratefully\nacknowledges, he had in this Tacitus for a predecessor, but still it is a\ngreat merit so ably to translate history into poetry. He had also a just\nperception of the general spirit of Hebrew history; here he was guided by\nreligious reverence, which, in greater or less degree, the poet ought\nalways to bring with him to his subject. He was less successful with the\nTurks: Bajazet makes love quite in the style of an European; the\nbloodthirsty policy of Eastern despotism is well portrayed, it is true, in\nthe Vizier: but the whole resembles Turkey upside down, where the women,\ninstead of being slaves, have contrived to get possession of the\ngovernment, which thereupon assumes so revolting an appearance as to\nincline us to believe the Turks are, after all, not much to blame in\nkeeping their women under lock and key. Neither has Voltaire, in my\nopinion, succeeded much better in his _Mahomet_ and _Zaire_; throughout we\nmiss the glowing colouring of Oriental fancy. Voltaire has, however, this\ngreat merit, that as he insisted on treating subjects with more historical\ntruth, he made it also the object of his own endeavours; and farther, that\nhe again raised to the dignity of the tragical stage the chivalrous and\nChristian characters of modern Europe, which since the time of the _Cid_\nhad been altogether excluded from it. His _Lusignan_ and _Nerestan_ are\namong his most truthful, affecting, and noble creations; his _Tancred_,\nalthough as a whole the invention is deficient in keeping, will always,\nlike his namesake in Tasso, win every heart. _Alzire_, in a historical\npoint of view, is highly eminent. It is singular enough that Voltaire, in\nhis restless search after tragic materials, has actually travelled the\nwhole world over; for as in _Alzire_ he exhibits the American tribes of\nthe other hemisphere, in his _Dschingiskan_ he brings Chinese on the\nstage, from the farthest extremity of ours, who, however, from the\nfaithful observation of their costume, have almost the stamp of comic or\ngrotesque figures.\n\nUnfortunately Voltaire came too late with his projected reformation of the\ntheatre: much had been already ruined by the trammels within which French\nTragedy had been so long confined; and the prejudice which gave such\ndisproportionate importance to the observance of external rules and\nproprieties was, at it appears, established firmly and irrevocably.\n\nNext to the rules regarding the external mechanism, which without\nexamination they had adopted from the ancients, the prevailing national\nideas of social propriety were the principal hindrances which impeded the\nFrench poets in the exercise of their talents, and in many cases put it\naltogether out of their power to reach the highest tragical effect. The\nproblem which the dramatic poet has to solve is to combine poetic form\nwith nature and truth, and consequently nothing ought to be included in\nthe former which is inadmissible by the latter. French Tragedy, from the\ntime of Richelieu, developed itself under the favour and protection of the\ncourt; and even its scene had (as already observed) the appearance of an\nantechamber. In such an atmosphere the spectators might impress the poet\nwith the idea that courtesy is one of the original and essential\ningredients of human nature. But in Tragedy men are either matched with\nmen in fearful strife, or set in close struggle with misfortune; we can,\ntherefore, exact from them only an ideal dignity, for from the nice\nobservance of social punctilios they are absolved by their situation. So\nlong as they possess sufficient presence of mind not to violate them, so\nlong as they do not appear completely overpowered by their grief and\nmental agony, the deepest emotion is not as yet reached. The poet may\nindeed be allowed to take that care for his persons which Caesar, after\nhis death-blow, had for himself, and make them fall with decorum. He must\nnot exhibit human nature in all its repulsive nakedness. The most heart-\nrending and dreadful pictures must still be invested with beauty, and\nendued with a dignity higher than the common reality. This miracle is\neffected by poetry: it has its indescribable sighs, its immediate accents\nof the deepest agony, in which there still runs a something melodious. It\nis only a certain full-dressed and formal beauty, which is incompatible\nwith the greatest truth of expression. And yet it is exactly this beauty\nthat is demanded in the style of a French tragedy. No doubt something too\nis to be ascribed to the quality of their language and versification. The\nFrench language is wholly incapable of many bold flights, it has little\npoetical freedom, and it carries into poetry all the grammatical stiffness\nof prose. This their poets have often acknowledged and lamented. Besides,\nthe Alexandrine with its couplets, with its hemistichs of equal length, is\na very symmetrical and monotonous species of verse, and far better adapted\nfor the expression of antithetical maxims, than for the musical\ndelineation of passion with its unequal, abrupt, and erratic course of\nthoughts. But the main cause lies in a national feature, in the social\nendeavour never to forget themselves in presence of others, and always to\nexhibit themselves to the greatest possible advantage. It has been often\nremarked, that in French Tragedy the poet is always too easily seen\nthrough the discourses of the different personages, that he communicates\nto them his awn presence of mind, his cool reflections on their situation,\nand his desire to shine on all occasions. When most of their tragical\nspeeches are closely examined, they are seldom found to be such as the\npersons speaking or acting by themselves without restraint would deliver;\nsomething or other is generally discovered in them which betrays a\nreference to the spectator more or less perceptible. Before, however, our\ncompassion can be powerfully excited, we must be familiar with the\npersons; but how is this possible if we are always to see them under the\nyoke of their designs and endeavours, or, what is worse, of an unnatural\nand assumed grandeur of character? We must overhear them in their\nunguarded moments, when they imagine themselves alone, and throw aside all\ncare and reserve.\n\nEloquence may and ought to have a place in Tragedy, but in so far as it is\nin some measure artificial in its method and preparation, it can only be\nin character when the speaker is sufficiently master of himself; for, for\noverpowering passion, an unconscious and involuntary eloquence is alone\nsuitable. The truly inspired orator forgets himself in the subject of his\neloquence. We call it rhetoric when he thinks less of his subject than of\nhimself, and of the art in which he flatters himself he has obtained a\nmastery. Rhetoric, and rhetoric in a court dress, prevails but too much in\nmany French tragedies, especially in those of Corneille, instead of the\nsuggestions of a noble, but simple and artless nature; Racine and\nVoltaire, however, have come much nearer to the true conception of a mind\ncarried away by its sufferings. Whenever the tragic hero is able to\nexpress his pain in antitheses and ingenious allusions, we may safely\nreserve our pity. This sort of conventional dignity is, as it were, a coat\nof mail, which prevents the pain from reaching the inmost heart. On\naccount of their retaining this festal pomp in situations where the most\ncomplete self-forgetfulness would be natural, Schiller has wittily enough\ncompared the heroes in French Tragedy to the kings in old engravings who\nlie in bed, crown, sceptre, robes and all.\n\nThis social refinement prevails through the whole of French literature and\nart. Social refinement sharpens, no doubt, the sense for the ludicrous,\nand even on that account, when it is carried to a fastidious excess, it is\nthe death of every thing like enthusiasm. For all enthusiasm, all poetry,\nhas a ludicrous aspect for the unfeeling. When, therefore, such a way of\nthinking has once become universal in a nation, a certain negative\ncriticism will be associated with it. A thousand different things must be\navoided, and in attending to these, the highest object of all, that which\nought properly to be accomplished, is lost sight of. The fear of ridicule\nis the conscience of French poets; it has clipt their wings, and impaired\ntheir flight. For it is exactly in the most serious kind of poetry that\nthis fear must torment them the most; for extremes run into one another,\nand whenever pathos fails it gives rise to laughter and parody. It is\namusing to witness Voltaire's extreme agony when he was threatened with a\nparody of his _Semiramis_ on the Italian theatre. In a petition to\nthe queen, this man, whose whole life had been passed in turning every\nthing great and venerable into ridicule, urges his situation as one of the\nservants of the king's household, as a ground for obtaining from high\nauthority the prohibition of a very innocent and allowable amusement. As\nFrench wits have indulged themselves in turning every thing in the world\ninto ridicule, and more especially the mental productions of other\nnations, they will also allow us on our part to divert ourselves at the\nexpense of their tragic writers, if with all their care they have now and\nthen split upon the rock of which they were most in dread. Lessing has,\nwith the most irresistible and victorious wit, pointed out the ludicrous\nnature of the very plans of _Rodogune_, _Semiramis_, _Merope_, and\n_Zaire_. But both in this respect and with regard to single laughable\nturns, a rich harvest might yet be gathered. [Footnote: A few examples of\nthe latter will be sufficient. The lines with which Theseus in the\n_Oedipus_ of Corneille opens his part, are deserving of one of the first\nplaces:\n  Quelque ravage affreux qu'\u00e9tale ici la peste\n  L'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste.\nThe following from his _Otho_ are equally well known:\n  Dis moi donc, lorsqu' Othon s'est offert \u00e0 Camille,\n  A-t-il paru contraint? a-t-elle \u00e9t\u00e9 facile?\n  Son hommage aupr\u00e8s d'elle a-t-il eu plein effet?\n  Comment l'a-t-elle pris, et comment l'a-t-il fait?\nWhere it is almost inconceivable, that the poet could have failed to see\nthe application which might be made of the passage, especially as he\nallows the confidant to answer, _J'ai tout vu._ That _Attila_ should treat\nthe kings who are dependent on him like good-for-nothing fellows:\n  Ils ne sont pas venus, nos deux rois; qu'on leur die\n  Qu'ils se font trop attendre, et qu' Attila s'ennuie\n  Qu'alors que je les mande ils doivent se h\u00e2ter:\nmay in one view appear very serious and true; but nevertheless it appears\nexceedingly droll to us from the turn of expression, and especially from\nits being the opening of the piece. Generally speaking, with respect to\nthe ludicrous, Corneille lived in a state of great innocence; since his\ntime the world has become a great deal more witty. Hence, after making all\nallowances for what he cannot justly be blamed for, what, namely, arises\nmerely from his language having become obsolete, we shall still find an\nample field remaining for our ridicule. Among the numerous plays which are\nnot reckoned among his master-pieces, we have only to turn up any one at\nrandom to light upon numerous passages susceptible of a ludicrous\napplication. Racine, from the refinement and moderation which were natural\nto him, was much better guarded against this danger; but yet, here and\nthere, expressions of the same kind escape from him. Among these we may\ninclude the whole of the speech in which Theramenes exhorts his pupil\nHippolytus to yield himself up to love. The ludicrous can hardly be\ncarried farther than it is in these lines:\n  Craint-on de s'\u00e9garer sur les traces d'Hercule?\n  Quels courages Venus n'a-t-elle pas domt\u00e9s?\n  Vous m\u00eame, _o\u00f9 seriez vous_, vous qui la combattez,\n  Si toujours Antiope, \u00e0 ses loix oppos\u00e9e,\n  D'une _pudique_ ardeur n'eut br\u00fbl\u00e9 pour Th\u00e9s\u00e9e?\nIn _Berenice_, Antiochus receives his confidant, whom he had sent to\nannounce his visit to the Queen, with the words: _Arsace, entrerons-\nnous?_ This humble patience in an antechamber would appear even\nundignified in Comedy, but it appears too pitiful even for a second-rate\ntragical hero. Antiochus says afterwards to the queen:\n         Je me suis t\u00fb cinq ans\n  Madame, et vais encore me taire plus long-tems--\nAnd to give an immediate proof of his intention by his conduct, he repeats\nafter this no less than fifty verses in a breath.\n\nWhen Orosman says to Zaire, whom he pretends to love with European\ntenderness,\n  Je sais que notre loi, favorable aux plaisirs\n  Ouvre un champ sans limite _\u00e0 nos vastes d\u00e9sirs_:\nhis language is still more indecorous than laughable. But the answer of\nZaire to her confidante, who thereupon reminded her that she is a\nChristian, is highly comic:\n  Ah! que dis-tu? pourquoi rappeler mes ennuis?\nUpon the whole, however, Voltaire is much more upon his guard against the\nludicrous than his predecessors: this was perfectly natural, for in his\ntime the rage of turning every thing into ridicule was most prevalent. We\nmay boldly affirm that in our days a single verse of the same kind as\nhundreds in Corneille would inevitably ruin any play.] But the war which\nLessing carried on against the French stage was much more merciless,\nperhaps, than we, in the present day, should be justified in waging. At\nthe time when he published his _Dramaturgie_, we Germans had scarcely\nany but French tragedies upon our stages, and the extravagant predilection\nfor them as classical models had not then been combated. At present the\nnational taste has declared itself so decidedly against them, that we have\nnothing to fear of an illusion in that quarter.\n\nIt is farther said that the French dramatists have to do with a public not\nonly extremely fastidious in its dislike of any low intermixture, and\nhighly susceptible of the ludicrous, but also extremely impatient. We will\nallow them the full enjoyment of this self-flattery: for we have no doubt\nthat their real meaning is, that this impatience is a proof of quickness\nof apprehension and sharpness of wit. It is susceptible, however, of\nanother interpretation: superficial knowledge, and more especially\nintrinsic emptiness of mind, invariably display themselves in fretful\nimpatience. But however this may be, the disposition in question has had\nboth a favourable and an unfavourable influence on the structure of their\npieces. Favourable, in so far as it has compelled them to lop off every\nsuperfluity, to go directly to the main business, to be perspicuous, to\nstudy compression, to endeavour to turn every moment to the utmost\nadvantage. All these are good theatrical proprieties, and have been the\nmeans of recommending the French tragedies as models of perfection to\nthose who in the examination of works of art, measure everything by the\ndry test of the understanding, rather than listen to the voice of\nimagination and feeling. It has been unfavourable, in so far as even\nmotion, rapidity, and a continued stretch of expectation, become at length\nmonotonous and wearisome. It is like a music from which the _piano_\nshould be altogether excluded, and in which even the difference between\n_forte_ and _fortissimo_ should, from the mistaken emulation of the\nperformers, be rendered indistinguishable. I find too few resting-places\nin their tragedies similar to those in the ancient tragedies where the\nlyric parts come in. There are moments in human life which are dedicated\nby every religious mind to self-meditation, and when, with the view turned\ntowards the past and the future, it keeps as it were holiday. This\nsacredness of the moment is not, I think, sufficiently reverenced: the\nactors and spectators alike are incessantly hurried on to something that\nis to follow; and we shall find very few scenes indeed, where a mere\nstate, independent of its causal connexion, is represented developing\nitself. The question with them is always _what_ happens, and only too\nseldom _how_ happens it. And yet this is the main point, if an impression\nis to be made on the witnesses of human events. Hence every thing like\nsilent effect is almost entirely excluded from their domain of dramatic\nart. The only leisure which remains for the actor for his silent pantomime\nis during the delivery of the long discourses addressed to him, when,\nhowever, it more frequently serves to embarrass him than assists him\nin the development of his part. They are satisfied if the web of the\nintrigue keeps uninterruptedly in advance of their own quickness of tact,\nand if in the speeches and answers the shuttle flies diligently backwards\nand forwards to the end.\n\nGenerally speaking, impatience is by no means a good disposition for the\nreception of the beautiful. Even dramatic poetry, the most animated\nproduction of art, has its contemplative side, and where this is\nneglected, the representation, from its very rapidity and animation,\nengenders only a deafening tumult in our mind, instead of that inward\nmusic which ought to accompany it.\n\nThe existence of many technical imperfections in their tragedy has been\nadmitted even by French critics themselves; the confidants, for instance.\nEvery hero and heroine regularly drags some one along with them, a\ngentleman in waiting or a court lady. In not a few pieces, we may count\nthree or four of these merely passive hearers, who sometimes open their\nlips to tell something to their patron which he must have known better\nhimself, or who on occasion are dispatched hither and thither on messages.\nThe confidants in the Greek tragedies, either old guardian-slaves and\nnurses, or servants, have always peculiar characteristical destinations,\nand the ancient tragedians felt so little the want of communications\nbetween a hero and his confidant, to make us acquainted with the hero's\nstate of mind and views, that they even introduce as a mute personage so\nimportant and proverbially famous a friend as a Pylades. But whatever\nridicule was cast on the confidants, and however great the reproach of\nbeing reduced to make use of them, no attempt was ever made till the time\nof Alfieri to get rid of them.\n\nThe expositions or statements of the preliminary situation of things are\nanother nuisance. They generally consist of choicely turned disclosures to\nthe confidants, delivered in a happy moment of leisure. That very public\nwhose impatience keeps the poets and players under such strict discipline,\nhas, however, patience enough to listen to the prolix unfolding of what\nought to be sensibly developed before their eyes. It is allowed that an\nexposition is seldom unexceptionable; that in their speeches the persons\ngenerally begin farther back than they naturally ought, and that they tell\none another what they must both have known before, &c. If the affair is\ncomplicated, these expositions are generally extremely tedious: those of\nHeraclius and Rodogune absolutely make the head giddy. Chaulieu says of\nCrebillon's _Rhadamiste_, \"The piece would be perfectly clear were it\nnot for the exposition.\" To me it seems that their whole system of\nexpositions, both in Tragedy and in High Comedy, is exceedingly erroneous.\nNothing can be more ill-judged than to begin at once to instruct us\nwithout any dramatic movement. At the first drawing up of the curtain the\nspectator's attention is almost unavoidably distracted by external\ncircumstances, his interest has not yet been excited; and this is\nprecisely the time chosen by the poet to exact from him an earnest of\nundivided attention to a dry explanation,--a demand which he can hardly be\nsupposed ready to meet. It will perhaps be urged that the same thing was\ndone by the Greek poets. But with them the subject was for the most part\nextremely simple, and already known to the spectators; and their\nexpositions, with the exception of the unskilful prologues of Euripides,\nhave not the didactic particularising tone of the French, but are full of\nlife and motion. How admirable again are the expositions of Shakspeare and\nCalderon! At the very outset they lay hold of the imagination; and when\nthey have once gained the spectator's interest and sympathy they then\nbring forward the information necessary for the full understanding of the\nimplied transactions. This means is, it is true, denied to the French\ntragic poets, who, if at all, are only very sparingly allowed the use of\nany thing calculated to make an impression on the senses, any thing like\ncorporeal action; and who, therefore, for the sake of a gradual\nheightening of the impression are obliged to reserve to the last acts the\nlittle which is within their power.\n\nTo sum up all my previous observations in a few words: the French have\nendeavoured to form their tragedy according to a strict idea; but instead\nof this they have set up merely an abstract notion. They require tragical\ndignity and grandeur, tragical situations, passions, and pathos,\naltogether simple and pure, and without any foreign appendages. Stript\nthus of their proper investiture, they lose much in truth, profundity, and\ncharacter; and the whole composition is deprived of the living charm of\nvariety, of the magic of picturesque situations, and of all those\nravishing effects which a light but preparatory matter, when left to\nitself, often produces on the mind by its marvellous and spontaneous\ngrowth. With respect to the theory of the tragic art, they are yet at the\nvery same point that they were in the art of gardening before the time of\nLenotre. All merit consisted, in their judgment, in extorting a triumph\nfrom nature by means of art. They had no other idea of regularity than the\nmeasured symmetry of straight alleys, clipped edges, &c. Vain would have\nbeen the attempt to make those who laid out such gardens to comprehend\nthat there could be any plan, any hidden order, in an English park, and\ndemonstrate to them that a succession of landscapes, which from their\ngradation, their alternation, and their opposition, give effect to each\nother, did all aim at exciting in us a certain mental impression.\n\nThe rooted and lasting prejudices of a whole nation are seldom accidental,\nbut are connected with some general want of intrinsic capacities, from\nwhich even the eminent minds who read the rest are not exempted. We are\nnot, therefore, to consider such prejudices merely as causes; we must also\nconsider them at the same time as important effects. We allow that the\nnarrow system of rules, that a dissecting criticism of the understanding,\nhas shackled the efforts of the French tragedians; still, however, it\nremains doubtful whether of their own inclination they would ever have\nmade choice of more comprehensive designs, and, if so, in what way they\nwould have filled them up. The most distinguished among them have\ncertainly not been deficient in means and talents. In a particular\nexamination of their different productions we cannot show them any favour;\nbut, on a general view, they are more deserving of pity than censure; and\nwhen, under such unfavourable circumstances, they yet produce what is\nexcellent, they are doubly entitled to our admiration, although we can by\nno means admit the justice of the common-place observation, that the\novercoming of difficulty is a source of pleasure, nor find anything\nmeritorious in a work of art merely because it is artificially composed.\nAs for the claim which the French advance to set themselves up, in spite\nof all their one-sidedness and inadequacy of view, as the lawgivers of\ntaste, it must be rejected with becoming indignation.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XIX.\n\nUse at first made of the Spanish Theatre by the French--General Character\nof Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire--Review of the principal Works of\nCorneille and of Racine--Thomas Corneille and Crebillon.\n\n\nI have briefly noticed all that was necessary to mention of the\nantiquities of the French stage. The duties of the poet were gradually\nmore rigorously laid down, under a belief in the authority of the\nancients, and the infallibility of Aristotle. By their own inclination,\nhowever, the poets were led to the Spanish theatre, as long as the\nDramatic Art in France, under a native education, had not attained its\nfull maturity. They not only imitated the Spaniards, but, from this mine\nof ingenious invention, even borrowed largely and directly. I do not\nmerely allude to the earlier times under Richelieu; this state of things\ncontinued through the whole of the first half of the age of Louis XIV.;\nand Racine is perhaps the oldest poet who seems to have been altogether\nunacquainted with the Spaniards, or at least who was in no manner\ninfluenced by them. The comedies of Corneille are nearly all taken from\nSpanish pieces; and of his celebrated works, the _Cid_ and _Don Sancho of\nAragon_ are also Spanish. The only piece of Rotrou which still keeps its\nplace on the theatre, _Wenceslas_, is borrowed from Francisco de Roxas:\nMoli\u00e8re's unfinished _Princess of Etis_ is from Moreto, his _Don Garcia of\nNavarre_ from an unknown author, and the _Festin de Pierre_ carries its\norigin in its front: [Footnote: And betrays at the same time Moli\u00e8re's\nignorance of Spanish. For if he had possessed even a tolerable knowledge\nof it, how could he have translated _El Convidado de Piedra_ (the Stone\nGuest) into the _Stone Feast_, which has no meaning here, and could only\nbe applicable to the Feasts of Midas?] we have only to look at the works\nof Thomas Corneille to be at once convinced that, with the exception of a\nfew, they are all Spanish; as also are the earlier labours of Quinault,\nnamely, his comedies and tragi-comedies. The right of drawing without\nscruple from this source was so universal, that the French imitators, when\nthey borrowed without the least disguise, did not even give themselves the\ntrouble of naming the author of the original, and assigning to the true\nowner a part of the applause which they might earn. In the _Cid_ alone the\ntext of the Spanish poet is frequently cited, and that only because\nCorneille's claim to originality had been called in question.\n\nWe should certainly derive much instruction from a discovery of the\nprototypes, when they are not among the more celebrated, or already known\nby their titles, and thereupon instituting a comparison between them and\ntheir copies. We must, however, go very differently to work from Voltaire\nin _Heraclius_, in which, as Garcia de la Huerta [Footnote: In the\nintroduction to his Theatro Hespa\u00f1ol.] has incontestably proved, he\ndisplays both great ignorance and studied and disgusting perversions. If\nthe most of these imitations give little pleasure to France in the present\nday, this decision is noways against the originals, which must always have\nsuffered considerably from the recast. The national characters of the\nFrench and Spanish are totally different; and consequently also the spirit\nof their language and poetry. The most temperate and restrained character\nbelongs to the French; the Spaniard, though in the remotest West,\ndisplays, what his history may easily account for, an Oriental vein, which\nluxuriates in a profusion of bold images and sallies of wit. When we strip\ntheir dramas of these rich and splendid ornaments, when, for the glowing\ncolours of their romance and the musical variations of the rhymed strophes\nin which they are composed, we compel them to assume the monotony of the\nAlexandrine, and submit to the fetters of external regularities, while the\ncharacter and situations are allowed to remain essentially the same, there\ncan no longer be any harmony between the subject and its mode of\ntreatment, and it loses that truth which it may still retain within the\ndomain of fancy.\n\nThe charm of the Spanish poetry consists, generally speaking, in the union\nof a sublime and enthusiastic earnestness of feeling, which peculiarly\ndescends from the North, with the lovely breath of the South, and the\ndazzling pomp of the East. Corneille possessed an affinity to the Spanish\nspirit but only in the first point; he might be taken for a Spaniard\neducated in Normandy. It is much to be regretted that he had not, after\nthe composition of the _Cid_, employed himself without depending on\nforeign models, upon subjects which would have allowed him to follow\naltogether his feeling for chivalrous honour and fidelity. But on the\nother hand he took himself to the Roman history; and the severe patriotism\nof the older, and the ambitious policy of the later Romans, supplied the\nplace of chivalry, and in some measure assumed its garb. It was by no\nmeans so much his object to excite our terror and compassion as our\nadmiration for the characters and astonishment at the situations of his\nheroes. He hardly ever affects us; and is seldom capable of agitating our\nminds. And here I may indeed observe, that such is his partiality for\nexciting our wonder and admiration, that, not contented with exacting it\nfor the heroism of virtue, he claims it also for the heroism of vice, by\nthe boldness, strength of soul, presence of mind, and elevation above all\nhuman weakness, with which he endows his criminals of both sexes. Nay,\noften his characters express themselves in the language of ostentatious\npride, without our being well able to see what they have to be proud of:\nthey are merely proud of their pride. We cannot often say that we take an\ninterest in them: they either appear, from the great resources which they\npossess within themselves, to stand in no need of our compassion, or else\nthey are undeserving of it. He has delineated the conflict of passions and\nmotives; but for the most part not immediately as such, but as already\nmetamorphosed into a contest of principles. It is in love that he has been\nfound coldest; and this was because he could not prevail on himself to\npaint it as an amiable weakness, although he everywhere introduced it,\neven where most unsuitable, either out of a condescension to the taste of\nthe age or a private inclination for chivalry, where love always appears\nas the ornament of valour, as the checquered favour waving at the lance,\nor the elegant ribbon-knot to the sword. Seldom does he paint love as a\npower which imperceptibly steals upon us, and gains at last an involuntary\nand irresistible dominion over us; but as an homage freely chosen at\nfirst, to the exclusion of duty, but afterwards maintaining its place\nalong with it. This is the case at least in his better pieces; for in his\nlater works love is frequently compelled to give way to ambition; and\nthese two springs of action mutually weaken each other. His females are\ngenerally not sufficiently feminine; and the love which they inspire is\nwith them not the last object, but merely a means to something beyond.\nThey drive their lovers into great dangers, and sometimes also to great\ncrimes; and the men too often appear to disadvantage, while they allow\nthemselves to become mere instruments in the hands of women, or to be\ndispatched by them on heroic errands, as it were, for the sake of winning\nthe prize of love held out to them. Such women as Emilia in _Cinna and\nRodogune_, must surely be unsusceptible of love. But if in his principal\ncharacters, Corneille, by exaggerating the energetic and underrating the\npassive part of our nature, has departed from truth; if his heroes display\ntoo much volition and too little feeling, he is still much more unnatural\nin his situations. He has, in defiance of all probability, pointed them in\nsuch a way that we might with great propriety give them the name of\ntragical antitheses, and it becomes almost natural if the personages\nexpress themselves in a series of epigrammatical maxims. He is fond of\nexhibiting perfectly symmetrical oppositions. His eloquence is often\nadmirable from its strength and compression; but it sometimes degenerates\ninto bombast, and exhausts itself in superfluous accumulations. The later\nRomans, Seneca the philosopher, and Lucan, were considered by him too much\nin the light of models; and unfortunately he possessed also a vein of\nSeneca the tragedian. From this wearisome pomp of declamation, a few\nsimple words interspersed here and there, have been often made the subject\nof extravagant praise. [Footnote: For instance, the _Qu'il mour\u00fbt_ of the\nold Horatius; the _Soyons amis, Cinna_: also the _Moi_ of Medea, which, we\nmay observe in passing, is borrowed from Seneca.] If they stood alone they\nwould certainly be entitled to praise; but they are immediately followed\nby long harangues which destroy their effect. When the Spartan mother, on\ndelivering the shield to her son, used the well-known words, \"This, or on\nthis!\" she certainly made no farther addition to them. Corneille was\npeculiarly well qualified to portray ambition and the lust of power, a\npassion which stifles all other human feelings, and never properly erects\nits throne till the mind has become a cold and dreary wilderness. His\nyouth was passed in the last civil wars, and he still saw around him\nremains of the feudal independence. I will not pretend to decide how much\nthis may have influenced him, but it is undeniable that the sense which he\noften showed of the great importance of political questions was altogether\nlost in the following age, and did not make its appearance again before\nVoltaire. However he, like the rest of the poets of his time, paid his\ntribute of flattery to Louis the Fourteenth, in verses which are now\nforgotten.\n\nRacine, who for all but an entire century has been unhesitatingly\nproclaimed the favourite poet of the French nation, was by no means during\nhis lifetime in so enviable a situation, and, notwithstanding many an\ninstance of brilliant success, could not rest as yet in the pleasing and\nundisturbed possession of his fame. His merit in giving the last polish to\nthe French language, his unrivalled excellence both of expression and\nversification, were not then allowed; on the stage he had rivals, of whom\nsome were undeservedly preferred before him. On the one hand, the\nexclusive admirers of Corneille, with Madame Sevign\u00e9 at their head, made a\nformal party against him; on the other hand, Pradon, a younger candidate\nfor the honours of the Tragic Muse, endeavoured to wrest the victory from\nhim, and actually succeeded, not merely, it would appear, in gaining over\nthe crowd, but the very court itself, notwithstanding the zeal with which\nhe was opposed by Boileau. The chagrin to which this gave rise,\nunfortunately interrupted his theatrical career at the very period when\nhis mind had reached its full maturity: a mistaken piety afterwards\nprevented him from resuming his theatrical occupations, and it required\nall the influence of Madame Maintenon to induce him to employ his talent\nupon religious subjects for a particular occasion. It is probable that but\nfor this interruption, he would have carried his art still higher: for in\nthe works which we have of him, we trace a gradually advancing\nimprovement. He is a poet in every way worthy of our love: he possessed a\ndelicate susceptibility for all the tenderer emotions, and great sweetness\nin expressing them. His moderation, which never allowed him to transgress\nthe bounds of propriety, must not be estimated too highly: for he did not\npossess strength of character in any eminent degree, nay, there are even\nmarks of weakness perceptible in him, which, it is said, he also exhibited\nin private life. He has also paid his homage to the sugared gallantry of\nhis age, where it merely serves as a show of love to connect together the\nintrigue; but he has often also succeeded completely in the delineation of\na more genuine love, especially in his female characters; and many of his\nlove-scenes breathe a tender voluptuousness, which, from the veil of\nreserve and modesty thrown over it, steals only the more seductively into\nthe soul. The inconsistencies of unsuccessful passion, the wanderings of a\nmind diseased, and a prey to irresistible desire, he has portrayed more\ntouchingly and truthfully than any French poet before him, or even perhaps\nafter him. Generally speaking, he was more inclined to the elegiac and the\nidyllic, than to the heroic. I will not say that he would never have\nelevated himself to more serious and dignified conceptions than are to be\nfound in his _Britannicus_ and _Mithridate_; but here we must distinguish\nbetween that which his subject suggested, and what he painted with a\npeculiar fondness, and wherein he is not so much the dramatic artist as\nthe spokesman of his own feelings. At the same time, it ought not to be\nforgotten that Racine composed most of his pieces when very young, and\nthat this may possibly have influenced his choice. He seldom disgusts us,\nlike Corneille and Voltaire, with the undisguised repulsiveness of\nunnecessary crimes; he has, however, often veiled much that in reality is\nharsh, base, and mean, beneath the forms of politeness and courtesy. I\ncannot allow the plans of his pieces to be, as the French critics insist,\nunexceptionable; those which he borrowed from ancient mythology are, in my\nopinion, the most liable to objection; but still I believe, that with the\nrules and observations which he took for his guide, he could hardly in\nmost cases have extricated himself from his difficulties more cautiously\nand with greater propriety than he has actually done. Whatever may be the\ndefects of his productions separately considered, when we compare him with\nothers, and view him in connexion with the French literature in general,\nwe can hardly bestow upon him too high a meed of praise.\n\nA new aera of French Tragedy begins with Voltaire, whose first appearance,\nin his early youth, as a writer for the theatre, followed close upon the\nage of Louis the Fourteenth. I have already, in a general way, alluded to\nthe changes and enlargements which he projected, and partly carried into\nexecution. Corneille and Racine led a true artist's life: they were\ndramatic poets with their whole soul; their desire, as authors, was\nconfined to that object alone, and all their studies were directed to the\nstage. Voltaire, on the contrary, wished to shine in every possible\ndepartment; a restless vanity permitted him not to be satisfied with the\npursuit of perfection in any single walk of literature; and from the\nvariety of subjects on which his mind was employed, it was impossible for\nhim to avoid shallowness and immaturity of ideas. To form a correct idea\nof his relation to his two predecessors in the tragic art, we must\ninstitute a comparison between the characteristic features of the\npreceding classical age and of that in which he gave the tone. In the time\nof Louis the Fourteenth, a certain traditionary code of opinions on all\nthe most important concerns of humanity reigned in full force and\nunquestioned; and even in poetry, the object was not so much to enrich as\nto form the mind, by a liberal and noble entertainment. But now, at\nlength, the want of original thinking began to be felt; however, it\nunfortunately happened, that bold presumption hurried far in advance of\nprofound inquiry, and hence the spread of public immorality was quick\nfollowed by a dangerous scoffing scepticism, which shook to the foundation\nevery religious and moral conviction, and the very principles of society\nitself. Voltaire was by turns philosopher, rhetorician, sophist, and\nbuffoon. The want of singleness, which more or less characterised all his\nviews, was irreconcileable with a complete freedom of prejudice even as an\nartist in his career. As he saw the public longing for information, which\nwas rather tolerated by the favour of the great than authorised and\nformally approved of and dispensed by appropriate public institutions, he\ndid not fail to meet their want, and to deliver, in beautiful verses, on\nthe stage, what no man durst yet preach from the pulpit or the professor's\nchair. He made use of poetry as a means to accomplish ends foreign and\nextrinsecal to it; and this has often polluted the artistic purity of his\ncompositions. Thus, the end of his _Mahomet_ was to portray the dangers of\nfanaticism, or rather, laying aside all circumlocution, of a belief in\nrevelation. For this purpose, he has most unjustifiably disfigured a great\nhistorical character, revoltingly loaded him with the most crying\nenormities, with which he racks and tortures our feelings. Universally\nknown, as he was, to be the bitter enemy of Christianity, he bethought\nhimself of a new triumph for his vanity; in _Zaire_ and _Alzire_, he had\nrecourse to Christian sentiments to excite emotion: and here, for once,\nhis versatile heart, which, indeed, in its momentary ebullitions, was not\nunsusceptible of good feelings, shamed the rooted malice of his\nunderstanding; he actually succeeded, and these affecting and religious\npassages cry out loudly against the slanderous levity of his petulant\nmisrepresentations. In England he had acquired a knowledge of a free\nconstitution, and became an enthusiastic admirer of liberty. Corneille had\nintroduced the Roman republicanism and general politics into his works,\nfor the sake of their poetical energy. Voltaire again exhibited them under\na poetical form, because of the political effect he thought them\ncalculated to produce on popular opinion. As he fancied he was better\nacquainted with the Greeks than his predecessors, and as he had obtained a\nslight knowledge of the English theatre and Shakspeare, which, before him,\nwere for France, quite an unknown land, he wished in like manner to use\nthem to his own advantage.--He insisted on the earnestness, the severity,\nand the simplicity of the Greek dramatic representation; and actually in\nso far approached them, as to exclude love from various subjects to which\nit did not properly belong. He was desirous of reviving the majesty of the\nGrecian scenery; and here his endeavours had this good effect, that in\ntheatrical representation the eye was no longer so miserably neglected as\nit had been. He borrowed from Shakspeare, as he thought, bold strokes of\ntheatrical effect; but here he was the least successful; when, in\nimitation of that great master, he ventured in _Semiramis_ to call up\na ghost from the lower world, he fell into innumerable absurdities. In a\nword he was perpetually making experiments with dramatic art, availing\nhimself of some new device for effect. Hence some of his works seem to\nhave stopt short half way between studies and finished productions; there\nis a trace of something unfixed and unfinished in his whole mental\nformation. Corneille and Racine, within the limits which they set\nthemselves, are much more perfect; they are altogether that which they\nare, and we have no glimpses in their works of any supposed higher object\nbeyond them. Voltaire's pretensions are much more extensive than his\nmeans. Corneille has expressed the maxims of heroism with greater\nsublimity, and Racine the natural emotions with a sweeter gracefulness;\nwhile Voltaire, it must be allowed, has employed the moral motives with\ngreater effect, and displayed a more intimate acquaintance with the\nprimary and fundamental principles of the human mind. Hence, in some of\nhis pieces, he is more deeply affecting than either of the other two.\n\nThe first and last only of these three great masters of the French tragic\nstage can be said to be fruitful writers; and, even these can hardly be\naccounted so, if compared with the Greeks. That Racine was not more\nprolific, was owing partly to accidental circumstances. He enjoys this\nadvantage, however, that with the exception of his first youthful\nattempts, the whole of his pieces have kept possession of the stage, and\nthe public estimation. But many of Corneille's and Voltaire's, even such\nas were popular at first, have been since withdrawn from the stage, and at\npresent are not even so much as read. Accordingly, selections only from\ntheir works, under the title of _Chef-d'oeuvres_, are now generally\npublished. It is remarkable, that few only of the many French attempts in\nTragedy have been successful. La Harpe reckons up nearly a thousand\ntragedies which have been acted or printed since the death of Racine; and\nof these not more than thirty, besides those of Voltaire, have kept\npossession of the stage. Notwithstanding, therefore, the great competition\nin this department, the tragic treasures of the French are far from ample.\nStill we do not feel ourselves called upon to give a full account even of\nthese; and still farther is it from our purpose to enter into a\ncircumstantial and anatomical investigation of separate pieces. All that\nour limits will allow us is, with a rapid pen, to sketch the character and\nrelative value of the principal works of those three masters, and a few\nothers specially deserving of mention.\n\nCorneille brilliantly opened his career of fame with the _Cid_, of\nwhich, indeed, the execution alone is his own: in the plan he appears to\nhave closely followed his Spanish original. As the _Cid_ of Guillen\nde Castro has never fallen into my hands, it has been out of my power to\ninstitute an accurate comparison between the two works. But if we may\njudge from the specimens produced, the Spanish piece seems written with\nfar greater simplicity; and the subject owes to Corneille its rhetorical\npomp of ornament. On the other hand, we are ignorant how much he has left\nout and sacrificed. All the French critics are agreed in thinking the part\nof the Infanta superfluous. They cannot see that by making a princess\nforget her elevated rank, and entertain a passion for Rodrigo, the Spanish\npoet thereby distinguished him as the flower of noble and amiable knights;\nand, on the other hand, furnished a strong justification of Chimene's\nlove, which so many powerful motives could not overcome. It is true, that\nto be attractive in themselves, and duly to aid the general effect, the\nInfanta's passion required to be set forth more musically, and Rodrigo's\nachievements against the Moors more especially, _i. e._, with greater\nvividness of detail: and probably they were so in the Spanish original.\nThe rapturous applause, which, on its first appearance, universally\nwelcomed a piece like this, which, without the admixture of any ignoble\nincentive, founded its attraction altogether on the represented conflict\nbetween the purest feelings of love, honour, and filial duty, is a strong\nproof that the romantic spirit was not yet extinct among spectators who\nwere still open to such natural impressions. This was entirely\nmisunderstood by the learned; with the Academy at their head, they\naffirmed that this subject (one of the most beautiful that ever fell to\nthe lot of a poet) was unfit for Tragedy; incapable of entering\nhistorically into the spirit of another age, they made up improbabilities\nand improprieties for their censure. [Footnote: Scuderi speaks even of\nChimene as a monster, and off-hand dismisses the whole, as \"_ce m\u00e9chant\ncombat de l'amour et de l'honneur_.\" Excellent! Surely he understood\nthe romantic!] The _Cid_ is not certainly a tragedy in the sense of\nthe ancients; and, at first, the poet himself called it a Tragi-comedy.\nWould that this had been the only occasion in which the authority of\nAristotle has been applied to subjects which do not belong to his\njurisdiction!\n\n_The Horatii_ has been censured for want of unity; the murder of the\nsister and the acquittal of the victorious Roman is said to be a second\naction, independent of the combat of the Horatii and Curiatii. Corneille\nhimself was talked into a belief of it. He appears, however, to me fully\njustified in what he has done. If the murder of Camilla had not made a\npart of the piece, the female characters in the first act would have been\nsuperfluous; and without the triumph of patriotism over family ties, the\ncombat could not have been an action, but merely an event destitute of all\ntragic complication. But the real defect, in my opinion, is Corneille\nrepresenting a public act which decided the fate of two states, as taking\nplace altogether _infra privates parietes_, and stripping it of every\nvisible pomp of circumstance. Hence the great flatness of the fifth act.\nWhat a different impression would have been produced had Horatius, in\npresence of the king and people, been solemnly condemned, in obedience to\nthe stern mandate of the law, and afterwards saved through the tears and\nlamentations of his father, just as Livy describes it. Moreover, the poet,\nnot satisfied with making, as the history does, one sister of the Horatii\nin love with one of the Curiatii, has thought proper to invent the\nmarriage of a sister of the Curiatii with one of the Horatii: and as in\nthe former the love of country yields to personal inclination, in the\nlatter personal inclination yields to love of country. This gives rise to\na great improbability: for is it likely that men would have been selected\nfor the combat who, with a well-known family connexion of this kind, would\nhave had the most powerful inducements to spare one another? Besides, the\nconqueror's murder of his sister cannot be rendered even poetically\ntolerable, except by supposing him in all the boiling impetuosity of\nungovernable youth. Horatius, already a husband, would have shown a wiser\nand milder forbearance towards his unfortunate sister's language; else\nwere he a ferocious savage.\n\n_Cinna_ is commonly ranked much higher than _The Horatii_; although, as to\npurity of sentiment, there is here a perceptible falling off from that\nideal sphere in which the action of the two preceding pieces moves. All is\ndiversely complicated and diseased. Cinna's republicanism is merely the\ncloak of another passion: he is a tool in the hands of Emilia, who, on her\npart, constantly sacrifices her pretended love to her passion of revenge.\nThe magnanimity of Augustus is ambiguous: it appears rather the caution of\na tyrant grown timid through age. The conspiracy is, with a splendid\nnarration, thrust into the background; it does not excite in us that\ngloomy apprehension which so theatrical an object ought to do. Emilia, the\nsoul of the piece, is called by the witty Balzac, when commending the\nwork, \"an adorable fury.\" Yet the Furies themselves could be appeased by\npurifications and expiations: but Emilia's heart is inaccessible to the\nsoftening influences of benevolence and generosity; the adoration of so\nunfeminine a creature is hardly pardonable even in a lover. Hence she has\nno better adorers than Cinna and Maximus, two great villains, whose\nrepentance comes too late to be thought sincere.\n\nHere we have the first specimen of that Machiavellism of motives, which\nsubsequently disfigured the poetry of Corneille, and which is not only\nrepulsive, but also for the most part both clumsy and unsuitable. He\nflattered himself, that in knowledge of men and the world, in an\nacquaintance with courts and politics, he surpassed the most shrewd and\nclear-sighted observers. With a mind naturally alive to honour, he yet\nconceived the design of taking in hand the \"doctrine of the murderous\nMachiavel;\" and displays, broadly and didactically, all the knowledge\nwhich he had acquired of these arts. He had no suspicion that a\nremorseless and selfish policy goes always smoothly to work, and\ndexterously disguises itself. Had he been really capable of anything of\nthe kind, he might have taken a lesson from Richelieu.\n\nOf the remaining pieces in which Corneille has painted the Roman love of\nliberty and conquest, the _Death of Pompey_ is the most eminent. It\nis full, however, of a grandeur which is more dazzling than genuine; and,\nindeed, we could expect nothing else from a cento of Lucan's hyperbolical\nantitheses. These bravuras of rhetoric are strung together on the thread\nof a clumsy plot. The intrigues of Ptolemy, and the ambitious coquetry of\nhis sister Cleopatra, have a petty and miserable appearance alongside of\nthe picture of the fate of the great Pompey, the vengeance-breathing\nsorrow of his wife, and the magnanimous compassion of Caesar. Scarcely has\nthe conqueror paid the last honours to the reluctant shade of his rival,\nwhen he does homage at the feet of the beautiful queen; he is not only in\nlove, but sighingly and ardently in love. Cleopatra, on her part,\naccording to the poet's own expression, is desirous, by her love-ogling,\nto gain the sceptre of her brother. Caesar certainly made love, in his own\nway, to a number of women: but these cynical loves, if represented with\nanything like truth, would be most unfit for the stage. Who can refrain\nfrom laughing, when Rome, in the speech of Caesar, implores the\n_chaste_ love of Cleopatra for young Caesar?\n\nIn _Sertorius_, a much later work, Corneille has contrived to make the\ngreat Pompey appear little, and the hero ridiculous. Sertorius on one\noccasion exclaims--\n\n  _Que c'est un sort cruel d'aimer par politique!_\n\nThis admits of being applied to all the personages of the piece. In love\nthey are not in the least; but they allow a pretended love to be\nsubservient to political ends. Sertorius, a hardy and hoary veteran, acts\nthe lover with the Spanish Queen, Viriata; he brings forward, however,\npretext after pretext, and offers himself the while to Aristia; as Viriata\npresses him to marry her on the spot, he begs anxiously for a short delay;\nViriata, along with her other elegant phrases, says roundly, that she\nneither knows love nor hatred; Aristia, the repudiated wife of Pompey,\nsays to him, \"Take me back again, or I will marry another;\" Pompey\nbeseeches her to wait only till the death of Sylla, whom he dare not\noffend: after this there is no need to mention the low scoundrel Perpenna.\nThe tendency to this frigidity of soul was perceptible in Corneille, even\nat an early period of his career; but in the works of his old age it\nincreased to an incredible degree.\n\nIn _Polyeucte_, Christian sentiments are not unworthily expressed; yet we\nfind in it more _superstitious reverence_ than _fervent enthusiasm_ for\nreligion: the wonders of grace are rather _affirmed_, than embraced by a\nmysterious illumination. Both the tone and the situations in the first\nacts, incline greatly, as Voltaire observes, to comedy. A woman who, in\nobedience to her father, has married against her inclinations, and who\ndeclares both to her lover (who returns when too late) and to her husband,\nthat \"she still retains her first love, but that she will keep within the\nbounds of virtue;\" a vulgar and selfish father, who is sorry that he has\nnot chosen for his son-in-law the first suitor, now become the favourite\nof the Emperor; all this promises no very high tragical determinations.\nThe divided heart of Paulina is in nature, and consequently does not\ndetract from the interest of the piece. It is generally agreed that her\nsituation, and the character of Severus, constitute the principal charm of\nthis drama. But the practical magnanimity of this Roman, in conquering his\npassion, throws Polyeucte's self-renunciation, which appears to cost him\nnothing, quite into the shade. From this a conclusion has been partly\ndrawn, that martyrdom is, in general, an unfavourable subject for Tragedy.\nBut nothing can be more unjust than this inference. The cheerfulness with\nwhich martyrs embraced pain and death did not proceed from want of\nfeeling, but from the heroism of the highest love: they must previously,\nin struggles painful beyond expression, have obtained the victory over\nevery earthly tie; and by the exhibition of these struggles, of these\nsufferings of our mortal nature, while the seraph soars on its flight to\nheaven, the poet may awaken in us the most fervent emotion. In\n_Polyeucte_, however, the means employed to bring about the catastrophe,\nnamely, the dull and low artifice of Felix, by which the endeavours of\nSeverus to save his rival are made rather to contribute to his\ndestruction, are inexpressibly contemptible.\n\nHow much Corneille delighted in the symmetrical and nicely balanced play\nof intrigue, we may see at once from his having pronounced _Rodogune_\nhis favourite work. I shall content myself with referring to Lessing, who\nhas exposed pleasantly enough the ridiculous appearance which the two\ndistressed princes cut, between a mother who says, \"He who murders his\nmistress I will name heir to my throne,\" and a mistress who says, \"He who\nmurders his mother shall be my husband.\" The best and shortest way of\ngoing to work would have been to have locked up the two furies together.\nAs for Voltaire, he is always recurring to the fifth act, which he\ndeclares to be one of the noblest productions of the French stage. This\nsingular way of judging works of art by piecemeal, which would praise the\nparts in distinction from the whole, without which it is impossible for\nthe parts to exist, is altogether foreign to our way of thinking.\n\nWith respect to _Heraclius_, Voltaire gives himself the unnecessary\ntrouble of showing that Calderon did not imitate Corneille; and, on the\nother hand, he labours, with little success, to give a negative to the\nquestion whether the latter had the Spanish author before him, and availed\nhimself of his labours. Corneille, it is true, gives out the whole as his\nown invention; but we must not forget, that only when hard pressed did he\nacknowledge how much he owed to the author of the Spanish _Cid_. The\nchief circumstance of the plot, namely, the uncertainty of the tyrant\nPhocas as to which of the two youths is his own son, or the son of his\nmurdered predecessor, bears great resemblance to an incident in a drama of\nCalderon's, and nothing of the kind is to be found in history; in other\nrespects the plot is, it is true, altogether different. However this may\nbe, in Calderon the ingenious boldness of an extravagant invention is\nalways preserved in due keeping by a deeper magic colouring of the poetry;\nwhereas in Corneille, after our head has become giddy in endeavouring to\ndisentangle a complicated and ill-contrived intrigue, we are recompensed\nby a succession of mere tragical epigrams, without the slightest\nrecreation for the fancy.\n\n_Nicomedes_ is a political comedy, the dryness of which is hardly in\nany degree relieved by the ironical tone which runs through the speeches\nof the hero.\n\nThis is nearly all of Corneille's that now appears on the stage. His later\nworks are, without exception, merely treatises or reasons of state in\ncertain difficult conjunctures, dressed out in a pompous dialogical form.\nWe might as well make a tragedy out of a game at chess.\n\nThose who have the patience to wade through the forgotten pieces of\nCorneille will perceive with astonishment that they are constructed on the\nsame principles, and, with the exception of occasional negligences of\nstyle, executed with as much expenditure of what he considered art, as his\nadmired productions. For example, _Attila_ bears in its plot a striking\nresemblance to _Rodogune_. In his own judgments on his works, it is\nimpossible not to be struck with the unessential nature of things on which\nhe lays stress; all along he seems quite unconcerned about that which is\ncertainly the highest object of tragical composition, the laying open the\ndepths of the mind and the destiny of man. For the unfavourable reception\nwhich he has so frequently to confess, his self-love can always find some\nexcuse, some trifling circumstance to which the fate of his piece was to\nbe attributed.\n\nIn the two first youthful attempts of Racine, nothing deserves to be\nremarked, but the flexibility with which he accommodated himself to the\nlimits fixed by Corneille to the career which he had opened. In the\n_Andromache_ he first broke loose from them and became himself. He\ngave utterance to the inward struggles and inconsistencies of passion,\nwith a truth and an energy which had never before been witnessed on the\nFrench stage. The fidelity of Andromache to the memory of her husband, and\nher maternal tenderness, are affectingly beautiful: even the proud\nHermione carries us along with her in her wild aberrations. Her aversion\nto Orestes, after he had made himself the instrument of her revenge, and\nher awaking from her blind fury to utter helplesssness and despair, may\nalmost be called tragically grand. The male parts, as is generally the\ncase with Racine, are not to advantageously drawn. The constantly repeated\nthreat of Pyrrhus to deliver up Astyanax to death, if Andromache should\nnot listen to him, with his gallant protestations, resembles the arts of\nan executioner, who applies the torture to his victim with the most\ncourtly phrases. It is difficult to think of Orestes, after his horrible\ndeed, as a light-hearted and patient lover. Not the least mention is made\nof the murder of his mother; he seems to have completely forgotten it the\nwhole piece through; whence, then, do the Furies come all at once at the\nend? This is a singular contradiction. In short, the way in which the\nwhole is connected together bears too great a resemblance to certain\nsports of children, where one always runs before and tries to surprise the\nother.\n\nIn _Britannicus_, I have already praised the historical fidelity of\nthe picture. Nero, Agrippina, Narcissus, and Burrhus, are so accurately\nsketched, and finished with such light touches and such delicate\ncolouring, that, in respect to character, it yields, perhaps, to no French\ntragedy whatever. Racine has here possessed the art of giving us to\nunderstand much that is left unsaid, and enabling us to look forward into\nfuturity. I will only notice one inconsistency which has escaped the poet.\nHe would paint to us the cruel voluptuary, whom education has only in\nappearance tamed, breaking loose from the restraints of discipline and\nvirtue. And yet, at the close of the fourth act, Narcissus speaks as if he\nhad even then exhibited himself before the people as a player and a\ncharioteer. But it was not until he had been hardened by the commission of\ngrave crimes that he sunk to this ignominy. To represent the perfect Nero,\nthat is, the flattering and cowardly tyrant, in the same person with the\nvain and fantastical being who, as poet, singer, player, and almost as\njuggler, was desirous of admiration, and in the agony of death even\nrecited verses from Homer, was compatible only with a mixed drama, in\nwhich tragical dignity is not required throughout.\n\nTo _Berenice_, composed in honour of a virtuous princess, the French\ncritics generally seem to me extremely unjust. It is an idyllic tragedy,\nno doubt; but it is full of mental tenderness. No one was better skilled\nthan Racine in throwing a veil of dignity over female weakness.--Who\ndoubts that Berenice has long yielded to Titus every proof of her\ntenderness, however carefully it may be veiled over? She is like a\nMagdalena of Guido, who languishingly repents of her repentance. The chief\nerror of the piece is the tiresome part of Antiochus.\n\nOn the first representation of _Bajazet_, Corneille, it seems was heard to\nsay, \"These Turks are very much Frenchified.\" The censure, as is well\nknown, attaches principally to the parts of _Bajazet_ and _Atalide_. The\nold Grand Vizier is certainly Turkish enough; and were a Sultana ever to\nbecome the Sultan, she would perhaps throw the handkerchief in the same\nSultanic manner as the disgusting Roxane. I have already observed that\nTurkey, in its naked rudeness, hardly admits of representation before a\ncultivated public. Racine felt this, and merely refined the forms without\nchanging the main incidents. The mutes and the strangling were motives\nwhich in a seraglio could hardly be dispensed with; and so he gives, on\nseveral occasions, very elegant circumlocutory descriptions of strangling.\nThis is, however, inconsistent; when people are so familiar with the idea\nof a thing, they usually call it also by its true name.\n\nThe intrigue of _Mithridate_, as Voltaire has remarked, bears great\nresemblance to that of the _Miser_ of Moli\u00e8re. Two brothers are rivals for\nthe bride of their father, who cunningly extorts from her the name of her\nfavoured lover, by feigning a wish to renounce in his favour. The\nconfusion of both sons, when they learn that their father, whom they\nhad believed dead, is still alive, and will speedily make his appearance,\nis in reality exceedingly comic. The one calls out: _Qu'avons nous fait?_\nThis is just the alarm of school-boys, conscious of some impropriety, on\nthe unexpected entrance of their master. The political scene, where\nMithridates consults his sons respecting his grand project of conquering\nRome, and in which Racine successfully competes with Corneille, is no\ndoubt logically interwoven in the general plan; but still it is unsuitable\nto the tone of the whole, and the impression which it is intended to\nproduce. All the interest is centred in Monime: she is one of Racine's\nmost amiable creations, and excites in us a tender commiseration.\n\nOn no work of this poet will the sentence of German readers differ more\nfrom that of the French critics and their whole public, than on the\n_Iphigenie_.--Voltaire declares it the tragedy of all times and all\nnations, which approaches as near to perfection as human essays can; and\nin this opinion he is universally followed by his countrymen. But we see\nin it only a modernised Greek tragedy, of which the manners are\ninconsistent with the mythological traditions, its simplicity destroyed by\nthe intriguing Eriphile, and in which the amorous Achilles, however brave\nin other respects his behaviour may be, is altogether insupportable. La\nHarpe affirms that the Achilles of Racine is even more Homeric than that\nof Euripides. What shall we say to this? Before acquiescing in the\nsentences of such critics, we must first forget the Greeks.\n\nRespecting _Ph\u00e8dre_ I may express myself with the greater brevity, as\nI have already dedicated a separate Treatise to that tragedy. However much\nRacine may have borrowed from Euripides and Seneca, and however he may\nhave spoiled the former without improving the latter, still it is a great\nadvance from the affected mannerism of his age to a more genuine tragic\nstyle. When we compare it with the _Phaedra_ of Pradon, which was so\nwell received by his contemporaries for no other reason than because no\ntrace whatever of antiquity was discernible in it, but every thing reduced\nto the scale of a modern miniature portrait for a toilette, we must\nentertain a higher admiration of the poet who had so strong a feeling for\nthe excellence of the ancient poets, and the courage to attach himself to\nthem, and dared, in an age of vitiated and unnatural taste, to display so\nmuch purity and unaffected simplicity. If Racine actually said, that the\nonly difference between his _Phaedra_ and that of Pradon was, that he\nknew how to write, he did himself the most crying injustice, and must have\nallowed himself to be blinded by the miserable doctrine of his friend\nBoileau, which made the essence of poetry to consist in diction and\nversification, instead of the display of imagination and fancy.\n\nRacine's last two pieces belong, as is well known, to a very different\nepoch of his life: they were both written at the same instigation; but are\nextremely dissimilar to each other. _Esther_ scarcely deserves the name of\na tragedy; written for the entertainment of well-bred young women in a\npious seminary, it does not rise much higher than its purpose. It had,\nhowever, an astonishing success. The invitation to the representations in\nSt. Cyr was looked upon as a court favour; flattery and scandal delighted\nto discover allusions throughout the piece; Ahasuerus was said to\nrepresent Louis XIV; Esther, Madame de Maintenon; the proud Vasti, who is\nonly incidentally alluded to, Madame de Montespan; and Haman, the Minister\nLouvois. This is certainly rather a profane application of the sacred\nhistory, if we can suppose the poet to have had any such object in view.\nIn _Athalie_, however, the poet exhibited himself for the last time,\nbefore taking leave of poetry and the world, in his whole strength. It is\nnot only his most finished work, but, I have no hesitation in declaring it\nto be, of all French tragedies the one which, free from all mannerism,\napproaches the nearest to the grand style of the Greeks. The chorus is\nconceived fully in the ancient sense, though introduced in a different\nmanner in order to suit our music, and the different arrangement of our\ntheatre. The scene has all the majesty of a public action. Expectation,\nemotion, and keen agitation succeed each other, and continually rise with\nthe progress of the drama: with a severe abstinence from all foreign\nmatter, there is still a display of the richest variety, sometimes of\nsweetness, but more frequently of majesty and grandeur. The inspiration of\nthe prophet elevates the fancy to flights of more than usual boldness. Its\nimport is exactly what that of a religious drama ought to be: on earth,\nthe struggle between good and evil; and in heaven the wakeful eye of\nprovidence beaming, from unapproachable glory, rays of constancy and\nresolution. All is animated by one breath--the poet's pious enthusiasm, of\nwhose sincerity neither his life nor the work itself allow us a moment to\ndoubt. This is the very point in which so many French works of art with\ntheir great pretensions are, nevertheless, deficient: their authors were\nnot inspired by a fervent love of their subject, but by the desire of\nexternal effect: and hence the vanity of the artist is continually\nbreaking forth to throw a damp over our feelings.\n\nThe unfortunate fate of this piece is well known. Scruples of conscience\nas to the propriety of all theatrical representations (which appear to be\nexclusively entertained by the Gallican church, for both in Italy and\nSpain men of religion and piety have thought very differently on this\nsubject,) prevented the representation in St. Cyr; it appeared in print,\nand was universally abused and reprobated; and this reprobation of it long\nsurvived its author. So incapable of every thing serious was the puerile\ntaste of the age.\n\nAmong the poets of this period, the younger Corneille deserves to be\nmentioned, who did not seek, like his brother, to excite astonishment by\npictures of heroism so much as to win the favour of the spectators by\n\"those tendernesses which,\" to use the words of Pradon, \"are so\nagreeable.\" Of his numerous tragedies, two, only the _Comte d'Essex_\nand _Ariadn\u00e9_, keep possession of the stage; the rest are consigned to\noblivion. The latter of the two, composed after the model of _Berenice_,\nis a tragedy of which the catastrophe may, properly speaking, be said to\nconsist in a swoon. The situation of the resigned and enamoured Ariadne,\nwho, after all her sacrifices, sees herself abandoned by Theseus and\nbetrayed by her own sister, is expressed with great truth of feeling.\nWhenever an actress of an engaging figure, and with a sweet voice, appears\nin this character, she is sure to excite our interest. The other parts,\nthe cold and deceitful Theseus, the intriguing Phaedra, who continues to\nthe last her deception of her confiding sister, the pandering Pirithbus,\nand King Oenarus, who instantly offers himself in the place of the\nfaithless lover, are all pitiful in the extreme, and frequently even\nlaughable. Moreover, the desert rocks of Naxos are here smoothed down to\nmodern drawing-rooms; and the princes who people them, with all the\nobservances of politeness seek to out-wit each other, or to beguile the\nunfortunate princess, who alone has anything like pretensions to nature.\n\nCrebillon, in point of time, comes between Racine and Voltaire, though he\nwas also the rival of the latter. A numerous party wished to set him, when\nfar advanced in years, on a par with, nay, even to rank him far higher\nthan, Voltaire. Nothing, however, but the bitterest rancour of party, or\nthe utmost depravity of taste, or, what is most probable, the two\ntogether, could have led them to such signal injustice. Far from having\ncontributed to the purification of the tragic art, he evidently attached\nhimself, not to the better, but the more affected authors of the age of\nLouis the Fourteenth. In his total ignorance of the ancients, he has the\narrogance to rank himself above them. His favourite books were the\nantiquated romances of a Calprenede, and others of a similar stamp: from\nthese he derived his extravagant and ill-connected plots. One of the means\nto which he everywhere has recourse, is the unconscious or intentional\ndisguise of the principal characters under other names; the first example\nof which was given in the _Heraclius_. Thus, in Crebillon's _Electra_,\nOrestes does not become known to himself before the middle of the piece.\nThe brother and sister, and a son and daughter of Aegisthus, are almost\nexclusively occupied with their double amours, which neither contribute\nto, nor injure, the main action; and Clytemnestra is killed by a blow from\nOrestes, which, without knowing her, he unintentionally and involuntarily\ninflicts. He abounds in extravagances of every kind; of such, for\ninstance, as the shameless impudence of Semiramis, in persisting in her\nlove after she has learnt that its object is her own son. A few empty\nravings and common-place displays of terror, have gained for Crebillon the\nappellation of _the terrible_, which affords us a standard for judging of\nthe barbarous and affected taste of the age, and the infinite distance\nfrom nature and truth to which it had fallen. It is pretty much the same\nas, in painting, to give the appellation of the majestic to Coypel.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XX.\n\nVoltaire--Tragedies on Greek Subjects: _Oedipe_, _Merope_, _Oreste_--\nTragedies on Roman Subjects: _Brute_, _Mort de C\u00e9sar_, _Catiline_, _Le\nTriumvirat_--Earlier Pieces: _Zaire_, _Alzire_, _Mahomet_, _Semiramis_,\nand _Tancred_.\n\n\nTo Voltaire, from his first entrance on his dramatic career, we must give\ncredit both for a conviction that higher and more extensive efforts\nremained to be made, and for the zeal necessary to accomplish all that was\nyet undone. How far he was successful, and how much he was himself blinded\nby the very national prejudices against which he contended, is another\nquestion. For the more easy review of his works, it will be useful to\nclass together the pieces in which he handled mythological materials, and\nthose which he derived from the Roman history.\n\nHis earliest tragedy, _Oedipe_, is a mixture of adherence to the Greeks\n[Footnote: His admiration of them seems to have been more derived\nfrom foreign influence than from personal study. In his letter to the\nDuchess of Maine, prefixed to _Oreste_, he relates how, in his early\nyouth, he had access to a noble house where it was a custom to read\nSophocles, and to make extemporary translations from him, and where there\nwere men who acknowledged the superiority of the Greek Theatre over the\nFrench. In vain, in the present day, should we seek for such men in\nFrance, among people of any distinction, so universally is the study of\nthe classics depreciated.] (with the proviso, however, as may be supposed,\nof improving on them,) and of compliance with the prevailing manner. The\nbest feature of this work Voltaire owed to Sophocles, whom he nevertheless\nslanders in his preface; and in comparison with whose catastrophe his own\nis flat in the extreme. Not a little, however, was borrowed from the\nfrigid _Oedipus_ of Corneille; and more especially the love of Philoctetus\nfor Jocaste, which may be said to correspond nearly with that of Theseus\nand Dirce in Corneille. Voltaire alleged in his defence the tyranny of the\nplayers, from which a young and unknown writer cannot emancipate himself.\nWe may notice the frequent allusions to priestcraft, superstition, &c.,\nwhich even at that early period betray the future direction of his mind.\n\nThe _Merope_, a work of his ripest years, was intended as a perfect\nrevival of Greek tragedy, an undertaking of so great difficulty, and so\nlong announced with every note of preparation. Its real merit is the\nexclusion of the customary love-scenes (of which, however, Racine had\nalready given an example in the _Athalie_); for in other respects\nGerman readers hardly need to be told how much is not conceived in the\ntrue Grecian spirit. Moreover the confidants are also entirely after the\nold traditional cut. The other defects of the piece have been\ncircumstantially, and, I might almost say, too severely, censured by\nLessing. The tragedy of _Merope_, if well acted, can hardly fail of\nbeing received with a certain degree of favour. This is owing to the\nnature of its subject. The passionate love of a mother, who, in dread of\nlosing her only treasure, and threatened with cruel oppression, still\nsupports her trials with heroic constancy, and at last triumphs over them,\nis altogether a picture of such truth and beauty, that the sympathy it\nawakens is beneficent, and remains pure from every painful ingredient.\nStill we must not forget that the piece belongs only in a very small\nmeasure to Voltaire. How much he has borrowed from Maffei, and changed--\nnot always for the better--has been already pointed out by Lessing.\n\nOf all remodellings of Greek tragedies, _Oreste_, the latest, appears\nthe farthest from the antique simplicity and severity, although it is free\nfrom any mixture of love-making, and all mere confidants are excluded.\nThat Orestes should undertake to destroy Aegisthus is nowise singular, and\nseems scarcely to merit such marked notice in the tragical annals of the\nworld. It is the case which Aristotle lays down as the most indifferent,\nwhere one enemy knowingly attacks the other. And in Voltaire's play\nneither Orestes nor Electra have anything beyond this in view:\nClytemnestra is to be spared; no oracle consigns to her own son the\nexecution of the punishment due to her guilt. But even the deed in\nquestion can hardly be said to be executed by Orestes himself: he goes to\nAegisthus, and falls, simply enough it must be owned, into the net, and is\nonly saved by an insurrection of the people. According to the ancients,\nthe oracle had commanded him to attack the criminals with cunning, as they\nhad so attacked Agamemnon. This was a just retaliation: to fall in open\nconflict would have been too honourable a death for Aegisthus. Voltaire\nhas added, of his own invention, that he was also prohibited by the oracle\nfrom making himself known to his sister; and when carried away by\nfraternal love, he breaks this injunction, he is blinded by the Furies,\nand involuntarily perpetrates the deed of matricide. These certainly are\nsingular ideas to assign to the gods, and a most unexampled punishment for\na slight, nay, even a noble crime. The accidental and unintentional\nstabbing of Clytemnestra was borrowed from Crebillon. A French writer will\nhardly venture to represent this subject with mythological truth; to\ndescribe, for instance, the murder as intentional, and executed by the\ncommand of the gods. If Clytemnestra were depicted not as rejoicing in the\nsuccess of her crime, but repentant and softened by maternal love, then,\nit is true, her death would no longer be supportable. But how does this\napply to so premeditated a crime? By such a transition to littleness the\nwhole profound significance of the dreadful example is lost.\n\nAs the French are in general better acquainted with the Romans than the\nGreeks, we might expect the Roman pieces of Voltaire to be more\nconsistent, in a political point of view, with historical truth, than his\nGreek pieces are with the symbolical original of mythology. This is,\nhowever, the case only in _Brutus_, the earliest of them, and the\nonly one which can be said to be sensibly planned. Voltaire sketched this\ntragedy in England; he had there learned from _Julius Caesar_ the\neffect which the publicity of Republican transactions is capable of\nproducing on the stage, and he wished therefore to hold something like a\nmiddle course between Corneille and Shakspeare. The first act opens\nmajestically; the catastrophe is brief but striking, and throughout the\nprinciples of genuine freedom are pronounced with a grave and noble\neloquence. Brutus himself, his son Titus, the ambassador of the king, and\nthe chief of the conspirators, are admirably depicted. I am by no means\ndisposed to censure the introduction of love into this play. The passion\nof Titus for a daughter of Tarquin, which constitutes the knot, is not\nimprobable, and in its tone harmonizes with the manners which are\ndepicted. Still less am I disposed to agree with La Harpe, when he says\nthat Tullia, to afford a fitting counterpoise to the republican virtues,\nought to utter proud and heroic sentiments, like Emilia in _Cinna_.\nBy what means can a noble youth be more easily seduced than by female\ntenderness and modesty? It is not, generally speaking, natural that a\nbeing like Emilia should ever inspire love.\n\nThe _Mort de C\u00e9sar_ is a mutilated tragedy: it ends with the speech\nof Antony over the dead body of Caesar, borrowed from Shakspeare; that is\nto say, it has no conclusion. And what a patched and bungling thing is it\nin all its parts! How coarse-spun and hurried is the conspiracy! How\nstupid Caesar must have been, to allow the conspirators to brave him\nbefore his face without suspecting their design! That Brutus, although he\nknew Caesar to be his father, nay, immediately after this fact had come to\nhis knowledge, should lay murderous hands on him, is cruel, and, at the\nsame time, most un-Roman. History affords us many examples of fathers in\nRome who condemned their own sons to death for crimes of state; the law\ngave fathers an unlimited power of life and death over their children in\ntheir own houses. But the murder of a father, though perpetrated in the\ncause of liberty, would, in the eyes of the Romans, have stamped the\nparricide an unnatural monster. The inconsistencies which here arise from\nthe attempt to observe the unity of place, are obvious to the least\ndiscerning eye. The scene is laid in the Capitol; here the conspiracy is\nhatched in the clear light of day, and Caesar the while goes in and out\namong them. But the persons, themselves, do not seem to know rightly where\nthey are; for Caesar on one occasion exclaims, \"_Courons au Capitole!_\"\n\nThe same improprieties are repeated in _Catiline_, which is but a little\nbetter than the preceding piece. From Voltaire's sentiments respecting the\ndramatic exhibition of a conspiracy, which I quoted in the foregoing\nLecture, we might well conclude that he had not himself a right\nunderstanding on this head, were it not quite evident that the French\nsystem rendered a true representation of such transactions all but\nimpossible, not only by the required observance of the Unities of Place\nand Time, but also on account of a demand for dignity of poetical\nexpression, such as is quite incompatible with the accurate mention of\nparticular circumstances, on which, however, in this case depends the\ntruthfulness of the whole. The machinations of a conspiracy, and the\nendeavours to frustrate them, are like the underground mine and counter-\nmine, with which the besiegers and the besieged endeavour to blow up each\nother.--Something must be done to enable the spectators to comprehend the\nart of the miners. If Catiline and his adherents had employed no more art\nand dissimulation, and Cicero no more determined wisdom, than Voltaire has\ngiven them, the one could not have endangered Rome, and the other could\nnot have saved it. The piece turns always on the same point; they all\ndeclaim against each other, but no one acts; and at the conclusion, the\naffair is decided as if by accident, by the blind chance of war. When we\nread the simple relation of Sallust, it has the appearance of the genuine\npoetry of the matter, and Voltaire's work by the side of it looks like a\npiece of school rhetoric. Ben Jonson has treated the subject with a very\ndifferent insight into the true connexion of human affairs; and Voltaire\nmight have learned a great deal from the man in traducing whom he did not\nspare even falsehood.\n\nThe _Triumvirat_ belongs to the acknowledged unsuccessful essays of his\nold age. It consists of endless declamations on the subject of\nproscription, which are poorly supported by a mere show of action. Here we\nfind the Triumvirs quietly sitting in their tents on an island in the\nsmall river Rhenus, while storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes rage around\nthem; and Julia and the young Pompeius, although they are travelling on\nterra firma, are depicted as if they had been just shipwrecked on the\nstrand; besides a number of other absurdities. Voltaire, probably by way\nof apology for the poor success which the piece had on its representation,\nsays, \"This piece is perhaps in the English taste.\"--Heaven forbid!\n\nWe return to the earlier tragedies of Voltaire, in which he brought on the\nstage subjects never before attempted, and on which his fame as a dramatic\npoet principally rests: _Zaire_, _Alzire_, _Mahomet_, _Semiramis_, and\n_Tancred_.\n\n_Zaire_ is considered in France as the triumph of tragic poetry in\nthe representation of lore and jealousy. We will not assert with Lessing,\nthat Voltaire was acquainted only with the _legal_ style of love. He\noften expresses feeling with a fiery energy, if not with that familiar\ntruth and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ in which an unreserved heart lays itself open.\nBut I see no trace of an oriental colouring in Zaire's cast of feeling:\neducated in the seraglio, she should cling to the object of her passion\nwith all the fervour of a maiden of a glowing imagination, rioting, as it\nwere, in the fragrant perfumes of the East. Her fanciless love dwells\nsolely in the heart; and again how is this conceivable with such a\ncharacter! Orosman, on his part, lays claim indeed to European tenderness\nof feeling; but in him the Tartar is merely varnished over, and he has\nfrequent relapses into the ungovernable fury and despotic habits of his\nrace. The poet ought at least to have given a credibility to the\nmagnanimity which he ascribes to him, by investing him with a celebrated\nhistorical name, such as that of the Saracen monarch Saladin, well known\nfor his nobleness and liberality of sentiment. But all our sympathy\ninclines to the oppressed Christian and chivalrous side, and the glorious\nnames to which it is appropriated. What can be more affecting than the\nroyal martyr Lusignan, the upright and pious Nerestan, who, though in the\nfire of youth, has no heart for deeds of bloody enterprise except to\nredeem the associates of his faith? The scenes in which these two\ncharacters appear are uniformly excellent, and more particularly the whole\nof the second act. The idea of connecting the discovery of a daughter with\nher conversion can never be sufficiently praised. But, in my opinion, the\ngreat effect of this act is injurious to the rest of the piece. Does any\nperson seriously wish the union of Zaire with Orosman, except lady\nspectators flattered with the homage which is paid to beauty, or those of\nthe male part of the audience who are still entangled in the follies of\nyouth? Who else can go along with the poet, when Zaire's love for the\nSultan, so ill-justified by his acts, balances in her soul the voice of\nblood, and the most sacred claims of filial duty, honour, and religion?\n\nIt was a praiseworthy daring (such singular prejudices then prevailed in\nFrance) to exhibit French heroes in _Zaire_. In _Alzire_ Voltaire went\nstill farther, and treated a subject in modern history never yet touched\nby his countrymen. In the former piece he contrasted the chivalrous and\nSaracenic way of thinking; in this we have Spaniards opposed to Peruvians.\nThe difference between the old and new world has given rise to\ndescriptions of a truly poetical nature. Though the action is a pure\ninvention, I recognise in this piece more historical and more of what we\nmay call symbolical truth, than in most French tragedies. Zamor is a\nrepresentation of the savage in his free, and Monteze in his subdued\nstate; Guzman, of the arrogance of the conqueror; and Alvarez, of the mild\ninfluence of Christianity. Alzire remains between these conflicting\nelements in an affecting struggle betwixt attachment to her country, its\nmanners, and the first choice of her heart, on the one part, and new ties\nof honour and duty on the other. All the human motives speak in favour of\nAlzire's love, which were against the passion of Zaire. The last scene,\nwhere the dying Guzman is dragged in, is beneficently overpowering. The\nnoble lines on the difference of their religions, by which Zamor is\nconverted by Guzman, are borrowed from an event in history: they are the\nwords of the Duke of Guise to a Huguenot who wished to kill him; but the\nglory of the poet is not therefore less in applying them as he has done.\nIn short, notwithstanding the improbabilities in the plot, which are\neasily discovered, and have often been censured, _Alzire_ appears to\nbe the most fortunate attempt, and the most finished of all Voltaire's\ncompositions.\n\nIn _Mahomet_, want of true singleness of purpose has fearfully avenged\nitself on the artist. He may affirm as much as he pleases that his aim was\ndirected solely against fanaticism; there can be no doubt that he wished\nto overthrow the belief in revelation altogether, and that for that object\nhe considered every means allowable. We have thus a work which is\nproductive of effect; but an alarmingly painful effect, equally repugnant\nto humanity, philosophy, and religious feeling. The Mahomet of Voltaire\nmakes two innocent young persons, a brother and sister, who, with a\nchildlike reverence, adore him as a messenger from God, unconsciously\nmurder their own father, and this from the motives of an incestuous love\nin which, by his allowance, they had also become unknowingly entangled;\nthe brother, after he has blindly executed his horrible mission, he\nrewards with poison, and the sister he reserves for the gratification of\nhis own vile lust. This tissue of atrocities, this cold-blooded delight in\nwickedness, exceeds perhaps the measure of human nature; but, at all\nevents, it exceeds the bounds of poetic exhibition, even though such a\nmonster should ever have appeared in the course of ages. But, overlooking\nthis, what a disfigurement, nay, distortion, of history! He has stripped\nher, too, of her wonderful charms; not a trace of oriental colouring is to\nbe found. Mahomet was a false prophet, but one certainly under the\ninspiration of enthusiasm, otherwise he would never by his doctrine have\nrevolutionized the half of the world. What an absurdity to make him merely\na cool deceiver! One alone of the many sublime maxims of the Koran would\nbe sufficient to annihilate the whole of these incongruous inventions.\n\n_Semiramis_ is a motley patchwork of the French manner and mistaken\nimitations. It has something of _Hamlet_, and something of _Clytemnestra_\nand _Orestes_; but nothing of any of them as it ought to be. The passion\nfor an unknown son is borrowed from the _Semiramis_ of Crebillon. The\nappearance of Ninus is a mixture of the Ghost in _Hamlet_ and the shadow\nof Darius in Aeschylus. That it is superfluous has been admitted even by\nthe French critics. Lessing, with his raillery, has scared away the Ghost.\nWith a great many faults common to ordinary ghost-scenes, it has this\npeculiar one, that its speeches are dreadfully bombastic. Notwithstanding\nthe great zeal displayed by Voltaire against subordinate love intrigues in\ntragedy, he has, however, contrived to exhibit two pairs of lovers, the\n_partie carr\u00e9e_ as it is called, in this play, which was to be the\nfoundation of an entirely new species.\n\nSince the _Cid_, no French tragedy had appeared of which the plot was\nfounded on such pure motives of honour and love without any ignoble\nintermixtures, and so completely consecrated to the exhibition of\nchivalrous sentiments, as _Tancred_. Amenaide, though honour and life\nare at stake, disdains to exculpate herself by a declaration which would\nendanger her lover; and Tancred, though justified in esteeming her faith\nless, defends her in single combat, and, in despair, is about to seek a\nhero's death, when the unfortunate mistake is cleared up. So far the piece\nis irreproachable, and deserving of the greatest praise. But it is\nweakened by other imperfections. It is of great detriment to its\nperspicuity, that we are not at the very first allowed to hear the letter\nwithout superscription which occasions all the embarrassment, and that it\nis not sent off before our eyes. The political disquisitions in the first\nact are extremely tedious; Tancred does not appear till the third act,\nthough his presence is impatiently looked for, to give animation to the\nscene. The furious imprecations of Amenaide, at the conclusion, are not in\nharmony with the deep but soft emotion with which we are overpowered by\nthe reconciliation of the two lovers, whose hearts, after so long a mutual\nmisunderstanding, are reunited in the moment of separation by death.\n\nIn the earlier piece of the _Orphelin de la Chine_, it might be considered\npardonable if Voltaire represented the great Dschingis-kan in love. This\ndrama ought to be entitled _The Conquest of China_, with the conversion of\nthe cruel Khan of Tartary, &c. Its whole interest is concentrated in two\nchildren, who are never once seen. The Chinese are represented as the most\nwise and virtuous of mankind, and they overflow with philosophical maxims.\nAs Corneille, in his old age, made one and all of his characters\npoliticians, Voltaire in like manner furnished his out with philosophy,\nand availed himself of them to preach up his favourite opinions. He was\nnot deterred by the example of Corneille, when the power of representing\nthe passions was extinct, from publishing a host of weak and faulty\nproductions.\n\nSince the time of Voltaire the constitution of the French stage has\nremained nearly the same. No genius has yet arisen sufficiently mighty to\nadvance the art a step farther, and victoriously to refute, by success,\ntheir time-strengthened prejudices. Many attempts have been made, but they\ngenerally follow in the track of previous essays, without surpassing them.\nThe endeavour to introduce more historical extent into dramatic\ncomposition is frustrated by the traditional limitations and restraints.\nThe attacks, both theoretical and practical, which have been made in\nFrance itself on the prevailing system of rules, will be most suitably\nnoticed and observed upon when we come to review the present condition of\nthe French stage, after considering their Comedy and the other secondary\nkinds of dramatic works, since in these attempts have been made either to\nfound new species, or arbitrarily to overturn the classification hitherto\nestablished.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXI.\n\nFrench Comedy--Moli\u00e8re--Criticism of his Works--Scarron, Beursault,\nRegnard; Comedies in the Time of the Regency; Marivaux and Destouches;\nPiron and Gresset--Later Attempts--The Heroic Opera: Quinault--Operettes\nand Vaudevilles--Diderot's attempted Change of the Theatre--The Weeping\nDrama--Beaumarchais--Melo-Dramas--Merits and Defects of the Histrionic\nArt.\n\n\nThe same system of rules and proprieties, which, as I have endeavoured to\nshow, must inevitably have a narrowing influence on Tragedy, has, in\nFrance, been applied to Comedy much more advantageously. For this mixed\nspecies of composition has, as already seen, an unpoetical side; and some\ndegree of artificial constraint, if not altogether essential to Comedy, is\ncertainly beneficial to it; for if it is treated with too negligent a\nlatitude, it runs a risk, in respect of general structure, of falling into\nshapelessness, and in the representation of individual peculiarities, of\nsinking into every-day common-place. In the French, as well as in the\nGreek, it happens that the same syllabic measure is used in Tragedy and\nComedy, which, on a first view, may appear singular. But if the\nAlexandrine did not appear to us peculiarly adapted to the free imitative\nexpression of pathos, on the other hand, it must be owned that a comical\neffect is produced by the application of so symmetrical a measure to the\nfamiliar turns of dialogue. Moreover, the grammatical conscientiousness of\nFrench poetry, which is so greatly injurious in other species of the\ndrama, is fully suited to Comedy, where the versification is not purchased\nat the expense of resemblance to the language of conversation, where it is\nnot intended to elevate the dialogue by sublimity and dignity above real\nlife, but merely to communicate to it greater ease and lightness. Hence\nthe opinion of the French, who hold a comedy in verse in much higher\nestimation than a comedy in prose, seems to me to admit fairly of a\njustification.\n\nI endeavoured to show that the Unities of Place and Time are inconsistent\nwith the essence of many tragical subjects, because a comprehensive action\nis frequently carried on in distant places at the same time, and because\ngreat determinations can only be slowly prepared. This is not the case in\nComedy: here Intrigue ought to prevail, the active spirit of which quickly\nhurries towards its object; and hence the unity of time may here be almost\nnaturally observed. The domestic and social circles in which Comedy moves\nare usually assembled in one place, and, consequently, the poet is not\nunder the necessity of sending our imagination abroad: only it might\nperhaps have been as well not to interpret the unity of place so very\nstrictly as not to allow the transition from one room to another, or to\ndifferent houses of the same town. The choice of the street for the scene,\na practice in which the Latin comic writers were frequently followed in\nthe earlier times of Modern Comedy, is quite irreconcileable with our way\nof living, and the more deserving of censure, as in the case of the\nancients it was an inconvenience which arose from the construction of\ntheir theatre.\n\nAccording to French critics, and the opinion which has become prevalent\nthrough them, Moli\u00e8re alone, of all their comic writers, is classical; and\nall that has been done since his time is merely estimated as it\napproximates more or less to this supposed pattern of an excellence which\ncan never be surpassed, nor even equalled. Hence we shall first proceed to\ncharacterize this founder of the French Comedy, and then give a short\nsketch of its subsequent progress.\n\nMoli\u00e8re has produced works in so many departments, and of such different\nvalue, that we are hardly able to recognize the same author in all of\nthem; and yet it is usual, when speaking of his peculiarities and merits,\nand the advance which he gave to his art, to throw the whole of his\nlabours into one mass together.\n\nBorn and educated in an inferior rank of life, he enjoyed the advantage of\nlearning by direct experience the modes of living among the industrious\nportion of the community--the so-called _Bourgeois_ class--and of\nacquiring the talent of imitating low modes of expression. At an after\nperiod, when Louis XIV. took him into his service, he had opportunities,\nthough from a subordinate station, of narrowly observing the court. He was\nan actor, and, it would appear, of peculiar power in overcharged and\nfarcical comic parts; so little was he possessed with prejudices of\npersonal dignity, that he renounced all the conditions by which it was\naccompanied, and was ever ready to deal out, or to receive the blows which\nwere then so frequent on the stage. Nay, his mimetic zeal went so far,\nthat, actually sick, he acted and drew his last breath in representing his\n_Imaginary Invalid_ (_Le Malade Imaginaire_), and became, in the truest\nsense, a martyr to the laughter of others. His business was to invent all\nmanner of pleasant entertainments for the court, and to provoke \"the\ngreatest monarch of the world\" to laughter, by way of relaxation from\nhis state affairs or warlike undertakings. One would think, on the\ntriumphant return from a glorious campaign, this might have been\naccomplished with more refinement than by the representation of the\ndisgusting state of an imaginary invalid. But Louis XIV. was not so\nfastidious; he was very well content with the buffoon whom he protected,\nand even occasionally exhibited his own elevated person in the dances of\nhis ballets. This external position of Moli\u00e8re was the cause why many of\nhis labours had their origin as mere occasional pieces in the commands of\nthe court. And, accordingly, they bear the stamp of that origin. Without\ntravelling out of France, he had opportunities of becoming acquainted with\nthe _lazzis_ of the Italian comic masks on the Italian theatre at Paris,\nwhere improvisatory dialogues were intermixed with scenes written in\nFrench: in the Spanish comedies he studied the ingenious complications\nof intrigue: Plautus and Terence taught him the salt of the Attic wit, the\ngenuine tone of comic maxims, and the nicer shades of character. All this\nhe employed, with more or less success, in the exigency of the moment, and\nalso in order to deck out his drama in a sprightly and variegated dress,\nmade use of all manner of means, however foreign to his art: such as the\nallegorical opening scenes of the opera prologues, musical intermezzos, in\nwhich he even introduced Italian and Spanish national music, with texts in\ntheir own language; ballets, at one time sumptuous and at another\ngrotesque; and even sometimes mere vaulting and capering. He knew how to\nturn everything to profit: the censure passed upon his pieces, the defects\nof rival actors imitated to the life by himself and his company, and even\nthe embarrassment in not being able to produce a theatrical entertainment\nas quickly as it was required by the king,--all became for him a matter\nfor amusement. The pieces he borrowed from the Spanish, his pastorals and\ntragi-comedies, calculated merely to please the eye, and also three or\nfour of his earlier comedies, which are even versified, and consequently\ncarefully laboured, the critics give up without more ado. But even in the\nfarces, with or without ballets, and intermezzos, in which the\novercharged, and frequently the self-conscious and arbitrary comic of\nbuffoonery prevails, Moli\u00e8re has exhibited an inexhaustible store of\nexcellent humour, scattered capital jokes with a lavish hand, and drawn\nthe most amusing caricatures with a bold and vigorous pencil. All this,\nhowever, had been often done before his time; and I cannot see how, in\nthis department, he can stand alone, as a creative and altogether original\nartist: for example, is Plautus' braggadocio soldier less meritorious in\ngrotesque characterization than the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_? We shall\nimmediately examine briefly whether Moli\u00e8re has actually improved the\npieces which he borrowed, in whole or in part, from Plautus and Terence.\nWhen we bear in mind that in these Latin authors we have only a faint and\nfaded copy of the new Attic Comedy, we shall then be enabled to judge\nwhether he would have been able to surpass its masters had they come down\nto us. Many of his shifts and inventions, I am induced to suspect, are\nborrowed; and I am convinced that we should soon discover the sources,\nwere we to search into the antiquities of farcical literature [Footnote:\nThe learned Tiranoschi (_Storia della Letteratura Italiana_, Lib. III. \u00a7\n25) attests this in very strong language: \"Moli\u00e8re,\" says he, \"has made so\nmuch use of the Italian comic writers, that were we to take from him all\nthat he has taken from others, the volumes of his comedies would be very\nmuch reduced in bulk.\"]. Others are so obvious, and have so often been\nboth used and abused, that they may in some measure be considered as the\ncommon stock of Comedy. Such is the scene in the _Malade Imaginaire_,\nwhere the wife's love is put to the test by the supposed death of the\nhusband--an old joke, which our Hans Sachs has handled drolly enough.\n[Footnote: I know not whether it has been already remarked, that the idea\non which the _Mariage Forc\u00e9_ is founded is borrowed from Rabelais; who\nmakes Panurge enter upon the very same consultation as to his future\nmarriage, and receive from Pantagruel just such a sceptical answer as\nSganarelle does from the second philosopher.] We have an avowal of\nMoli\u00e8re's, which plainly shows he entertained no very great scruples of\nconscience on the sin of plagiarism. In the undignified relations amidst\nwhich he lived, and in which every thing was so much calculated for\ndazzling show, that his very name did not legally belong to him, we see\nless reason to wonder at all this.\n\nAnd even when in his farcical pieces Moli\u00e8re did not lean on foreign\ninvention, he still appropriated the comic manners of other countries, and\nmore particularly the buffoonery of Italy. He wished to introduce a sort\nof masked character without masks, who should constantly recur with the\nsame name. They did not, however, succeed in becoming properly\ndomiciliated in France; because the flexible national character of the\nFrench, which so nimbly imitates every varying mode of the day, is\nincompatible with that odd originality of exterior to which in other\nnations, where all are not modelled alike by the prevailing social tone,\nhumorsome and singular individuals carelessly give themselves up. As the\nSganarelles, Mascarilles, Scapins, and Crispins, must be allowed to retain\ntheir uniform, that every thing like consistency may not be lost, they\nhave become completely obsolete on the stage. The French taste is,\ngenerally speaking, little inclined to the self-conscious and arbitrary\ncomic, with its droll exaggerations, even because these kinds of the comic\nspeak more to the fancy than the understanding. We do not mean to censure\nthis, nor to quarrel about the respective merits of the different species.\nThe low estimation in which the former are held may perhaps contribute the\nmore to the success of the comic of observation, And, in fact, the French\ncomic writers have here displayed a great deal of refinement and\ningenuity: in this lies the great merit of Moli\u00e8re, and it is certainly\nvery eminent. Only, we would ask, whether it is of such a description as\nto justify the French critics, on account of some half a dozen of so-\ncalled regular comedies of Moli\u00e8re, in holding in such infinite contempt\nas they do all the rich stores of refined and characteristic delineation\nwhich other nations possess, and in setting up Moli\u00e8re as the unrivalled\nGenius of Comedy.\n\nIf the praise bestowed by the French on their tragic writers be, both from\nnational vanity and from ignorance of the mental productions of other\nnations, exceedingly extravagant; so their praises of Moli\u00e8re are out of\nall proportion with their subject. Voltaire calls him the Father of\nGenuine Comedy; and this may be true enough with respect to France.\nAccording to La Harpe, Comedy and Moli\u00e8re are synonymous terms; he is the\nfirst of all moral philosophers, his works are the school of the world.\nChamfort terms him the most amiable teacher of humanity since Socrates;\nand is of opinion that Julius Caesar who called Terence a half Menander,\nwould have called Menander a half Moli\u00e8re.--I doubt this.\n\nThe kind of moral which we may in general expect from Comedy I have\nalready shown: it is an applied doctrine of ethics, the art of life. In\nthis respect the higher comedies of Moli\u00e8re contain many admirable\nobservations happily expressed, which are still in the present day\napplicable; others are tainted with the narrowness of his own private\nopinions, or of the opinions which were prevalent in his age. In this\nsense Menander was also a philosophical comic writer; and we may boldly\nplace the moral maxims which remain of his by the side at least of those\nof Moli\u00e8re. But no comedy is constructed of mere apophthegms. The poet\nmust be a moralist, but his personages cannot always be moralizing. And\nhere Moli\u00e8re appears to me to have exceeded the bounds of propriety: he\ngives us in lengthened disquisitions the _pro_ and _con_ of the character\nexhibited by him; nay, he allows these to consist, in part, of principles\nwhich the persons themselves defend against the attacks of others. Now\nthis leaves nothing to conjecture; and yet the highest refinement and\ndelicacy of the comic of observation consists in this, that the characters\ndisclose themselves unconsciously by traits which involuntarily escape\nfrom them. To this species of comic element, the way in which Oronte\nintroduces his sonnet, Orgon listens to the accounts respecting Tartuffe\nand his wife, and Vadius and Trissotin fall by the ears, undoubtedly\nbelongs; but the endless disquisitions of Alceste and Philinte as to the\nmanner in which we ought to behave amid the falsity and corruption of the\nworld do not in the slightest respect belong to it. They are serious, and\nyet they cannot satisfy us as exhausting the subject; and as dialogues\nwhich at the end leave the characters precisely at the same point as at\nthe beginning, they are devoid in the necessary dramatic movement. Such\nargumentative disquisitions which lead to nothing are frequent in all the\nmost admired pieces of Moli\u00e8re, and nowhere more than in the\n_Misanthrope_. Hence the action, which is also poorly invented, is found\nto drag heavily; for, with the exception of a few scenes of a more\nsprightly description, it consists altogether of discourses formally\nintroduced and supported, while the stagnation is only partially concealed\nby the art employed on the details of versification and expression. In a\nword, these pieces are too didactic, too expressly instructive; whereas in\nComedy the spectator should only be instructed incidentally, and, as it\nwere, without its appearing to have been intended.\n\nBefore we proceed to consider more particularly the productions which\nproperly belong to the poet himself, and are acknowledged as master-\npieces, we shall offer a few observations on his imitations of the Latin\ncomic writers.\n\nThe most celebrated is the _Avare_. The manuscripts of the _Aulularia_ of\nPlautus are unfortunately mutilated towards the end; but yet we find\nenough in them to excite our admiration. From this play Moli\u00e8re has merely\nborrowed a few scenes and jokes, for his plot is altogether different. In\nPlautus it is extremely simple: his Miser has found a treasure, which he\nanxiously watches and conceals. The suit of a rich bachelor for his\ndaughter excites a suspicion that his wealth is known. The preparations\nfor the wedding bring strange servants and cooks into his house; he\nconsiders his pot of gold no longer secure, and conceals it out of doors,\nwhich gives an opportunity to a slave of his daughter's chosen lover, sent\nto glean tidings of her and her marriage, to steal it. Without doubt the\nthief must afterwards have been obliged to make restitution, otherwise the\npiece would end in too melancholy a manner, with the lamentations and\nimprecations of the old man. The knot of the love intrigue is easily\nuntied: the young man, who had anticipated the rights of the marriage\nstate, is the nephew of the bridegroom, who willingly renounces in his\nfavour. All the incidents serve merely to lead the miser, by a gradually\nheightening series of agitations and alarms, to display and expose his\nmiserable passion. Moli\u00e8re, on the other hand, without attaining this\nobject, puts a complicated machine in motion. Here we have a lover of the\ndaughter, who, disguised as a servant, flatters the avarice of the old\nman; a prodigal son, who courts the bride of his father; intriguing\nservants; an usurer; and after all a discovery at the end. The love\nintrigue is spun out in a very clumsy and every-day sort of manner; and it\nhas the effect of making us at different times lose sight altogether of\nHarpagon. Several scenes of a good comic description are merely\nsubordinate, and do not, in a true artistic method, arise necessarily out\nof the thing itself. Moli\u00e8re has accumulated, as it were, all kinds of\navarice in one person; and yet the miser who buries his treasures and he\nwho lends on usury can hardly be the same. Harpagon starves his coach-\nhorses: but why has he any? This would apply better to a man who, with a\ndisproportionate income, strives to keep up a certain appearance of rank.\nComic characterization would soon be at an end were there really only one\nuniversal character of the miser. The most important deviation of Moli\u00e8re\nfrom Plautus is, that while the one paints merely a person who watches\nover his treasure, the other makes his miser in love. The love of an old\nman is in itself an object of ridicule; the anxiety of a miser is no less\nso. We may easily see that when we unite with avarice, which separates a\nman from others and withdraws him within himself, the sympathetic and\nliberal passion of love, the union must give rise to the most harsh\ncontrasts. Avarice, however, is usually a very good preservative against\nfalling in love. Where then is the more refined characterization; and as\nsuch a wonderful noise is made about it, where shall we here find the more\nvaluable moral instruction?--in Plautus or in Moli\u00e8re? A miser and a\nsuperannuated lover may both be present at the representation of Harpagon,\nand both return from the theatre satisfied with themselves, while the\nmiser says to himself, \"I am at least not in love;\" and the lover, \"Well,\nat all events I am not a miser.\" High Comedy represents those follies\nwhich, however striking they may be, are reconcilable with the ordinary\ncourse of things; whatever forms a singular exception, and is only\nconceivable amid an utter perversion of ideas, belongs to the arbitrary\nexaggeration of farce. Hence since (and it was undoubtedly the case long\nbefore) the time of Moli\u00e8re, the enamoured and avaricious old man has been\nthe peculiar common-place of the Italian masked comedy and _opera buffa_,\nto which in truth it certainly belongs. Moli\u00e8re has treated the main\nincident, the theft of the chest of gold, with an uncommon want of skill.\nAt the very beginning Harpagon, in a scene borrowed from Plautus, is\nfidgetty with suspicions lest a slave should have discovered his treasure.\nAfter this he forgets it; for four whole acts there is not a word about\nit, and the spectator drops, as it were, from the clouds when the servant\nall at once brings in the stolen coffer; for we have no information as to\nthe way in which he fell upon the treasure which had been so carefully\nconcealed. Now this is really to begin again, not truly to work out. But\nPlautus has here shown a great deal of ingenuity: the excessive anxiety of\nthe old man for his pot of gold, and all that he does to save it, are the\nvery cause of its loss. The subterraneous treasure is always invisibly\npresent; it is, as it were, the evil spirit which drives its keeper to\nmadness. In all this we have, an impressive moral of a very different\nkind. In Harpagon's soliloquy, after the theft, the modern poet has\nintroduced the most incredible exaggerations. The calling on the pit to\ndiscover the theft, which, when well acted, produces so great an effect,\nis a trait of the old comedy of Aristophanes, and may serve to give us\nsome idea of its powers of entertainment.\n\nThe _Amphitryon_ is hardly anything more than a free imitation of the\nLatin original. The whole plan and order of the scenes is retained. The\nwaiting-woman, or wife of Sosia, is the invention of Moli\u00e8re. The parody\nof the story of the master's marriage in that of the servant is ingenious,\nand gives rise to the most amusing investigations on the part of Sosia to\nfind out whether, during his absence a domestic blessing may not have also\nbeen conferred on him as well as on Amphitryon. The revolting coarseness\nof the old mythological story is refined as much as it possibly could\nwithout injury to its spirit and boldness; and in general the execution is\nextremely elegant. The uncertainty of the personages respecting their own\nidentity and duplication is founded on a sort of comic metaphysics:\nSosia's reflections on his two _egos_, which have cudgelled each other,\nmay in reality furnish materials for thinking to our philosophers of the\npresent day.\n\nThe most unsuccessful of Moli\u00e8re's imitations of the ancients is that of\nthe _Phormio_ in the _Fourberies de Scapin_. The whole plot is borrowed\nfrom Terence, and, by the addition of a second invention, been adapted,\nwell or ill, or rather tortured, to a consistency with modern manners. The\npoet has indeed gone very hurriedly to work with his plot, which he has\nmost negligently patched together. The tricks of Scapin, for the sake of\nwhich he has spoiled the plot, occupy the foremost place: but we may well\nask whether they deserve it? The Grecian Phormio, a man who, for the sake\nof feasting with young companions, lends himself to all sorts of hazardous\ntricks, is an interesting and modest knave; Scapin directly the reverse.\nHe had no cause to boast so much of his tricks: they are so stupidly\nplanned that in justice they ought not to have succeeded. Even supposing\nthe two old men to be obtuse and brainless in the extreme, we can hardly\nconceive how they could so easily fall into such a clumsy and obvious\nsnare as he lays for them. It is also disgustingly improbable that\nZerbinette, who as a gipsy ought to have known how to conceal knavish\ntricks, should run out into the street and tell the first stranger that\nshe meets, who happens to be none other than Geronte himself, the deceit\npractised upon him by Scapin. The farce of the sack into which Scapin\nmakes Geronte to crawl, then bears him off, and cudgels him as if by the\nhand of strangers, is altogether a most inappropriate excrescence. Boileau\nwas therefore well warranted in reproaching Moli\u00e8re with having\nshamelessly allied Terence to Taburin, (the merry-andrew of a mountebank).\nIn reality, Moli\u00e8re has here for once borrowed, not, as he frequently did,\nfrom the Italian masks, but from the Pagliasses of the rope-dancers and\nvaulters.\n\nWe must not forget that the _Rogueries of Scapin_ is one of the latest\nworks of the poet. This and several others of the same period, as\n_Monsieur de Pourceaugnac_, _La Comtesse d'Escarbagnas_, and even his\nlast, the _Malade Imaginaire_, sufficiently prove that the maturity of his\nmind as an artist did not keep pace with the progress of years, otherwise\nhe would have been disgusted with such loose productions. They serve,\nmoreover, to show that frequently he brought forth pieces with great\nlevity and haste, even when he had full leisure to think of posterity. If\nhe occasionally subjected himself to stricter rules, we owe it more to his\nambition, and his desire to be numbered among the classical writers of the\ngolden age, than to any internal and growing aspiration after the highest\nexcellence.\n\nThe high claims already mentioned, which the French critics make in behalf\nof their favourite, are principally founded on the _\u00c9cole des Femmes_,\n_Tartuffe_, _Le Misanthrope_, and _Les Femmes Savantes_; pieces which are\ncertainly finished with great care and diligence. Now, of these, we must\nexpressly state in the outset, that we leave the separate beauties of\nlanguage and versification altogether to the decision of native critics.\nThese merits can only be subordinate requisites; and the undue stress\nwhich is laid in France on the manner in which a piece is written and\nversified has, in our opinion, been both in Tragedy and Comedy injurious\nto the development of other and more essential requisites of the dramatic\nart. We shall confine our exceptions to the general spirit and plan of\nthese comedies.\n\n_L'\u00c9cole des Femmes_, the earliest of them, seems to me also the most\nexcellent; it is the one in which there is the greatest display of\nvivacious humour, rapidity, and comic vigour. As to the invention: a man\narrived at an age unsuitable for wedlock, purposely educating a young girl\nin ignorance and simplicity, that he may keep her faithful to himself,\nwhile everything turns out the very reverse of his wishes, was not a new\none: a short while before Moli\u00e8re it had been employed by Scarron, who\nborrowed it from a Spanish novel. Still, it was a lucky thought in him to\nadapt this subject to the stage, and the execution of it is most masterly.\nHere we have a real and very interesting plot; no creeping investigations\nwhich do not carry forward the plot; all the matter is of one piece,\nwithout foreign levers and accidental intermixtures, with the exception of\nthe catastrophe, which is brought about somewhat arbitrarily, by means of\na scene of recognition. The _na\u00efve_ confessions and innocent devices\nof Agnes are full of sweetness; they, together with the unguarded\nconfidence reposed by the young lover in his unknown rival, and the\nstifled rage of the old man against both, form a series of comic scenes of\nthe most amusing, and at the same time of the most refined description.\n\nAs an example how little the violation of certain probabilities diminishes\nour pleasure, we may remark that Moli\u00e8re, with respect to the choice of\nscene, has here indulged in very great liberties. We will not inquire how\nArnolph frequently happens to converse with Agnes in the street or in an\nopen place, while he keeps her at the same time so carefully locked up.\nBut if Horace does not know Arnolph to be the intended husband of his\nmistress, and betrays everything to him, this can only be allowable from\nArnolph's passing with her by another name. Horace ought therefore to look\nfor Arnolph in his own house in a remote quarter, and not before the door\nof his mistress, where yet he always finds him, without entertaining any\nsuspicion from that circumstance. Why do the French critics set such a\nhigh value on similar probabilities in the dramatic art, when they must be\ncompelled to admit that their best masters have not always observed them?\n\n_Tartuffe_ is an exact picture of hypocritical piety held up for\nuniversal warning; it is an excellent serious satire, but with the\nexception of separate scenes it is not a comedy. It is generally admitted\nthat the catastrophe is bad, as it is brought about by a foreign means. It\nis bad, too, because the danger which Orgon runs of being driven from his\nhouse and thrown into prison is by no means such an embarrassment as his\nblind confidence actually merited. Here the serious purpose of the work is\nopenly disclosed, and the eulogium of the king is a dedication by which\nthe poet, even in the piece itself, humbly recommends himself to the\nprotection of his majesty against the persecutions which he dreaded.\n\nIn the _Femmes Savantes_ raillery has also the upper hand of mirth;\nthe action is insignificant and not in the least degree attractive; and\nthe catastrophe, after the manner of Moli\u00e8re, is arbitrarily brought about\nby foreign means. Yet these technical imperfections might well be excused\nfor the sake of its satirical merit. But in this respect the composition,\nfrom the limited nature of its views, is anything but equal throughout. We\nare not to expect from the comic poet that he should always give us, along\nwith the exhibition of a folly, a representation also of the opposite way\nof wisdom; in this way he would announce his object of instructing us with\ntoo much of method. But two opposite follies admit of being exhibited\ntogether in an equally ludicrous light. Moli\u00e8re has here ridiculed the\naffectation of a false taste, and the vain-gloriousness of empty\nknowledge. Proud in their own ignorance and contempt for all higher\nenlightenment, these characters certainly deserve the ridicule bestowed on\nthem; but that which in this comedy is portrayed as the correct way of\nwisdom falls nearly into the same error. All the reasonable persons of the\npiece, the father and his brother, the lover and the daughter, nay, even\nthe ungrammatical maid, are all proud of what they are not, have not, and\nknow not, and even what they do not seek to be, to have, or to know.\nChyrsale's limited view of the destination of the female sex, Clitander's\nopinion on the inutility of learning, and the sentiments elsewhere\nadvanced respecting the measure of cultivation and knowledge which is\nsuitable to a man of rank, were all intended to convey Moli\u00e8re's own\nopinions himself on these subjects. We may here trace in him a certain\nvein of valet-de-chambre morality, which also makes its appearance on many\nother points. We can easily conceive how his education and situation\nshould lead him to entertain such ideas; but they are hardly such as\nentitle him to read lectures on human society. That, at the end, Trissotin\nshould be ignominiously made to commit an act of low selfishness is\nodious; for we know that a learned man then alive was satirized under this\ncharacter, and that his name was very slightly disguised. The vanity of an\nauthor is, on the whole, a preservative against this weakness: there are\nmany more lucrative careers than that of authorship for selfishness\nwithout a feeling of honour.\n\nThe _Misanthrope_, which, as is well known, was at first coldly received,\nis still less amusing than the two preceding pieces: the action\nis less rapid, or rather there is none at all; and there is a great want\nof coherence between the meagre incidents which give only an apparent life\nto the dramatic movement,--the quarrel with Oronte respecting the sonnet,\nand its adjustment; the decision of the law-suit which is ever being\nbrought forward; the unmasking of Celimene through the vanity of the two\nMarquisses, and the jealousy of Arsin\u00f6e. Besides all this, the general\nplot is not even probable. It is framed with a view to exhibit the\nthorough delineation of a character; but a character discloses itself much\nmore in its relations with others than immediately. How comes Alceste to\nhave chosen Philinte for a friend, a man whose principles were directly\nthe reverse of his own? How comes he also to be enamoured of a coquette,\nwho has nothing amiable in her character, and who entertains us merely by\nher scandal? We might well say of this Celimene, without exaggeration,\nthat there is not one good point in her whole composition. In a character\nlike that of Alceste, love is not a fleeting sensual impulse, but a\nserious feeling arising from a want of a sincere mental union. His dislike\nof flattering falsehood and malicious scandal, which always characterise\nthe conversation of Celimene, breaks forth so incessantly, that, we feel,\nthe first moment he heard her open her lips ought to have driven him for\never from her society. Finally, the subject is ambiguous, and that is its\ngreatest fault. The limits within which Alceste is in the right and beyond\nwhich he is in the wrong, it would be no easy matter to fix, and I am\nafraid the poet himself did not here see very clearly what he would be at.\nPhilinte, however, with his illusory justification of the way of the\nworld, and his phlegmatic resignation, he paints throughout as the\nintelligent and amiable man. As against the elegant Celimene, Alceste is\nmost decidedly in the right, and only in the wrong in the inconceivable\nweakness of his conduct towards her. He is in the right in his complaints\nof the corruption of the social constitution; the facts, at least, which\nhe adduces, are disputed by nobody. He is in the wrong, however, in\ndelivering his sentiments with so much violence, and at an unseasonable\ntime; but as he cannot prevail on himself to assume the dissimulation\nwhich is necessary to be well received in the world, he is perfectly in\nthe right in preferring solitude to society. Rousseau has already censured\nthe ambiguity of the piece, by which what is deserving of approbation\nseems to be turned into ridicule. His opinion was not altogether\nunprejudiced; for his own character, and his behaviour towards the world,\nhad a striking similarity to that of Alceste; and, moreover, he mistakes\nthe essence of dramatic composition, and founds his condemnation on\nexamples of an accidentally false direction.\n\nSo far with respect to the famed moral philosophy of Moli\u00e8re in his\npretended master-piece. From what has been stated, I consider myself\nwarranted to assert, in opposition to the prevailing opinion, that Moli\u00e8re\nsucceeded best with the coarse and homely comic, and that both his talents\nand his inclination, if unforced, would have determined him altogether to\nthe composition of farces such as he continued to write even to the very\nend of his life. He seems always to have whipped himself up as it were to\nhis more serious pieces in verse: we discover something of constraint in\nboth plot and execution. His friend Boileau probably communicated to him\nhis view of a correct mirth, of a grave and decorous laughter; and so\nMoli\u00e8re determined, after the carnival of his farces, to accommodate\nhimself occasionally to the spare diet of the regular taste, and to unite\nwhat in their own nature are irreconcileable, namely, dignity and\ndrollery. However, we find even in his prosaic pieces traces of that\ndidactical and satirical vein which is peculiarly alien to Comedy; for\nexample, in his constant attacks on physicians and lawyers, in his\ndisquisitions upon the true correct tone of society, &c., the intention of\nwhich is actually to censure, to refute, to instruct, and not merely to\nafford entertainment.\n\nThe classical reputation of Moli\u00e8re still preserves his pieces on the\nstage, [Footnote: If they were not already in possession of the stage, the\nindecency of a number of the scenes would cause many of them to be\nrejected, as the public of the present day, though probably not less\ncorrupt than that of the author's times, is passionately fond of throwing\nover every thing a cloak of morality. When a piece of Moli\u00e8re is acted,\nthe head theatre of Paris is generally a downright solitude, if no\nparticular circumstance brings the spectators together. Since these\nLectures were held, _George Dandin_ has been hissed at Paris, to the\ngreat grief of the watchmen of the critical Sion. This was probably not on\naccount of mere indecency. Whatever may be said in defence of the morality\nof the piece, the privileges of the higher classes are offensively\nfavoured in it; and it concludes with the shameless triumph of arrogance\nand depravity over plain honesty.] although in tone and manners they are\naltogether obsolete. This is a danger to which the comic poet is\ninevitably exposed from that side of his composition which does not rest\non a poetical foundation, but is determined by the prose of external\nreality. The originals of the individual portraits of Moli\u00e8re have long\nsince disappeared. The comic poet who lays claim to immortality must, in\nthe delineation of character and the disposition of his plan, rest\nprincipally on such motives as are always intelligible, being taken not\nfrom the manners of any particular age, but drawn from human nature\nitself.\n\nIn addition to Moli\u00e8re we have to notice but a few older or contemporary\ncomedians. Of Corneille, who from the imitation of Spanish comedies\nacquired a name before he was known as a tragic author, only one piece\nkeeps possession of the stage, _Le Menteur_, from Lope de Vega; and\neven this evinces, in our opinion, no comic talent. The poet, accustomed\nto stilts, moves awkwardly in a species of the drama the first requisites\nof which are ease and sweetness. Scarron, who only understood burlesque,\nhas displayed this talent or knack in several comedies taken from the\nSpanish, of which two, _Jodelle_, or the _Servant turned Master_, and _Don\nJaphet of Armenia_, have till within these few years been occasionally\nacted as carnival farces, and have always been very successful. The plot\nof the _Jodelle_, which belongs to Don Francisco de Roxas, is excellent;\nthe style and the additions of Scarron have not been able altogether to\ndisfigure it. All that is coarse, nauseous, and repugnant to taste,\nbelongs to the French writer of the age of Louis XIV., who in his day was\nnot without celebrity; for the Spanish work is throughout characterized by\na spirit of tenderness. The burlesque tone, which in many languages may be\ntolerated, has been properly rejected by the French, for whenever it is\nnot guided by judgment and taste, it sinks to disgusting vulgarity. _Don\nJaphet_ represents in a still ruder manner the mystification of a coarse\nfool. The original belongs to the kind which the Spaniards call _Comedias\nde Figuron_: it also has undoubtedly been spoiled by Scarron, The worst of\nthe matter is, that his exaggerations are trifling without being amusing.\n\nRacine hit upon a very different plan of imitation from that which was\nthen followed, in his _Plaideurs_, of which the idea is derived from\nAristophanes. The piece in this respect stands alone. The action is merely\na light piece of legerdemain; but the follies which it portrays belong to\na circle, and, with the imitations of the officers of court and advocates,\nform a complete whole. Many lines are at once witty sallies and\ncharacteristic traits; and some of the jokes have that apparently aimless\ndrollery, which genuine comic inspiration can alone inspire. Racine would\nhave become a dangerous rival of Moli\u00e8re, if he had continued to exercise\nthe talent which he has here displayed.\n\nSome of the comedies of a younger contemporary and rival of Moli\u00e8re,\nBoursault, have still kept possession of the stage; they are all of the\nsecondary description, which the French call _pi\u00e8ces \u00e0 tiroir_, and\nof which Moli\u00e8re gave the first example in _Le F\u00e2cheux_. This kind,\nfrom the accidental succession of the scenes, which are strung together on\nsome one common occasion, bear in so far a resemblance to the _Mimes_\nof the ancients; they are intended also to resemble them in the accurate\nimitation of individual peculiarities. These subjects are particularly\nfavourable for the display of the Mimic art in the more limited\nsignification of the word, as the same player always appears in a\ndifferent disguise, and assumes a new character. It is advisable not to\nextend such pieces beyond a single act, as the want of dramatic movement,\nand the uniformity of the occasion through all the different changes, are\nvery apt to excite impatience. But Boursault's pieces, which otherwise are\nnot without merit, are tediously spun out to five acts. The idea of\nexhibiting Aesop, a slave-born sage, and deformed in person, in possession\nof court favour, was original and happy. But in the two pieces, _Aesop\nin the City_, and _Aesop at Court_, the fables which are tacked to\nevery important scene are drowned in diffuse morals; besides, they are\nquite distinct from the dialogue, instead of being interwoven with it,\nlike the fable of Menenius Agrippa in Shakespeare; and modern manners do\nnot suit with this childish mode of instruction. In the _Mercure Galant_\nall sorts of out-of-the-way beings bring their petitions to the writer of\na weekly paper. This thought and many of the most entertaining details\nhave, if I am not mistaken, been borrowed by a popular German author\nwithout acknowledgment.\n\nA considerable time elapsed after the death of Moli\u00e8re before the\nappearance of Regnard, to whom in France the second place in Comedy is\nusually assigned. He was a sort of adventurer who, after roaming a long\ntime up and down the world, fell to the trade of a dramatic writer, and\ndivided himself betwixt the composition of regular comedies in verse, and\nthe Italian theatre, which still continued to flourish under Gherardi, and\nfor which he sketched the French scenes. The _Joueur_, his first\nplay, is justly preferred to the others. The author was acquainted with\nthis passion, and a gamester's life, from his own experience: it is a\npicture after nature, with features strongly drawn, but without\nexaggeration; and the plot and accessory circumstances, with the exception\nof a pair of caricatures which might well have been dispensed with, are\nall appropriate and in character. The _Distrait_ possesses not only\nthe faults of the methodical pieces of character which I have already\ncensured, but it is not even a peculiar character at all; the mistakes\noccasioned by the unfortunate habit of being absent in thought are all\nalike, and admit of no heightening: they might therefore have filled up an\nafter-piece, but, certainly did not merit the distinction of being spun\nout into a comedy of five acts. Regnard has done little more than\ndramatize a series of anecdotes which La Bruy\u00e8re had assembled together\nunder the name of a certain character. The execution of the _L\u00e9gataire\nUniversel_ shows more comic talent; but from the error of the general\nplan, arising out of a want of moral feeling, this talent is completely\nthrown away. La Harpe declares this piece the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of comic\npleasantry. It is, in fact, such a subject for pleasantry as would\nmove a stone to pity,--as enlivening as the grin of a death's head. What a\nsubject for mirth: a feeble old man in the very arms of death, teased by\nyoung profligates for his property, has a false will imposed on him while\nhe is lying insensible, as is believed, on his death-bed! If it be true\nthat these scenes have always given rise to much laughter on the French\nstage, it only proves the spectators to possess the same unfeeling levity\nwhich disgusts us in the author. We have elsewhere shown that, with an\napparent indifference, a moral reserve is essential to the comic poet,\nsince the impressions which he would wish to produce are inevitably\ndestroyed whenever disgust or compassion is excited.\n\nLegrand the actor, a contemporary of Regnard, was one of the first comic\npoets who gained celebrity for after-pieces in verse, a species of\ncomposition in which the French have since produced a number of elegant\ntrifles. He has not, however, risen to any thing like the same height of\nposthumous fame as Regnard: La Harpe dismisses him with very little\nceremony. Yet we should be disposed to rank him very high as an artist,\neven if he had composed nothing else than the _King of Lubberland_\n(_Le Roi de Cocagne_), a sprightly farce in the marvellous style,\noverflowing with what is very rare in France, a native fanciful wit,\nanimated by the most lively mirth, which although carried the length of\nthe most frolicsome giddiness, sports on and round all subjects with the\nutmost harmlessness. We might call it an elegant and ingenious piece of\nmadness; an example of the manner in which the play of Aristophanes, or\nrather that of Eupolis, [Footnote: See page 167.] who had also dramatised\nthe tale _of Lubberland_, might be brought on our stage without\nexciting disgust, and without personal satire. And yet Legrand was,\ncertainly, unacquainted with the Old Comedy, and his own genius (we\nscruple not to use the expression) led him to the invention. The execution\nis as careful as in a regular comedy; but to this title in the French\nopinion it can have no pretensions, because of the wonderful world which\nit represents, of several of the decorations, and of the music here and\nthere introduced. The French critics show themselves in general\nindifferent, or rather unjust towards every suggestion of genuine fancy.\nBefore they can feel respect for a work it must present a certain\nappearance of labour and effort. Among a giddy and light-minded people,\nthey have appropriated to themselves the post of honour of pedantry: they\nconfound the levity of jocularity, which is quite compatible with\nprofundity in art, with the levity of shallowness, which (as a natural\ngift or natural defect,) is so frequent among their countrymen.\n\nThe eighteenth century produced in France a number of comic writers of the\nsecond and third rank, but no distinguished genius capable of advancing\nthe art a step farther; in consequence of which the belief in Moli\u00e8re's\nunapproachable excellence has become still more firmly riveted. As we have\nnot space at present to go through all these separate productions, we\nshall premise a few observations on the general spirit of French Comedy\nbefore entering on the consideration of the writers whom we have not yet\nmentioned.\n\nThe want of easy progress, and over-lengthy disquisitions in stationary\ndialogue, have characterized more or less every writer since the time of\nMoli\u00e8re, on whose regular pieces also the conventional rules applicable to\nTragedy have had an indisputable influence. French Comedy in verse has its\ntirades as well as Tragedy. Besides, there was another circumstance, the\nintroduction of a certain degree of stiff etiquette. The Comedy of other\nnations has generally, from motives which we can be at no loss in\nunderstanding, descended into the circle of the lower classes: but the\nFrench Comedy is usually confined to the upper ranks of society. Here,\nthen, we trace the influence of the court as the central point of the\nwhole national vanity. Those spectators who in reality had no access to\nthe great world, were flattered by being surrounded on the stage with\nmarquises and chevaliers, and while the poet satirized the fashionable\nfollies, they endeavoured to snatch something of that privileged tone\nwhich was so much the object of envy. Society rubs off the salient angles\nof character; its only amusement consists in the pursuit of the\nridiculous, and on the other hand it trains us in the faculty of being\nupon our guard against the observations of others. The natural, cordial,\nand jovial comic of the inferior classes is thrown aside, and instead of\nit another description (the fruit of polished society, and bearing in its\ninsipidity the stamp of so purposeless a way of living) is adopted. The\nobject of these comedies is no longer life but society, that perpetual\nnegotiation between conflicting vanities which never ends in a sincere\ntreaty of peace: the embroidered dress, the hat under the arm, and the\nsword by the side, essentially belong to them, and the whole of their\ncharacterization is limited to painting the folly of the men and the\ncoquetry of the women. The insipid uniformity of these pictures was\nunfortunately too often seasoned by the corruption of moral principles\nwhich, more especially after the age of Louis XIV., it became, under the\nRegency of Louis XV., the fashion openly to avow. In this period the\nfavourite of the women, the _homme \u00e0 bonnes fortunes_, who in the\ntone of satiety boasts of the multitude of his conquests too easily won,\nwas not a character invented by the comic writers, but a portrait\naccurately taken from real life, as is proved by the numerous memoirs of\nthe last century, even down to those of a Besenval. We are disgusted with\nthe unveiled sensuality of the love intrigues of the Greek Comedy: but the\nGreeks would have found much more disgusting the love intrigues of the\nFrench Comedy, entered into with married women, merely from giddy vanity.\nLimits have been fixed by nature herself to sensual excess; but when\nvanity assumes the part of a sensuality already deadened and enervated, it\ngives birth to the most hollow corruption. And even if, in the constant\nridicule of marriage by the petit-ma\u00eetres, and in their moral scepticism\nespecially with regard to female virtue, it was the intention of the poets\nto ridicule a prevailing depravity, the picture is not on that account the\nless immoral. The great or fashionable world, which in point of numbers is\nthe little world, and yet considers itself alone of importance, can hardly\nbe improved by it; and for the other classes the example is but too\nseductive, from the brilliancy with which the characters are surrounded.\nBut in so far as Comedy is concerned, this deadening corruption is by no\nmeans invariably entertaining; and in many pieces, in which fools of\nquality give the tone, for example in the _Chevalier \u00e0 la mode de\nDancourt_, the picture of complete moral dissoluteness which, although\ntrue, is nevertheless both unpoetical and unnatural, is productive not\nmerely of _ennui_, but of the most decided repugnance and disgust.\n\nFrom the number of writers to whom this charge chiefly applies, we must in\njustice except Destouches and Marivaux, fruitful or at least diligent\ncomic writers, the former in verse and the latter in prose. They acquired\nconsiderable distinction among their contemporaries in the first half of\nthe eighteenth century, but on the stage few of their works survived\neither of them. Destouches was a moderate, tame, and well-meaning author,\nwho applied himself with all his powers to the composition of regular\ncomedies, which were always drawn out to the length of five acts, and in\nwhich there is nothing laughable, with the exception of the vivacity\ndisplayed in virtue of their situation, by Lisette and her lover Frontin,\nor Pasquin. He was in no danger, from any excess of frolicsome petulance,\nof falling from the dignified tone of the supposed high comic into the\nfamiliarity of farce, which the French hold in such contempt. With\nmoderate talents, without humour, and almost without vivacity, neither\ningenious in invention, nor possessed of a deep insight into the human\nmind and human affairs, he has in some of his productions, _Le Glorieux_,\n_Le Philosophe Mari\u00e9_, and especially _L'Ind\u00e9cis_, shewn with great credit\nto himself what true and unpretending diligence is by itself capable of\neffecting. Other pieces, for instance, _L'Ingrat_ and _L'Homme Singulier_,\nare complete failures, and enable us to see that a poet who considers\n_Tartuffe_ and _The Misanthrope_ as the highest objects of imitation, (and\nwith Destouches this was evidently the case,) has only another step to\ntake to lose sight of the comic art altogether. These two works of Moli\u00e8re\nhave not been friendly beacons to his followers, but false lights to their\nruin. Whenever a comic poet in his preface worships _The Misanthrope_ as a\nmodel, I can immediately foretell the result of his labours. He will\nsacrifice every thing like the gladsome inspiration of fun and all truly\npoetical amusement, for the dull and formal seriousness of prosaic life,\nand for prosaical applications stamped with the respectable name of\nmorals.\n\nThat Marivaux is a mannerist is so universally acknowledged in France,\nthat the peculiar term of _marivaudage_ has been invented for his\nmannerism. But this is at least his own, and at first sight by no means\nunpleasing. Delicacy of mind cannot be denied to Marivaux, only it is\ncoupled with a certain littleness. We have stated it to be the most\nrefined species of the comic of observation, when a peculiarity or\nproperty shows itself most conspicuously at the very time its possessor\nhas the least suspicion of it, or is most studious to conceal it. Marivaux\nhas applied this to the passions; and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ in the involuntary\ndisclosure of emotions certainly belongs to the domain of Comedy. But then\nthis _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ is prepared by him with too much art, appears too\nsolicitous for our applause, and, we may almost say, seems too well\npleased with it himself. It is like children in the game of hide and seek,\nthey cannot stay quiet in their corner, but keep popping out their heads,\nif they are not immediately discovered; nay, sometimes, which is still\nworse, it is like the squinting over a fan held up from affected modesty.\nIn Marivaux we always see his aim from the very beginning, and all our\nattention is directed to discovering the way by which he is to lead us to\nit. This would be a skilful mode of composing, if it did not degenerate\ninto the insignificant and the superficial. Petty inclinations are\nstrengthened by petty motives, exposed to petty probations, and brought by\npetty steps nearer and nearer to a petty conclusion. The whole generally\nturns on a declaration of love, and all sorts of clandestine means are\ntried to elicit it, or every kind of slight allusion is hazarded to hasten\nit. Marivaux has neither painted characters, nor contrived intrigues. The\nwhole plot generally turns on an unpronounced word, which is always at the\ntongue's end, and which is frequently kept back in a pretty arbitrary\nmanner. He is so uniform in the motives that he employs, that when we have\nread one of his pieces with a tolerable degree of attention we know all of\nthem. However, we must still rank him above the herd of stiff imitators;\nsomething is to be learned even from him, for he possessed a peculiar\nthough a very limited view of the essence of Comedy.\n\nTwo other single works are named as master-pieces in the regular Comedy in\nverse, belonging to two writers who here perhaps have taken more pains,\nbut in other departments have given a freer scope to their natural talent:\nthe _M\u00e9tromanie_ of Piron and the _M\u00e9chant_ of Gresset. The _M\u00e9tromanie_\nis not written without humorous inspiration. In the young man possessed\nwith a passion for poetry, Piron intended in some measure to paint\nhimself; but as we always go tenderly to work in the ridicule of\nourselves, together with the amiable weakness in question, he endows his\nhero with talents, magnanimity, and a good heart. But this tender reserve\nis not peculiarly favourable for comic strength. As to the _M\u00e9chant_, it\nis one of those gloomy comedies which might be rapturously hailed by a\nTimon as serving to confirm his aversion to human society, but which, on\nsocial and cheerful minds, can only give rise to the most painful\nimpression. Why paint a dark and odious disposition which, devoid of all\nhuman sympathy, feeds its vanity in a cold contempt and derision of\neverything, and solely occupies itself in aimless detraction? Why exhibit\nsuch a moral deformity, which could hardly be tolerated even in Tragedy,\nfor the mere purpose of producing domestic discontent and petty\nembarrassments?\n\nYet, according to the decision of the French critics, these three\ncomedies, the _Glorieux_, the _M\u00e9tromanie_, and the _M\u00e9chant_, are all\nthat the eighteenth century can oppose to Moli\u00e8re. We should be disposed\nto rank the _Le Vieux Bachelier_ of Collin d'Harleville much higher; but\nfor judging this true picture of manners there is no scale afforded in the\nworks of Moli\u00e8re, and it can only be compared with those of Terence. We\nhave here the utmost refinement and accuracy of characterization, most\nfelicitously combined with an able plot, which keeps on the stretch and\nrivets our attention, while a certain mildness of sentiment is diffused\nover the whole.\n\nI purpose now to make a few observations on the secondary species of the\n_Opera_, _Operettes_, and _Vaudevilles_, and shall conclude with a view of\nthe present condition of the French stage with reference to the histrionic\nart.\n\nIn the serious, heroic, or rather the ideal _opera_, if we may so\nexpress ourselves, we can only mention one poet of the age of Louis XIV.,\nQuinault--who is now little read, but yet deserving of high praise. As a\ntragic poet, in the early period of his career, he was satirized by\nBoileau; but he was afterwards highly successful in another species, the\nmusical drama. Mazarin had introduced into France a taste for the Italian\nopera; Louis was also desirous of rivalling or surpassing foreign\ncountries in the external magnificence of the drama, in decoration,\nmachinery, music, and dancing; these were all to be employed in the\ncelebration of the court festivals; and accordingly Moli\u00e8re was employed\nto write gay, and Quinault serious operas, to the music of Lulli. I am not\nsufficiently versed in the earlier literature of the Italian opera to be\nable to speak with accuracy, but I suspect that here also Quinault\nlaboured more after Spanish than Italian models; and more particularly,\nthat he derived from the Fiestas of Calderon the general form of his\noperas, and their frequently allegorical preludes which are often to be\nfound in them. It is true, poetical ornament is much more sparingly dealt\nout, as the whole is necessarily shortened for the sake of the music, and\nthe very nature of the French language and versification is incompatible\nwith the splendid magnificence, the luxurious fulness, displayed by\nCalderon. But the operas of Quinault are, in their easy progress, truly\nfanciful; and the serious opera cannot, in my opinion, be stripped of the\ncharm of the marvellous without becoming at length wearisome. So far\nQuinault appears to me to have taken a much better road towards the true\nvocation of particular departments of art, than that on which Metastasio\ntravelled long after him. The latter has admirably provided for the wants\nof a melodious music expressive solely of feeling; but where does he\nfurnish the least food for the imagination? On the other hand, I am not so\nsure that Quinault is justly entitled to praise for sacrificing, in\ncompliance with the taste of his countrymen, everything like comic\nintermixture. He has been censured for an occasional play on language in\nthe expression of feeling. But is it just to exact the severity of the\ntragical cothurnus in light works of this description? Why should not\nPoetry also be allowed her arabesque? No person can be more an enemy to\nmannerism than I am; but to censure it aright, we ought first to\nunderstand the degree of nature and truth which we have a right to expect\nfrom each species, and what is alone compatible with it. The verses of\nQuinault have no other _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ and simplicity than those of the\nmadrigal; and though they occasionally fall into the luscious, at other\ntimes they express a languishing tenderness with gracefulness and a soft\nmelody. The opera ought to resemble the enchanted gardens of Armida, of\nwhich Quinault says,\n\n  _Dans ces lieux enchant\u00e9s la volupt\u00e9 pr\u00e9side._\n\nWe ought only to be awaked out of the voluptuous dreams of feeling to\nenjoy the magical illusions of fancy. When once we have come to imagine,\ninstead of real men, beings whose only language is song, it is but a very\nshort step to represent to ourselves creatures whose only occupation is\nlove; that feeling which hovers between the sensible and intellectual\nworld; and the first invention becomes natural again by means of the\nsecond.\n\nQuinault has had no successors. How far below his, both in point of\ninvention and of execution, are the French operas of the present day! The\nheroic and tragic have been required in a department where they cannot\nproduce their proper effect. Instead of handling with fanciful freedom\nmythological materials or subjects taken from chivalrous or pastoral\nromances, they have after the manner of Tragedy chained themselves down to\nhistory, and by means of their heavy seriousness, and the pedantry of\ntheir rules, they have so managed matters, that Dulness with leaden\nsceptre presides over the opera. The deficiencies of their music, the\nunfitness of the French language for composition in a style anything\nhigher than that of the most simple national melodies, the unaccented and\narbitrary nature of their recitative, the bawling bravura of the singers,\nmust be left to the animadversions of musical critics.\n\nWith pretensions far lower, the _Comic Opera_ or _Operette_ approaches\nmuch more nearly to perfection. With respect to the composition, it may\nand indeed ought to assume only a national tone. The transition from song\nto speech, without any musical accompaniment or heightening, which was\ncensured by Rousseau as an unsuitable mixture of two distinct modes of\ncomposition, may be displeasing to the ear; but it has unquestionably\nproduced an advantageous effect on the structure of the pieces. In the\nrecitatives, which generally are not half understood, and seldom listened\nto with any degree of attention, a plot which is even moderately\ncomplicated cannot be developed with due clearness. Hence in the Italian\n_opera buffa_, the action is altogether neglected; and along with its\ngrotesque caricatures, it is distinguished for uniform situations, which\nadmit not of dramatic progress. But the comic opera of the French,\nalthough from the space occupied by the music it is unsusceptible of any\nvery perfect dramatic development, is still calculated to produce a\nconsiderable stage effect, and speaks pleasingly to the imagination. The\npoets have not here been prevented by the constraint of rules from\nfollowing out their theatrical views. Hence these fleeting productions are\nin no wise deficient in the rapidity, life, and amusement, which are\nfrequently wanting in the more correct dramatic works of the French. The\ndistinguished favour which the _operettes_ of a Favart, a Sedaine and\nlater poets, of whom some are still alive, always meet with in Germany,\n(where foreign literature has long lost its commanding influence, and\nwhere the national taste has pronounced so strongly against French\nTragedy,) is by no means to be placed to the account of the music; it is\nin reality owing to their poetical merit. To cite only one example out of\nmany, I do not hesitate to declare the whole series of scenes in _Raoul\nSire de Cr\u00e9quy_, where the children of the drunken turnkey set the\nprisoner at liberty, a master-piece of theatrical painting. How much were\nit to be wished that the Tragedy of the French, and even their Comedy in\ncourt-dress, had but a little of this truth of circumstance, this vivid\npresence, and power of arresting the attention. In several _operettes_,\nfor instance in a _Richard Coeur de Lion_ and a _Nina_, the traces of the\nromantic spirit are not to be mistaken.\n\nThe _vaudeville_ is but a variation of the comic opera. The essential\ndifference is that it dispenses with composition, by which the comic opera\nforms a musical whole, as the songs are set to well-known popular airs.\nThe incessant skipping from the song to the dialogue, often after a few\nscrapes of the violin and a few words, with the accumulation of airs\nmostly common, but frequently also in a style altogether different from\nthe poetry, drives an ear accustomed to Italian music to despair. If we\ncan once make up our minds to bear with this, we shall not unfrequently be\nrichly recompensed in comic drollery; even in the choice of a melody, and\nthe allusion to the common and well-known words, there is often a display\nof wit. In earlier times writers of higher pretensions, a Le Sage and a\nPiron have laboured in the department of the _vaudeville_, and even for\n_marionettes_. The wits who now dedicate themselves to this species are\nlittle known out of Paris, but this gives them no great concern. It not\nunfrequently happens that several of them join together, that the fruit of\ntheir common talents may be sooner brought to light. The parody of new\ntheatrical pieces, the anecdotes of the day, which form the common talk\namong all the idlers of the capital, must furnish them with subjects in\nworking up which little delay can be brooked. These _vaudevilles_ are like\nthe gnats that buzz about in a summer evening; they often sting, but they\nfly merrily about so long as the sun of opportunity shines upon them. A\npiece like the _Despair of Jocrisse_, which, after a lapse of years, may\nbe still occasionally brought out, passes justly among the ephemeral\nproductions for a classical work that has gained the crown of immortality.\nWe must, however, see it acted by Brunet, whose face is almost a mask, and\nwho is nearly as inexhaustible in the part of the simpleton as Puncinello\nis in his.\n\nFrom a consideration of the sportive secondary species, formed out of a\nmixture of the comic with the affecting, in which authors and spectators\ngive themselves up without reserve to their natural inclinations, it\nappears to me evident, that as comic wit with the Italians consists in\ngrotesque mimicry or buffoonery, and with the English in humour, with the\nFrench it consists in good-natured gaiety. Among the lower orders\nespecially this property is everywhere visible, where it has not been\nsupplanted by the artifice of corruption.\n\nWith respect to the present condition of Dramatic Art in France, every\nthing depends on the endeavours to introduce the theatrical liberties of\nother countries, or mixed species of the drama. The hope of producing any\nthing truly new in the two species which are alone admitted to be regular,\nof excelling the works already produced, of filling up the old frames with\nricher pictures, becomes more and more distant every day. A new work\nseldom obtains a decided approbation; and, even at best, this approbation\nonly lasts till it has been found out that the work is only a new\npreparation of their old classical productions.\n\nWe have passed over several things relating to these endeavours, that we\nmay deliver together all the observations which we have to make on the\nsubject. The attacks hitherto made against the French forms of art, first\nby De la Motte, and afterwards by Diderot and Mercier, have been like\nvoices in the wilderness. It could not be otherwise, as the principles on\nwhich these writers proceeded were in reality destructive, not merely of\nthe conventional forms, but of all poetical forms whatever, and as none of\nthem showed themselves capable of suitably supporting their doctrine by\ntheir own example, even when they were in the right they contrived,\nnevertheless, by a false application, to be in the wrong.\n\nThe most remarkable among them is Diderot, whom Lessing calls the best\ncritic of the French. In opposition to this opinion I should be disposed\nto affirm that he was no critic at all. I will not lay any stress on his\nmistaking the object of poetry and the fine arts, which he considered to\nbe merely moral: a man may be a critic without being a theorist. But a man\ncannot be a critic without being thoroughly acquainted with the\nconditions, means, and styles of an art; and here the nature of Diderot's\nstudies and acquirements renders his critical capabilities extremely\nquestionable. This ingenious sophist deals out his blows with such\nboisterous haste in the province of criticism, that the half of them are\nthrown away. The true and the false, the old and the new, the essential\nand the unimportant, are so mixed up together, that the highest praise we\ncan bestow upon him is, that he is worthy of the labour of disentangling\nthem. What he wished to accomplish had either been accomplished, though\nnot in France, or did not deserve to be accomplished, or was altogether\nimpracticable. His attack on the formality and holiday primness of the\ndramatic probabilities, of the excessive symmetry of the French\nversification, declamation, and mode of acting, was just; but, at the same\ntime, he objected to all theatrical elevation, and refused to allow to the\ncharacters anything like a perfect mode of communicating what was passing\nwithin them. He nowhere assigns the reason why he held versification as\nnot suitable, or prose as more suitable, to familiar tragedy; this has\nbeen extended by others, and among the rest, unfortunately, by Lessing, to\nevery species of the drama; but the ground for it evidently rests on\nnothing but the mistaken principles of illusion and nature, to which we\nhave more than once adverted. [Footnote: I have stated and refuted them in\na treatise _On the Relation of the Fine Arts to Nature_ in the fifth\nnumber of the periodical work _Prometheus_, published by Leo von\nSeckendorf.] And if he gives an undue preference to the sentimental drama\nand the familiar tragedy, species valuable in themselves, and susceptible\nof a truly poetic treatment; was not this on account of the application?\nThe main thing, according to him, is not character and situations, but\nranks of life and family relations, that spectators in similar ranks and\nrelations may lay the example to heart. But this would put an end to\neverything like true enjoyment in art. Diderot recommended that the\ncomposition should have this direction, with the very view which, in the\ncase of a historical tragedy founded on the events of their own times, met\nwith the disapprobation of the Athenians, and subjected its author\nPhrynichus to their displeasure [Footnote: See page 72.]. The view of a\nfire by night may, from the wonderful effect produced by the combination\nof flames and darkness, fill the unconcerned spectator with delight; but\nwhen our neighbour's house is burning,--_jam oreximus ardet Ucalegon_--we\nshall hardly be disposed to see the affair in such a picturesque light.\n\nIt is clear that Diderot was induced to take in his sail as he made way\nwith his own dramatic attempts. He displayed the greatest boldness in an\noffensive publication of his youth, in which he wished to overturn the\nentire dramatic system of the French; he was less daring in the dialogues\nwhich accompany the _Fils Naturel_, and he showed the greatest moderation\nin the treatise appended to the _P\u00e8re de Famille_. He carried his\nhostility a great deal too far with respect to the forms and the objects\nof the dramatic art. But in other respects he has not gone far enough: in\nhis view of the Unities of Place and Time, and the mixture of seriousness\nand mirth, he has shown himself infected with the prejudices of his\nnation.\n\nThe two pieces above mentioned, which obtained an unmerited reputation on\ntheir first appearance, have long since received their due appreciation.\nOn the _Fils Naturel_ Lessing has pronounced a severe sentence, without,\nhowever, censuring the scandalous plagiarism from Goldoni. But the _P\u00e8re\nde Famille_ he calls an excellent piece, but has forgotten, however, to\nassign any grounds for his opinion. Its defective plot and want of\nconnexion have been well exposed by La Harpe. The execution of both pieces\nexhibits the utmost mannerism: the characters, which are anything but\nnatural, become from their frigid prating about virtue in the most\nhypocritical style, and the tears which they are perpetually shedding,\naltogether intolerable. We Germans may justly say, _Hinc illae lacrymae!_\nhence the unnecessary tears with which our stage has ever since been\noverflowed. The custom which has grown up of giving long and\ncircumstantial directions respecting the action, and which we owe also to\nDiderot, has been of the greatest detriment to dramatic eloquence. In this\nway the poet gives, as it were, an order on the player, instead of paying\nout of his own purse. [Footnote: I remember to have read the following\ndirection in a German drama, which is not worse than many others:--\"He\nflashes lightning at him with his eyes (_Er blitzt ihn mit den Augen\nan_) and goes off.\"] All good dramatists have uniformly had the action\nin some degree present to their minds; but if the actor requires\ninstruction on the subject, he will hardly possess the talent of following\nit up with the suitable gestures. The speeches should be so framed that an\nintelligent actor could hardly fail to give them the proper action.\n\nIt will he admitted, that long before Diderot there were serious family\npictures, affecting dramas, and familial tragedies, much better than any\nwhich he was capable of executing. Voltaire, who could never rightly\nsucceed in Comedy, gave in his _Enfant Prodigue_ and _Nanine_ a mixture of\ncomic scenes and affecting situations, the latter of which are deserving\nof high praise. The affecting drama had been before attempted in France by\nLa Chauss\u00e9e. All this was in verse: and why not? Of the familiar tragedy\n(with the very same moral direction for which Diderot contended) several\nexamples have been produced on the English stage: and one of them,\n_Beverley, or the Gamester_, is translated into French. The period of\nsentimentality was of some use to the affecting or sentimental drama; but\nthe familiar tragedy was never very successful in France, where they were\ntoo much attached to brilliancy and pomp. The _Melanie_ of La Harpe (to\nwhom the stage of the present day owes _Philoctete_, the most faithful\nimitation of a Grecian piece) abounds with those painful impressions which\nform the rock this species may be said to split upon. The piece may\nperhaps be well adapted to enlighten the conscience of a father who has\ndetermined to force his daughter to enter a cloister; but to other\nspectators it can only be painful.\n\nNotwithstanding the opposition which Diderot experienced, he was however\nthe founder of a sort of school of which the most distinguished names are\nBeaumarchais and Mercier. The former wrote only two pieces in the spirit\nof his predecessor--_Eugenie_, and _La M\u00e8re Coupable_; and they display\nthe very same faults. His acquaintance with Spain and the Spanish theatre\nled him to bring something new on the stage in the way of the piece of\nintrigue, a species which had long been neglected. These works were more\ndistinguished by witty sallies than by humour of character; but their\ngreatest attraction consisted in the allusions to his own career as\nan author. The plot of the _Barber of Seville_ is rather trite; the\n_Marriage of Figaro_ is planned with much more art, but the manners\nwhich it portrays are loose; and it is also censurable in a poetical point\nof view, on account of the number of foreign excrescences with which it is\nloaded. In both French characters are exhibited under the disguise of a\nSpanish costume, which, however, is very ill observed [Footnote: The\nnumerous sins of Beaumarchais against the Spanish manners and observances,\nare pointed out by De la Huerta in the introduction to his _Teatro\nEspa\u00f1ol_.]. The extraordinary applause which these pieces met with\nwould lead to the conclusion, that the French public do not hold the\ncomedy of _intrigue_ in such low estimation as it is by the critics:\nbut the means by which Beaumarchais pleased were certainly, in part it\nleast, foreign to art.\n\nThe attempt of Ducis to make his countrymen acquainted with Shakspeare by\nmodelling a few of his tragedies according to the French rules, cannot be\naccounted an enlargement of their theatre. We perceive here and there\nindeed the \"torn members of the poet\"--_disjecta membra poetae_; but\nthe whole is so constrained, disfigured, and, from the simple fulness of\nthe original, tortured and twisted into such miserable intricacy, that\neven when the language is retained word for word, it ceases to convey its\ngenuine meaning. The crowd which these tragedies attracted, especially\nfrom their affording an unusual room to the inimitable Talma for the\ndisplay of his art, must be looked upon as no slight symptom of the\npeople's dissatisfaction with their old works, and the want of others more\npowerfully agitating.\n\nAs the Parisian theatres are at present tied down to certain kinds, and as\npoetry has here a point of contact with the police, the numerous mixed and\nnew attempts are for the most part banished to the subordinate theatres.\nOf these new attempts the _Melo-dramas_ constitute a principal part.\nA statistical writer of the theatre informs us, that for a number of years\nback the new productions in Tragedy and regular Comedy have been fewest,\nand that the melo-dramas have in number exceeded all the others put\ntogether. They do not mean by melo-drama, as we do, a drama in which the\npauses are filled up by monologue with instrumental music, but where\nactions in any wise wonderful, adventurous, or even sensuous, are\nexhibited in emphatic prose with suitable decorations and dresses.\nAdvantage might be taken of this prevailing inclination to furnish a\nbetter description of entertainment: since most of the melo-dramas are\nunfortunately rude even to insipidity, and resemble abortive attempts at\nthe romantic.\n\nIn the sphere of dramatic literature the labours of a Le Mercier are\nundoubtedly deserving of the critic's attention. This able man endeavours\nto break through the prescribed limits in every possible way, and is so\npassionately fond of his art that nothing can deter him from it; although\nalmost every new attempt which he makes converts the pit into a regular\nfield of battle. [Footnote: Since these Lectures were held, such a tumult\narose in the theatre at Paris on the representation of his _Christopher\nColumbus_, that several of the champions of Boileau came off with\nbruised heads and broken shins. They were in the right to fight like\ndesperadoes; for if this piece had succeeded, it would have been all over\nwith the consecrated Unities and good taste in the separation of the\nheroic and the low. The first act takes place in the house of Columbus,\nthe second at the court of Isabella, the third and last on shipboard near\nthe New World. The object of the poet was to show that the man in whom any\ngrand idea originates is everywhere opposed and thwarted by the limited\nand common-place views of other men; but that the strength of his\nenthusiasm enables him to overcome all obstacles. In his own house, and\namong his acquaintances, Columbus is considered as insane; at court he\nobtains with difficulty a lukewarm support; in his own vessel a mutiny is\non the point of breaking out, when the wished-for land is discovered, and\nthe piece ends with the exclamation of \"Land, land!\" All this is conceived\nand planned very skilfully; but in the execution, however, there are\nnumerous defects. In another piece not yet acted nor printed, called _La\nJourn\u00e9e des Dupes_, which I heard the author read, he has painted with\nhistorical truth, both in regard to circumstances and the spirit of the\nage, a well-known but unsuccessful court-cabal against Cardinal Richelieu.\nIt is a political comedy, in which the rag-gatherer and the king express\nthemselves in language suitable to their stations. The poet has, with the\ngreatest ingenuity, shown the manner in which trivial causes assist or\nimpede the execution of a great political design, the dissimulation\npractised by political personages towards others, and even towards\nthemselves, and the different tones which they assume according to\ncircumstances; in a word, he has exhibited the whole inward aspect of the\ngame of politics.]\n\nFrom all this we may infer, that the inclinations of the French public,\nwhen they forget the duties they have imbibed from Boileau's _Art of\nPoetry_, are not quite so hostile to the dramatic liberties of other\nnations as might be supposed, and that the old and narrow system is\nchiefly upheld by a superstitious attachment to traditional opinions.\n\nThe histrionic art, particularly in high comedy and tragedy, has been long\ncarried in France to great perfection. In external dignity, quickness,\ncorrectness of memory, and in a wonderful degree of propriety and elegance\nin the delivery of verse, the best French actors are hardly to be\nsurpassed. Their efforts to please are incredible: every moment they pass\non the stage is a valuable opportunity, of which they must avail\nthemselves. The extremely fastidious taste of a Paris pit, and the\nwholesome severity of the journalists, excite in them a spirit of\nincessant emulation; and the circumstance of acting a number of classical\nworks, which for generations have been in the possession of the stage,\ncontributes also greatly to their excellence in their art. As the\nspectators have these works nearly by heart, their whole attention may be\ndirected to the acting, and every faulty syllable meets in this way with\nimmediate detection and reprobation.\n\nIn high comedy the social refinement of the nation affords great\nadvantages to their actors. But with respect to tragical composition, the\nart of the actor should also accommodate itself to the spirit of the\npoetry. I am inclined to doubt, however, whether this is the case with the\nFrench actors, and whether the authors of the tragedies, especially those\nof the age of Louis XIV. would altogether recognise themselves in the mode\nin which these compositions are at present represented.\n\nThe tragic imitation and recitation of the French oscillate between two\nopposite extremes, the first of which is occasioned by the prevailing tone\nof the piece, while the second seems rather to be at variance with it,--\nbetween measured formality and extravagant boisterousness. The first might\nformerly preponderate, but the balance is now on the other side.\n\nLet us hear Voltaire's description of the manner in which, in the time of\nLouis XIV., Augustus delivered his discourse to Cinna and Maximus.\nAugustus entered with the step of a braggadocio, his head covered with a\nfour-cornered peruque, which hung down to his girdle; the peruque was\nstuck full of laurel leaves, and above this he wore a large hat with a\ndouble row of red feathers. He seated himself on a huge fauteuil, two\nsteps high, Cinna and Maximus on two low chairs; and the pompous\ndeclamation fully corresponded to the ostentatious manner in which he made\nhis appearance. As at that time, and even long afterwards, tragedies were\nacted in a court-dress of the newest fashion, with large cravats, swords,\nand hats, no other movements were practicable but such as were allowable\nin an antechamber, or, at most, a slight waving of the hand; and it was\neven considered a bold theatrical attempt, when, in the last scene of\n_Polyeucte_, Severus entered with his hat on his head for the purpose\nof accusing Felix of treachery, and the latter listened to him with his\nhat under his arm.\n\nHowever, there were even early examples of an extravagance of an opposite\ndescription. In the _Mariamne_ of Mairet, an older poet than Corneille,\nthe player who acted Herod, roared himself to death. This may, indeed, be\ncalled \"out-heroding Herod!\" When Voltaire was instructing an actress in\nsome tragic part, she said to him, \"Were I to play in this manner, sir,\nthey would say the devil was in me.\"--\"Very right,\" answered Voltaire, \"an\nactress ought to have the devil in her.\" This expression proves, at least,\nno very keen sense for that dignity and sweetness which in an ideal\ncomposition, such as the French Tragedy pretends to be, ought never to be\nlost sight of, even in the wildest whirlwind of passion.\n\nI found occasionally, even in the action of the very best players of the\npresent day, sudden leaps from the measured solemnity in recitation and\ngesticulation which the general tone of the composition required, to a\nboisterousness of passion absolutely convulsive, without any due\npreparation or softening by intervening gradations. They are led to this\nby a sort of obscure feeling, that the conventional forms of poetry\ngenerally impede the movements of nature; when the poet any where leaves\nthem at liberty, they then indemnify themselves for the former constraint,\nand load, as it were, this rare moment of abandonment with the whole\namount of life and animation which had been kept back, and which ought to\nhave been equally diffused over the whole. Hence their convulsive and\nobstreperous violence. In bravura they take care not to be deficient; but\nthey frequently lose sight of the true spirit of the composition. In\ngeneral, (with the single exception of the great Talma,) they consider\ntheir parts as a sort of mosaic work of brilliant passages, and they\nrather endeavour to make the most of each separate passage, independently\nof the rest, than to go back to the invisible central point of the\ncharacter, and to consider every expression of it as an emanation from\nthat point. They are always afraid of underdoing their parts; and hence\nthey are worse qualified for reserved action, for eloquent silence, where,\nunder an appearance of outward tranquillity, the most hidden emotions of\nthe mind are betrayed. However, this is a part which is seldom imposed on\nthem by their poets; and if the cause of such excessive violence in the\nexpression of passion is not to be found in the works themselves, they at\nall events occasion the actor to lay greater stress on superficial\nbrilliancy than on a profound knowledge of character [Footnote: See a\ntreatise of M. Von Humboldt the elder, in Goethe's _Propyl\u00e4en_, on\nthe French acting, equally distinguished for a refined and solid spirit of\nobservation.].\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXII.\n\nComparison of the English and Spanish Theatres--Spirit of the Romantic\nDrama--Shakspeare--His age and the circumstances of his Life.\n\n\nIn conformity with the plan which we laid down at the first, we shall now\nproceed to treat of the English and Spanish theatres. We have been, on\nvarious occasions, compelled in passing to allude cursorily, sometimes to\nthe one and sometimes to the other, partly for the sake of placing, by\nmeans of contrast, many ideas in a clearer light, and partly on account of\nthe influence which these stages have had on the theatres of other\ncountries. Both the English and Spaniards possess a very rich dramatic\nliterature, both have had a number of prolific and highly talented\ndramatists, among whom even the least admired and celebrated, considered\nas a whole, display uncommon aptitude for dramatic animation, and insight\ninto the essence of theatrical effect. The history of their theatres has\nno connexion with that of the Italians and French, for they developed\nthemselves wholly out of the abundance of their own intrinsic energy,\nwithout any foreign influence: the attempts to bring them back to an\nimitation of the ancients, or even of the French, have either been\nattended with no success, or not been made till a late period in the decay\nof the drama. The formation of these two stages, again, is equally\nindependent of each other; the Spanish poets were altogether unacquainted\nwith the English; and in the older and most important period of the\nEnglish theatre I could discover no trace of any knowledge of Spanish\nplays, (though their novels and romances were certainly known,) and it was\nnot till the time of Charles II. that translations from Calderon first\nmade their appearance.\n\nSo many things among men have been handed down from century to century and\nfrom nation to nation, and the human mind is in general so slow to invent,\nthat originality in any department of mental exertion is everywhere a rare\nphenomenon. We are desirous of seeing the result of the efforts of\ninventive geniuses when, regardless of what in the same line has elsewhere\nbeen carried to a high degree of perfection, they set to work in good\nearnest to invent altogether for themselves; when they lay the foundation\nof the new edifice on uncovered ground, and draw all the preparations, all\nthe building materials, from their own resources. We participate, in some\nmeasure, in the joy of success, when we see them advance rapidly from\ntheir first helplessness and need to a finished mastery in their art. The\nhistory of the Grecian theatre would afford us this cheering prospect\ncould we witness its rudest beginnings, which were not preserved, for they\nwere not even committed to writing; but it is easy, when we compare\ntogether Aeschylus and Sophocles, to form some idea of the preceding\nperiod. The Greeks neither inherited nor borrowed their dramatic art from\nany other people; it was original and native, and for that very reason was\nit able to produce a living and powerful effect. But it ended with the\nperiod when Greeks imitated Greeks; namely, when the Alexandrian poets\nbegan learnedly and critically to compose dramas after the model of the\ngreat tragic writers. The reverse of this was the case with the Romans:\nthey received the form and substance of their dramas from the Greeks; they\nnever attempted to act according to their own discretion, and to express\ntheir own way of thinking; and hence they occupy so insignificant a place\nin the history of dramatic art. Among the nations of modern Europe, the\nEnglish and Spaniards alone (for the German stage is but forming), possess\nas yet a theatre entirely original and national, which, in its own\npeculiar shape, has arrived at maturity.\n\nThose critics who consider the authority of the ancients as models to be\nsuch, that in poetry, as in all the other arts, there can be no safety out\nof the pale of imitation, affirm, that as the nations in question have not\nfollowed this course, they have brought nothing but irregular works on the\nstage, which, though they may possess occasional passages of splendour and\nbeauty, must yet, as a whole, be for ever reprobated as barbarous, and\nwanting in form. We have already, in the introductory part of these\nLectures, stated our sentiments generally on this way of thinking; but we\nmust now examine the subject somewhat more closely.\n\nIf the assertion be well founded, all that distinguishes the works of the\ngreatest English and Spanish dramatists, a Shakspeare and a Calderon, must\nrank them far below the ancients; they could in no wise be of importance\nfor theory, and would at most appear remarkable, on the assumption that\nthe obstinacy of these nations in refusing to comply with the rules, may\nhave afforded a more ample field to the poets, to display their native\noriginality, though at the expense of art. But even this assumption, on a\ncloser examination, appears extremely questionable. The poetic spirit\nrequires to be limited, that it may move with a becoming liberty, within\nits proper precincts, as has been felt by all nations on the first\ninvention of metre; it must act according to laws derivable from its own\nessence, otherwise its strength will evaporate in boundless vacuity.\n\nThe works of genius cannot therefore be permitted to be without form; but\nof this there is no danger. However, that we may answer this objection of\nwant of form, we must understand the exact meaning of the term form, since\nmost critics, and more especially those who insist on a stiff regularity,\ninterpret it merely in a mechanical, and not in an organical sense. Form\nis mechanical when, through external force, it is imparted to any material\nmerely as an accidental addition without reference to its quality; as, for\nexample, when we give a particular shape to a soft mass that it may retain\nthe same after its induration. Organical form, again, is innate; it\nunfolds itself from within, and acquires its determination\ncontemporaneously with the perfect development of the germ. We everywhere\ndiscover such forms in nature throughout the whole range of living powers,\nfrom the crystallization of salts and minerals to plants and flowers, and\nfrom these again to the human body. In the fine arts, as well as in the\ndomain of nature--the supreme artist, all genuine forms are organical,\nthat is, determined by the quality of the work. In a word, the form is\nnothing but a significant exterior, the speaking physiognomy of each\nthing, which, as long as it is not disfigured by any destructive accident,\ngives a true evidence of its hidden essence.\n\nHence it is evident that the spirit of poetry, which, though imperishable,\nmigrates, as it were, through different bodies, must, so often as it is\nnewly born in the human race, mould to itself, out of the nutrimental\nsubstance of an altered age, a body of a different conformation. The forms\nvary with the direction taken by the poetical sense; and when we give to\nthe new kinds of poetry the old names, and judge of them according to the\nideas conveyed by these names, the application which we make of the\nauthority of classical antiquity is altogether unjustifiable. No one\nshould be tried before a tribunal to which he is not amenable. We may\nsafely admit, that the most of the English and Spanish dramatic works are\nneither tragedies nor comedies in the sense of the ancients: they are\nromantic dramas. That the stage of a people who, in its foundation and\nformation, neither knew nor wished to know anything of foreign models,\nwill possess many peculiarities; and not only deviate from, but even\nexhibit a striking contrast to, the theatres of other nations who had a\ncommon model for imitation before their eyes, is easily supposable, and we\nshould only be astonished were it otherwise. But when in two nations,\ndiffering so widely as the English and Spanish, in physical, moral,\npolitical, and religious respects, the theatres (which, without being\nknown to each other, arose about the same time,) possess, along with\nexternal and internal diversities, the most striking features of affinity,\nthe attention even of the most thoughtless cannot but be turned to this\nphenomenon; and the conjecture will naturally occur, that the same, or, at\nleast, a kindred principle must have prevailed in the development of both.\nThis comparison, however, of the English and Spanish theatre, in their\ncommon contrast with every dramatic literature which has grown up out of\nan imitation of the ancients, has, so far as we know, never yet been\nattempted. Could we raise from the dead a countryman, contemporary, and\nintelligent admirer of Shakspeare, and another of Calderon, and introduce\nto their acquaintance the works of the poet to which in life they were\nstrangers, they would both, without doubt, considering the subject rather\nfrom a national than a general point of view, enter with difficulty into\nthe above idea, and have many objections to urge against it. But here a\nreconciling criticism [Footnote: This appropriate expression was, if we\nmistake not, first used by M. Adam M\u00fcller in his _Lectures on German\nScience and Literature_. If, however, he gives himself out for the\ninventor of the thing itself, he is, to use the softest word, in error.\nLong before him other Germans had endeavoured to reconcile the\ncontrarieties of taste of different ages and nations, and to pay due\nhomage to all genuine poetry and art. Between good and bad, it is true, no\nreconciliation is possible.] must step in; and this, perhaps, may be best\nexercised by a German, who is free from the national peculiarities of\neither Englishmen or Spaniards, yet by inclination friendly to both, and\nprevented by no jealousy from acknowledging the greatness which has been\nearlier exhibited in other countries than in his own.\n\nThe similarity of the English and Spanish theatres does not consist merely\nin the bold neglect of the Unities of Place and Time, and in the\ncommixture of comic and tragic elements: that they were unwilling or\nunable to comply with the rules and with right reason, (in the meaning of\ncertain critics these terms are equivalent,) may be considered as an\nevidence of merely negative properties. The ground of the resemblance lies\nfar deeper, in the inmost substance of the fictions, and in the essential\nrelations, through which every deviation of form, becomes a true\nrequisite, which, together with its validity, has also its significance.\nWhat they have in common with each other is the spirit of the romantic\npoetry, giving utterance to itself in a dramatic shape. However, to\nexplain ourselves with due precision, the Spanish theatre, in our opinion,\ndown to its decline and fall in the commencement of the eighteenth\ncentury, is almost entirely romantic; the English is completely so in\nShakspeare alone, its founder and greatest master: in later poets the\nromantic principle appears more or less degenerated, or is no longer\nperceivable, although the march of dramatic composition introduced by\nvirtue of it has been, outwardly at least, pretty generally retained. The\nmanner in which the different ways of thinking of the two nations, one a\nnorthern and the other a southern, have been expressed; the former endowed\nwith a gloomy, the latter with a glowing imagination; the one nation\npossessed of a scrutinizing seriousness disposed to withdraw within\nthemselves, the other impelled outwardly by the violence of passion; the\nmode in which all this has been accomplished will be most satisfactorily\nexplained at the close of this section, when we come to institute a\nparallel between Shakspeare and Calderon, the only two poets who are\nentitled to be called great.\n\nOf the origin and essence of the romantic I treated in my first Lecture,\nand I shall here, therefore, merely briefly mention the subject. The\nancient art and poetry rigorously separate things which are dissimilar;\nthe romantic delights in indissoluble mixtures; all contrarieties: nature\nand art, poetry and prose, seriousness and mirth, recollection and\nanticipation, spirituality and sensuality, terrestrial and celestial, life\nand death, are by it blended together in the most intimate combination. As\nthe oldest lawgivers delivered their mandatory instructions and\nprescriptions in measured melodies; as this is fabulously ascribed to\nOrpheus, the first softener of the yet untamed race of mortals; in like\nmanner the whole of the ancient poetry and art is, as it were, a\n_rhythmical nomos_ (law), an harmonious promulgation of the permanently\nestablished legislation of a world submitted to a beautiful order, and\nreflecting in itself the eternal images of things. Romantic poetry, on the\nother hand, is the expression of the secret attraction to a chaos which\nlies concealed in the very bosom of the ordered universe, and is\nperpetually striving after new and marvellous births; the life-giving\nspirit of primal love broods here anew on the face of the waters. The\nformer is more simple, clear, and like to nature in the self-existent\nperfection of her separate works; the latter, notwithstanding its\nfragmentary appearance, approaches more to the secret of the universe. For\nConception can only comprise each object separately, but nothing in truth\ncan ever exist separately and by itself; Feeling perceives all in all at\none and the same time.  Respecting the two species of poetry with which we\nare here principally occupied, we compared the ancient Tragedy to a group\nin sculpture: the figures corresponding to the characters, and their\ngrouping to the action; and to these two in both productions of art is the\nconsideration exclusively directed, as being all that is properly\nexhibited. But the romantic drama must be viewed as a large picture, where\nnot merely figure and motion are exhibited in larger, richer groups, but\nwhere even all that surrounds the figures must also be portrayed; where we\nsee not merely the nearest objects, but are indulged with the prospect of\na considerable distance; and all this under a magical light, which assists\nin giving to the impression the particular character desired.\n\nSuch a picture must be bounded less perfectly and less distinctly, than\nthe group; for it is like a fragment cut out of the optic scene of the\nworld. However the painter, by the setting of his foreground, by throwing\nthe whole of his light into the centre, and by other means of fixing the\npoint of view, will learn that he must neither wander beyond the\ncomposition, nor omit any thing within it.\n\nIn the representation of figure, Painting cannot compete with Sculpture,\nsince the former can only exhibit it by a deception and from a single\npoint of view; but, on the other hand, it communicates more life to its\nimitations, by colours which in a picture are made to imitate the lightest\nshades of mental expression in the countenance. The look, which can be\ngiven only very imperfectly by Sculpture, enables us to read much deeper\nin the mind, and to perceive its lightest movements. Its peculiar charm,\nin short, consists in this, that it enables us to see in bodily objects\nwhat is least corporeal, namely, light and air.\n\nThe very same description of beauties are peculiar to the romantic drama.\nIt does not (like the Old Tragedy) separate seriousness and the action, in\na rigid manner, from among the whole ingredients of life; it embraces at\nonce the whole of the chequered drama of life with all its circumstances;\nand while it seems only to represent subjects brought accidentally\ntogether, it satisfies the unconscious requisitions of fancy, buries us in\nreflections on the inexpressible signification of the objects which we\nview blended by order, nearness and distance, light and colour, into one\nharmonious whole; and thus lends, as it were, a soul to the prospect\nbefore us.\n\nThe change of time and of place, (supposing its influence on the mind to\nbe included in the picture; and that it comes to the aid of the theatrical\nperspective, with reference to what is indicated in the distance, or half-\nconcealed by intervening objects;) the contrast of sport and earnest\n(supposing that in degree and kind they bear a proportion to each other;)\nfinally, the mixture of the dialogical and the lyrical elements, (by which\nthe poet is enabled, more or less perfectly, to transform his personages\ninto poetical beings:) these, in my opinion, are not mere licenses, but\ntrue beauties in the romantic drama. In all these points, and in many\nothers also, the English and Spanish works, which are pre-eminently worthy\nof this title of Romantic, fully resemble each other, however different\nthey may be in other respects.\n\nOf the two we shall first notice the English theatre, because it arrived\nearlier at maturity than the Spanish. In both we must occupy ourselves\nalmost exclusively with a single artist, with Shakspeare in the one and\nCalderon in the other; but not in the same order with each, for Shakspeare\nstands first and earliest among the English; any remarks we may have to\nmake on earlier or contemporary antiquities of the English stage may be\nmade in a review of his history. But Calderon had many predecessors; he is\nat once the summit and the close nearly of dramatic art in Spain.\n\nThe wish to speak with the brevity which the limits of my plan demand, of\na poet to the study of whom I have devoted many years of my life, places\nme in no little embarrassment. I know not where to begin; for I should\nnever be able to end, were I to say all that I have felt and thought on\nthe perusal of his works. With the poet as with the man, a more than\nordinary intimacy prevents us, perhaps, from putting ourselves in the\nplace of those who are first forming an acquaintance with him: we are too\nfamiliar with his most striking peculiarities, to be able to pronounce\nupon the first impression which they are calculated to make on others. On\nthe other hand, we ought to possess, and to have the power of\ncommunicating, more correct ideas of his mode of procedure, of his\nconcealed or less obvious views, and of the meaning and import of his\nlabours, than others whose acquaintance with him is more limited.\n\nShakspeare is the pride of his nation. A late poet has, with propriety,\ncalled him \"the genius of the British isles.\" He was the idol of his\ncontemporaries: during the interval indeed of puritanical fanaticism,\nwhich broke out in the next generation, and rigorously proscribed all\nliberal arts and literature, and during the reign of the Second Charles,\nwhen his works were either not acted at all, or if so, very much changed\nand disfigured, his fame was awhile obscured, only to shine forth again\nabout the beginning of the last century with more than its original\nbrightness; and since then it has but increased in lustre with the course\nof time; and for centuries to come, (I speak it with the greatest\nconfidence,) it will, like an Alpine _avalanche_, continue to gather\nstrength at every moment of its progress. Of the future extension of his\nfame, the enthusiasm with which he was naturalized in Germany, the moment\nthat he was known, is a significant earnest. In the South of Europe,\n[Footnote: This difficulty extends also to France; for it must not be\nsupposed that a literal translation can ever be a faithful one. Mrs.\nMontague has done enough to prove how wretchedly, even Voltaire, in his\nrhymeless Alexandrines, has translated a few passages from _Hamlet_\nand the first act of _Julius Caesar_.] his language, and the great\ndifficulty of translating him with fidelity, will be, perhaps, an\ninvincible obstacle to his general diffusion. In England, the greatest\nactors vie with each other in the impersonation of his characters; the\nprinters in splendid editions of his works; and the painters in\ntransferring his scenes to the canvas. Like Dante, Shakspeare has received\nthe perhaps indispensable but still cumbersome honour of being treated\nlike a classical author of antiquity. The oldest editions have been\ncarefully collated, and where the readings seemed corrupt, many\ncorrections have been suggested; and the whole literature of his age has\nbeen drawn forth from the oblivion to which it had been consigned, for the\nsole purpose of explaining the phrases, and illustrating the allusions of\nShakspeare. Commentators have succeeded one another in such number, that\ntheir labours alone, with the critical controversies to which they have\ngiven rise, constitute of themselves no inconsiderable library. These\nlabours deserve both our praise and gratitude; and more especially the\nhistorical investigations into the sources from which Shakspeare drew the\nmaterials of his plays, and also into the previous and contemporary state\nof the English stage, and other kindred subjects of inquiry. With respect,\nhowever, to their merely philological criticisms, I am frequently\ncompelled to differ from the commentators; and where, too, considering him\nsimply as a poet, they endeavour to enter into his views and to decide\nupon his merits, I must separate myself from them entirely. I have hardly\never found either truth or profundity in their remarks; and these critics\nseem to me to be but stammering interpreters of the general and almost\nidolatrous admiration of his countrymen. There may be people in England\nwho entertain the same views of them with myself, at least it is a well-\nknown fact that a satirical poet has represented Shakspeare, under the\nhands of his commentators, by Actaeon worried to death by his own dogs;\nand, following up the story of Ovid, designated a female writer on the\ngreat poet as the snarling Lycisca.\n\nWe shall endeavour, in the first place, to remove some of these false\nviews, in order to clear the way for our own homage, that we may thereupon\noffer it the more freely without let or hindrance.\n\nFrom all the accounts of Shakspeare which have come down to us, it is\nclear that his contemporaries knew well the treasure they possessed in\nhim; and that they felt and understood him better than most of those who\nsucceeded him. In those days a work was generally ushered into the world\nwith Commendatory Verses; and one of these, prefixed to an early edition\nof Shakspeare, by an unknown author, contains some of the most beautiful\nand happy lines that ever were applied to any poet [Footnote: It begins\nwith the words: _A mind reflecting ages past_, and is subscribed,\nI.M.S.]. An idea, however, soon became prevalent that Shakspeare was a\nrude and wild genius, who poured forth at random, and without aim or\nobject, his unconnected compositions. Ben Jonson, a younger contemporary\nand rival of Shakspeare, who laboured in the sweat of his brow, but with\nno great success, to expel the romantic drama from the English stage, and\nto form it on the model of the ancients, gave it as his opinion that\nShakspeare did not blot enough, and that as he did not possess much\nschool-learning, he owed more to nature than to art. The learned, and\nsometimes rather pedantic Milton was also of this opinion, when he says,\n\n  Our sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child,\n  Warbles his native wood-notes wild.\n\nYet it is highly honourable to Milton, that the sweetness of Shakspeare,\nthe quality which of all others has been least allowed, was felt and\nacknowledged by him. The modern editors, both in their prefaces, which may\nbe considered as so many rhetorical exercises in praise of the poet, and\nin their remarks on separate passages, go still farther. Judging them by\nprinciples which are not applicable to them, not only do they admit the\nirregularity of his pieces, but on occasions they accuse him of bombast,\nof a confused, ungrammatical, and conceited mode of writing, and even of\nthe most contemptible buffoonery. Pope asserts that he wrote both better\nand worse than any other man. All the scenes and passages which did not\nsquare with the littleness of his own taste, he wished to place to the\naccount of interpolating players; and he was in the right road, had his\nopinion been taken, of giving us a miserable dole of a mangled Shakspeare.\nIt is, therefore, not to be wondered at if foreigners, with the exception\nof the Germans latterly, have, in their ignorance of him, even improved\nupon these opinions. [Footnote: Lessing was the first to speak of\nShakspeare in a becoming tone; but he said unfortunately a great deal too\nlittle of him, as in the time when he wrote the _Dramaturgie_ this poet\nhad not yet appeared on our stage. Since that time he has been more\nparticularly noticed by Herder in the _Bl\u00fctter von deutscher Art und\nKunst_; Goethe, in _Wilhelm Meister_; and Tieck, in Letters on Shakspeare\n(_Poetisches Journal_, 1800), which break off, however, almost at the\ncommencement.]. They speak in general of Shakspeare's plays as monstrous\nproductions, which could only have been given to the world by a disordered\nimagination in a barbarous age; and Voltaire crowns the whole with more\nthan usual assurance, when he observes that _Hamlet_, the profound master-\npiece of the philosophical poet, \"seems the work of a drunken savage.\"\nThat foreigners, and in particular Frenchmen, who ordinarily speak the\nmost strange language of antiquity and the middle ages, as if cannibalism\nhad only been put an end to in Europe by Louis XIV. should entertain this\nopinion of Shakspeare, might be pardonable; but that Englishmen should\njoin in calumniating that glorious epoch of their history, [Footnote: The\nEnglish work with which foreigners of every country are perhaps best\nacquainted is Hume's _History_; and there we have a most unjustifiable\naccount both of Shakspeare and his age. \"Born in a _rude age_, and\neducated in the lowest manner, without any instruction either _from the\nworld_ or from books.\" How could a man of Hume's acuteness suppose for a\nmoment that a poet, whose characters display such an intimate acquaintance\nwith life, who, as an actor and manager of a theatre, must have come in\ncontact with all descriptions of individuals, had no instruction from the\nworld? But this is not the worst; he goes even so far as to say, \"a\nreasonable propriety of thought he cannot for any time uphold.\" This is\nnearly as offensive as Voltaire's \"drunken savage.\"--TRANS.] which laid\nthe foundation of their national greatness, is incomprehensible.\nShakspeare flourished and wrote in the last half of the reign of Queen\nElizabeth and first half of that of James I.; and, consequently, under\nmonarchs who were learned themselves, and held literature in honour. The\npolicy of modern Europe, by which the relations of its different states\nhave been so variously interwoven with each other, commenced a century\nbefore. The cause of the Protestants was decided by the accession of\nElizabeth to the throne; and the attachment to the ancient belief cannot\ntherefore be urged as a proof of the prevailing darkness. Such was the\nzeal for the study of the ancients, that even court ladies, and the queen\nherself, were acquainted with Latin and Greek, and taught even to speak\nthe former; a degree of knowledge which we should in vain seek for in the\ncourts of Europe at the present day. The trade and navigation which the\nEnglish carried on with all the four quarters of the world, made them\nacquainted with the customs and mental productions of other nations; and\nit would appear that they were then more indulgent to foreign manners than\nthey are in the present day. Italy had already produced all nearly that\nstill distinguishes her literature, and in England translations in verse\nwere diligently, and even successfully, executed from the Italian. Spanish\nliterature also was not unknown, for it is certain that _Don Quixote_ was\nread in England soon after its first appearance. Bacon, the founder of\nmodern experimental philosophy, and of whom it may be said, that he\ncarried in his pocket all that even in this eighteenth century merits the\nname of philosophy, was a contemporary of Shakspeare. His fame, as a\nwriter, did not, indeed, break forth into its glory till after his death;\nbut what a number of ideas must have been in circulation before such an\nauthor could arise! Many branches of human knowledge have, since that\ntime, been more extensively cultivated, but such branches as are totally\nunproductive to poetry: chemistry, mechanics, manufactures, and rural and\npolitical economy, will never enable a man to become a poet. I have\nelsewhere [Footnote: In my Lectures on the _Spirit of the Age_.] examined\ninto the pretensions of modern enlightenment, as it is called, which looks\nwith such contempt on all preceding ages; I have shown that at bottom it\nis all little, superficial, and unsubstantial. The pride of what has been\ncalled the existing maturity of human intensity, has come to a miserable\nend; and the structures erected by those pedagogues of the human race have\nfallen to pieces like the baby-houses of children.\n\nWith regard to the tone of society in Shakspeare's day, it is necessary to\nremark that there is a wide difference between true mental cultivation and\nwhat is called polish. That artificial polish which puts an end to every\nthing like free original communication, and subjects all intercourse to\nthe insipid uniformity of certain rules, was undoubtedly wholly unknown to\nthe age of Shakspeare, as in a great measure it still is at the present\nday in England. It possessed, on the other hand, a fulness of healthy\nvigour, which showed itself always with boldness, and sometimes also with\npetulance. The spirit of chivalry was not yet wholly extinct, and a queen,\nwho was far more jealous in exacting homage to her sex than to her throne,\nand who, with her determination, wisdom, and magnanimity, was in fact,\nwell qualified to inspire the minds of her subjects with an ardent\nenthusiasm, inflamed that spirit to the noblest love of glory and renown.\nThe feudal independence also still survived in some measure; the nobility\nvied with each other in splendour of dress and number of retinue, and\nevery great lord had a sort of small court of his own. The distinction of\nranks was as yet strongly marked: a state of things ardently to be desired\nby the dramatic poet. In conversation they took pleasure in quick and\nunexpected answers; and the witty sally passed rapidly like a ball from\nmouth to mouth, till the merry game could no longer be kept up. This, and\nthe abuse of the play on words, (of which King James was himself very\nfond, and we need not therefore wonder at the universality of the mode,)\nmay, doubtless, be considered as instances of a bad taste; but to take\nthem for symptoms of rudeness and barbarity, is not less absurd than to\ninfer the poverty of a people from their luxurious extravagance. These\nstrained repartees are frequently employed by Shakspeare, with the view of\npainting the actual tone of the society in his day; it does not, however,\nfollow, that they met with his approbation; on the contrary, it clearly\nappears that he held them in derision. Hamlet says, in the scene with the\nGravedigger, \"By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of\nit: the age is grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so near\nthe heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.\" And Lorenzo, in the\n_Merchant of Venice_, alluding to Launcelot:\n\n  O dear discretion, how his words are suited!\n  The fool hath planted in his memory\n  An army of good words: and I do know\n  A many fools, that stand in better place,\n  Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word.\n  Defy the matter.\n\nBesides, Shakspeare, in a thousand places, lays great and marked stress on\ncorrect and refined tone of society, and lashes every deviation from it,\nwhether of boorishness or affected foppery; not only does he give\nadmirable discourses on it, but he represents it in all its shades and\nmodifications by rank, age, or sex. What foundation is there, then, for\nthe alleged barbarity of his age? Its offences against propriety? But if\nthis is to be admitted as a test, then the ages of Pericles and Augustus\nmust also be described as rude and uncultivated; for Aristophanes and\nHorace, who both were considered as models of urbanity, display, at times,\nthe coarsest indelicacy. On this subject, the diversity in the moral\nfeeling of ages depends on other causes. Shakspeare, it is true, sometimes\nintroduces us to improper company; at others, he suffers ambiguous\nexpressions to escape in the presence of women, and even from women\nthemselves. This species of petulance was probably not then unusual. He\ncertainly did not indulge in it merely to please the multitude, for in\nmany of his pieces there is not the slightest trace of this sort to be\nfound: and in what virgin purity are many of his female parts worked out!\nWhen we see the liberties taken by other dramatic poets in England in his\ntime, and even much later, we must account him comparatively chaste and\nmoral. Neither must we overlook certain circumstances in the existing\nstate of the theatre. The female parts were not acted by women, but by\nboys; and no person of the fair sex appeared in the theatre without a\nmask. Under such a carnival disguise, much might be heard by them, and\nmuch might be ventured to be said in their presence, which in other\ncircumstances would have been absolutely improper. It is certainly to be\nwished that decency should be observed on all public occasions, and\nconsequently also on the stage. But even in this it is possible to go too\nfar. That carping censoriousness which scents out impurity in every bold\nsally, is, at best, but an ambiguous criterion of purity of morals; and\nbeneath this hypocritical guise there often lurks the consciousness of an\nimpure imagination. The determination to tolerate nothing which has the\nleast reference to the sensual relation between the sexes, may be carried\nto a pitch extremely oppressive to a dramatic poet, and highly prejudicial\nto the boldness and freedom of his compositions. If such considerations\nwere to be attended to, many of the happiest parts of Shakspeare's plays,\nfor example, in _Measure for Measure_, and _All's Well that Ends Well_,\nwhich, nevertheless, are handled with a due regard to decency, must be set\naside as sinning against this would-be propriety.\n\nHad no other monument of the age of Elizabeth come down to us than the\nworks of Shakspeare, I should, from them alone, have formed the most\nfavourable idea of its state of social culture and enlightenment. When\nthose who look through such strange spectacles as to see nothing in them\nbut rudeness and barbarity cannot deny what I have now historically\nproved, they are usually driven to this last resource, and demand, \"What\nhas Shakspeare to do with the mental culture of his age? He had no share\nin it. Born in an inferior rank, ignorant and uneducated, he passed his\nlife in low society, and laboured to please a vulgar audience for his\nbread, without ever dreaming of fame or posterity.\"\n\nIn all this there is not a single word of truth, though it has been\nrepeated a thousand times. It is true we know very little of the poet's\nlife; and what we do know consists for the most part of raked-up and\nchiefly suspicious anecdotes, of such a description nearly as those which\nare told at inns to inquisitive strangers, who visit the birthplace or\nneighbourhood of a celebrated man. Within a very recent period some\noriginal documents have been brought to light, and among them his will,\nwhich give us a peep into his family concerns. It betrays more than\nordinary deficiency of critical acumen in Shakspeare's commentators, that\nnone of them, so far as we know, have ever thought of availing themselves\nof his sonnets for tracing the circumstances of his life. These sonnets\npaint most unequivocally the actual situation and sentiments of the poet;\nthey make us acquainted with the passions of the man; they even contain\nremarkable confessions of his youthful errors. Shakspeare's father was a\nman of property, whose ancestors had held the office of alderman and\nbailiff in Stratford, and in a diploma from the Heralds' Office for the\nrenewal or confirmation of his coat of arms, he is styled _gentleman_. Our\npoet, the oldest son but third child, could not, it is true, receive an\nacademical education, as he married when hardly eighteen, probably from\nmere family considerations. This retired and unnoticed life he continued\nto lead but a few years; and he was either enticed to London from\nwearisomeness of his situation, or banished from home, as it is said, in\nconsequence of his irregularities. There he assumed the profession of a\nplayer, which he considered at first as a degradation, principally,\nperhaps, because of the wild excesses [Footnote: In one of his sonnets he\nsays:\n  O, for my sake do you with fortune chide,\n  The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,\n  That did not better for my life provide,\n  _Than public means which public manners breeds_.\nAnd in the following:--\n  Your love and pity doth the impression fill,\n  Which _vulgar scandal_ stamp'd upon my brow.] into which he was\nseduced by the example of his comrades. It is extremely probable, that the\npoetical fame which in the progress of his career he afterwards acquired,\ngreatly contributed to ennoble the stage, and to bring the player's\nprofession into better repute. Even at a very early age he endeavoured to\ndistinguish himself as a poet in other walks than those of the stage, as\nis proved by his juvenile poems of _Adonis_ and _Lucrece_. He quickly rose\nto be a sharer or joint proprietor, and also manager of the theatre for\nwhich he wrote. That he was not admitted to the society of persons of\ndistinction is altogether incredible. Not to mention many others, he found\na liberal friend and kind patron in the Earl of Southampton, the friend of\nthe unfortunate Essex. His pieces were not only the delight of the great\npublic, but also in great favour at court: the two monarchs under whose\nreigns he wrote were, according to the testimony of a contemporary, quite\n\"taken\" with him [Footnote: Ben Jonson:--\n  And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,\n  That so did take Eliza and our James!]. Many were acted at court; and\nElizabeth appears herself to have commanded the writing of more than one\nto be acted at her court festivals. King James, it is well known, honoured\nShakspeare so far as to write to him with his own hand. All this looks\nvery unlike either contempt or banishment into the obscurity of a low\ncircle. By his labours as a poet, player, and stage-manager, Shakspeare\nacquired a considerable property, which, in the last years of his too\nshort life, he enjoyed in his native town in retirement and in the society\nof a beloved daughter. Immediately after his death a monument was erected\nover his grave, which may be considered sumptuous for those times.\n\nIn the midst of such brilliant success, and with such distinguished proofs\nof respect and honour from his contemporaries, it would be singular indeed\nif Shakspeare, notwithstanding the modesty of a great mind, which he\ncertainly possessed in a peculiar degree, should never have dreamed of\nposthumous fame. As a profound thinker he had pretty accurately taken the\nmeasure of the circle of human capabilities, and he could say to himself\nwith confidence, that many of his productions would not easily be\nsurpassed. What foundation then is there for the contrary assertion, which\nwould degrade the immortal artist to the situation of a daily labourer for\na rude multitude?--Merely this, that he himself published no edition of\nhis whole works. We do not reflect that a poet, always accustomed to\nlabour immediately for the stage, who has often enjoyed the triumph of\noverpowering assembled crowds of spectators, and drawing from them the\nmost tumultuous applause, who the while was not dependent on the caprice\nof crotchety stage directors, but left to his own discretion to select and\ndetermine the mode of theatrical representation, naturally cares much less\nfor the closet of the solitary reader. During the first formation of a\nnational theatre, more especially, we find frequent examples of such\nindifference. Of the almost innumerable pieces of Lope de Vega, many\nundoubtedly were never printed, and are consequently lost; and Cervantes\ndid not print his earlier dramas, though he certainly boasts of them as\nmeritorious works. As Shakspeare, on his retiring from the theatre, left\nhis manuscripts behind with his fellow-managers, he may have relied on\ntheatrical tradition for handing them down to posterity, which would\nindeed have been sufficient for that purpose if the closing of the\ntheatres, under the tyrannical intolerance of the Puritans, had not\ninterrupted the natural order of things. We know, besides, that the poets\nused then to sell the exclusive copyright of their pieces to the theatre\n[Footnote: This is perhaps not uncommon still in some countries. The\nVenetian Director Medebach, for whose company many of Goldoni's Comedies\nwere composed, claimed an exclusive right to them.--TRANS.]: it is\ntherefore not improbable that the right of property in his unprinted\npieces was no longer vested in Shakspeare, or had not at least yet\nreverted to him. His fellow-managers entered on the publication seven\nyears after his death (which probably cut short his own intention,) as it\nwould appear on their own account and for their own advantage.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXIII.\n\nIgnorance or Learning of Shakspeare--Costume as observed by Shakspeare,\nand how far necessary, or may be dispensed with in the Drama--Shakspeare\nthe greatest drawer of Character--Vindication of the genuineness of his\npathos--Play on words--Moral delicacy--Irony--Mixture of the Tragic and\nComic--The part of the Fool or Clown--Shakspeare's Language and\nVersification.\n\n\nOur poet's want of scholarship has been the subject of endless\ncontroversy, and yet it is surely a very easy matter to decide. Shakspeare\nwas poor in dead school-cram, but he possessed a rich treasury of living\nand intuitive knowledge. He knew a little Latin, and even something of\nGreek, though it may be not enough to read with ease the writers in the\noriginal. With modern languages also, the French and Italian, he had,\nperhaps, but a superficial acquaintance. The general direction of his mind\nwas not to the collection of words but of facts. With English books,\nwhether original or translated, he was extensively acquainted: we may\nsafely affirm that he had read all that his native language and literature\nthen contained that could be of any use to him in his poetical avocations.\nHe was sufficiently intimate with mythology to employ it, in the only\nmanner he could wish, in the way of symbolical ornament. He had formed a\ncorrect notion of the spirit of Ancient History, and more particularly of\nthat of the Romans; and the history of his own country was familiar to him\neven in detail. Fortunately for him it had not as yet been treated in a\ndiplomatic and pragmatic spirit, but merely in the chronicle-style; in\nother words, it had not yet assumed the appearance of dry investigations\nrespecting the development of political relations, diplomatic\nnegotiations, finances, &c., but exhibited a visible image of the life and\nmovement of an age prolific of great deeds. Shakspeare, moreover, was a\nnice observer of nature; he knew the technical language of mechanics and\nartisans; he seems to have been well travelled in the interior of his own\ncountry, while of others he inquired diligently of travelled navigators\nrespecting their peculiarity of climate and customs. He thus became\naccurately acquainted with all the popular usages, opinions, and\ntraditions which could be of use in poetry.\n\nThe proofs of his ignorance, on which the greatest stress is laid, are a\nfew geographical blunders and anachronisms. Because in a comedy founded on\nan earlier tale, he makes ships visit Bohemia, he has been the subject of\nmuch laughter. But I conceive that we should be very unjust towards him,\nwere we to conclude that he did not, as well as ourselves, possess the\nuseful but by no means difficult knowledge that Bohemia is nowhere bounded\nby the sea. He could never, in that case, have looked into a map of\nGermany, who yet describes elsewhere, with great accuracy, the maps of\nboth Indies, together with the discoveries of the latest navigators.\n[Footnote: _Twelfth Night, or What You Will_--Act iii. scene ii.] In\nsuch matters Shakspeare is only faithful to the details of the domestic\nstories. In the novels on which he worked, he avoided disturbing the\nassociations of his audience, to whom they were known, by novelties--the\ncorrection of errors in secondary and unimportant particulars. The more\nwonderful the story, the more it ranged in a purely poetical region, which\nhe transfers at will to an indefinite distance. These plays, whatever\nnames they bear, take place in the true land of romance, and in the very\ncentury of wonderful love stories. He knew well that in the forest of\nArdennes there were neither the lions and serpents of the Torrid Zone, nor\nthe shepherdesses of Arcadia: but he transferred both to it, [Footnote:\n_As You Like It._] because the design and import of his picture\nrequired them. Here he considered himself entitled to take the greatest\nliberties. He had not to do with a hair-splitting, hypercritical age like\nours, which is always seeking in poetry for something else than poetry;\nhis audience entered the theatre, not to learn true chronology, geography,\nand natural history, but to witness a vivid exhibition. I will undertake\nto prove that Shakspeare's anachronisms are, for the most part, committed\nof set purpose and deliberately. It was frequently of importance to him to\nmove the exhibited subject out of the background of time, and bring it\nquite near us. Hence in _Hamlet_, though avowedly an old Northern\nstory, there runs a tone of modish society, and in every respect the\ncostume of the most recent period. Without those circumstantialities it\nwould not have been allowable to make a philosophical inquirer of Hamlet,\non which trait, however, the meaning of the whole is made to rest. On that\naccount he mentions his education at a university, though, in the age of\nthe true Hamlet of history, universities were not in existence. He makes\nhim study at Wittenberg, and no selection of a place could have been more\nsuitable. The name was very popular: the story of _Dr. Faustus of\nWittenberg_ had made it well known; it was of particular celebrity in\nprotestant England, as Luther had taught and written there shortly before,\nand the very name must have immediately suggested the idea of freedom in\nthinking. I cannot oven consider it an anachronism that Richard the Third\nshould speak of Macchiavel. The word is here used altogether proverbially:\nthe contents, at least, of the book entitled _Of the Prince (Del\nPrincipe,)_ have been in existence ever since the existence of tyrants;\nMacchiavel was merely the first to commit them to writing.\n\nThat Shakspeare has accurately hit the essential costume, namely, the\nspirit of ages and nations, is at least acknowledged generally by the\nEnglish critics; but many sins against external costume may be easily\nremarked. But here it is necessary to bear in mind that the Roman pieces\nwere acted upon the stage of that day in the European dress. This was, it\nis true, still grand and splendid, not so silly and tasteless as it became\ntowards the end of the seventeenth century. (Brutus and Cassius appeared\nin the Spanish cloak; they wore, quite contrary to the Roman custom, the\nsword by their side in time of peace, and, according to the testimony of\nan eye witness, [Footnote: In one of the commendatory poems in the first\nfolio edition:\n  And on the stage at _half sword parley_ were\n  Brutus and Cassius.] it was, in the dialogue where Brutus stimulates\nCassius to the conspiracy, drawn, as if involuntarily, half out of the\nsheath.) This does in no way agree with our way of thinking: we are not\ncontent without the toga. The present, perhaps, is not an inappropriate\nplace for a few general observations on costume, considered with reference\nto art. It has never been more accurately observed than in the present\nday; art has become a slop-shop for pedantic antiquities. This is because\nwe live in a learned and critical, but by no means poetical age. The\nancients before us used, when they had to represent the religions of other\nnations, which deviated very much from their own, to bring them into\nconformity with the Greek mythology. In Sculpture, again, the same dress,\nnamely, the Phrygian, was adopted, once for all, for every barbaric tribe.\nNot that they did not know that there were as many different dresses as\nnations; but in art they merely wished to acknowledge the great contrast\nbetween barbarian and civilized: and this, they thought, was rendered most\nstrikingly apparent in the Phrygian garb. The earlier Christian painters\nrepresent the Saviour, the Virgin Mary, the Patriarchs, and the Apostles\nin an ideal dress; but the subordinate actors or spectators of the action,\nin the dresses of their own nation and age. Here they were guided by a\ncorrect feeling: the mysterious and sacred ought to be kept at an awe-\ninspiring distance, but the human cannot be rightly understood if seen\nwithout its usual accompaniments. In the middle ages all heroical stories\nof antiquity, from Theseus and Achilles down to Alexander, were\nmetamorphosed into true tales of chivalry. What was related to themselves\nspoke alone an intelligible language to them; of differences and\ndistinctions they did not care to know. In an old manuscript of the\n_Iliad_, I saw a miniature illumination representing Hector's funeral\nprocession, where the coffin is hung with noble coats of arms, and carried\ninto a Gothic church. It is easy to make merry with this piece of\nsimplicity, but a reflecting mind will see the subject in a very different\nlight. A powerful consciousness of the universal validity and the solid\npermanency of their own manner of being, an undoubting conviction that it\nhas always so been and will ever continue so to be in the world: these\nfeelings of our ancestors were symptoms of a fresh fulness of life; they\nwere the marrow of action in reality as well as in fiction. Their plain\nand affectionate attachment to every thing around them, handed down from\ntheir fathers, is by no means to be confounded with the obstreperous\nconceit of ages of mannerism, who, out of vanity, introduce the fleeting\nmodes and fashion of the day into art, because to them everything like\nnoble simplicity seems boorish and rude. The latter impropriety is now\nabolished: but, on the other hand, our poets and artists, if they would\nhope for our approbation, must, like servants, wear the livery of distant\ncenturies and foreign nations. We are everywhere at home except at home.\nWe do ourselves the justice to allow that the present mode of dressing,\nforms of politeness, &c., are altogether unpoetical, and art is therefore\nobliged to beg, as an alms, a poetical costume from the antiquaries. To\nthat simple way of thinking, which is merely attentive to the inward truth\nof the composition, without stumbling at anachronisms, or other external\ninconsistencies, we cannot, alas! now return; but we must envy the poets\nto whom it offered itself; it allowed them a great breadth and freedom in\nthe handling of their subject.\n\nMany things in Shakspeare must be judged of according to the above\nprinciples, respecting the difference between the essential and the merely\nlearned costume. They will also in their measure admit of an application\nto Calderon.\n\nSo much with respect to the spirit of the age in which Shakspeare lived,\nand his peculiar mental culture and knowledge. To me he appears a profound\nartist, and not a blind and wildly luxuriant genius. I consider, generally\nspeaking, all that has been said on the subject a mere fable, a blind and\nextravagant error. In other arts the assertion refutes itself; for in them\nacquired knowledge is an indispensable condition of clever execution. But\neven in such poets, as are usually given out as careless pupils of nature,\ndevoid of art or school discipline, I have always found, on a nearer\nconsideration of the works of real excellence they may have produced, even\na high cultivation of the mental powers, practice in art, and views both\nworthy in themselves and maturely considered. This applies to Homer as\nwell as to Dante. The activity of genius is, it is true, natural to it,\nand, in a certain sense, unconscious; and, consequently, the person who\npossesses it is not always at the moment able to render an account of the\ncourse which he may have pursued; but it by no means follows, that the\nthinking power had not a great share in it. It is from the very rapidity\nand certainty of the mental process, from the utmost clearness of\nunderstanding, that thinking in a poet is not perceived as something\nabstracted, does not wear the appearance of reflex meditation. That notion\nof poetical inspiration, which many lyrical poets have brought into\ncirculation, as if they were not in their senses, and like Pythia, when\npossessed by the divinity, delivered oracles unintelligible to themselves\n--this notion, (a mere lyrical invention,) is least of all applicable to\ndramatic composition, one of the most thoughtful productions of the human\nmind. It is admitted that Shakspeare has reflected, and deeply reflected,\non character and passion, on the progress of events and human destinies,\non the human constitution, on all the things and relations of the world;\nthis is an admission which must be made, for one alone of thousands of his\nmaxims would be a sufficient refutation of whoever should attempt to deny\nit. So that it was only for the structure of his own pieces that he had no\nthought to spare? This he left to the dominion of chance, which blew\ntogether the atoms of Epicurus. But supposing that, devoid of any higher\nambition to approve himself to judicious critics and posterity, and\nwanting in that love of art which longs for self-satisfaction in the\nperfection of its works, he had merely laboured to please the unlettered\ncrowd; still this very object alone and the pursuit of theatrical effect,\nwould have led him to bestow attention to the structure and adherence of\nhis pieces. For does not the impression of a drama depend in an especial\nmanner on the relation of the parts to each other? And, however beautiful\na scene may be in itself, if yet it be at variance with what the\nspectators have been led to expect in its particular place, so as to\ndestroy the interest which they had hitherto felt, will it not be at once\nreprobated by all who possess plain common sense, and give themselves up\nto nature? The comic intermixtures may be considered merely as a sort of\ninterlude, designed to relieve the straining of the mind after the stretch\nof the more serious parts, so long as no better purpose can be found in\nthem; but in the progress of the main action, in the concatenation of the\nevents, the poet must, if possible, display even more expenditure of\nthought than in the composition of individual character and situations,\notherwise he would be like the conductor of a puppet-show who has\nentangled his wires, so that the puppets receive from their mechanism\nquite different movements from those which he actually intended.\n\nThe English critics are unanimous in their praise of the truth and uniform\nconsistency of his characters, of his heartrending pathos, and his comic\nwit. Moreover, they extol the beauty and sublimity of his separate\ndescriptions, images, and expressions. This last is the most superficial\nand cheap mode of criticising works of art. Johnson compares him who\nshould endeavour to recommend this poet by passages unconnectedly torn\nfrom his works, to the pedant in Hierocles, who exhibited a brick as a\nsample of his house. And yet how little, and how very unsatisfactorily\ndoes he himself speak of the pieces considered as a whole! Let any man,\nfor instance, bring together the short characters which he gives at the\nclose of each play, and see if the aggregate will amount to that sum of\nadmiration which he himself, at his outset, has stated as the correct\nstandard for the appreciation of the poet. It was, generally speaking, the\nprevailing tendency of the time which preceded our own, (and which has\nshowed itself particularly in physical science,) to consider everything\nhaving life as a mere accumulation of dead parts, to separate what exists\nonly in connexion and cannot otherwise be conceived, instead of\npenetrating to the central point and viewing all the parts as so many\nirradiations from it. Hence nothing is so rare as a critic who can elevate\nhimself to the comprehensive contemplation of a work of art. Shakspeare's\ncompositions, from the very depth of purpose displayed in them, have been\nespecially liable to the misfortune of being misunderstood. Besides, this\nprosaic species of criticism requires always that the poetic form should\nhe applied to the details of execution; but when the plan of the piece is\nconcerned, it never looks for more than the logical connexion of causes\nand effects, or some partial and trite moral by way of application; and\nall that cannot be reconciled therewith is declared superfluous, or even a\npernicious appendage. On these principles we must even strike out from the\nGreek tragedies most of the choral songs, which also contribute nothing to\nthe development of the action, but are merely an harmonious echo of the\nimpressions the poet aims at conveying. In this they altogether mistake\nthe rights of poetry and the nature of the romantic drama, which, for the\nvery reason that it is and ought to be picturesque, requires richer\naccompaniments and contrasts for its main groups. In all Art and Poetry,\nbut more especially in the romantic, the Fancy lays claims to be\nconsidered as an independent mental power governed according to its own\nlaws.\n\nIn an essay on _Romeo and Juliet_, [Footnote: In the first volume of\n_Charakteristiken und Kritiken_, published by my brother and myself.]\nwritten a number of years ago, I went through the whole of the scenes in\ntheir order, and demonstrated the inward necessity of each with reference\nto the whole; I showed why such a particular circle of characters and\nrelations was placed around the two lovers; I explained the signification\nof the mirth here and there scattered, and justified the use of the\noccasional heightening given to the poetical colours. From all this\nit seemed to follow unquestionably, that with the exception of a few\nwitticisms, now become unintelligible or foreign to the present taste,\n(imitations of the tone of society of that day,) nothing could be taken\naway, nothing added, nothing otherwise arranged, without mutilating and\ndisfiguring the perfect work. I would readily undertake to do the same for\nall the pieces of Shakspeare's maturer years, but to do this would require\na separate book. Here I am reduced to confine my observations to the\ntracing his great designs with a rapid pencil; but still I must previously\nbe allowed to deliver my sentiments in a general manner on the subject of\nhis most eminent peculiarities.\n\nShakspeare's knowledge of mankind has become proverbial: in this his\nsuperiority is so great, that he has justly been called the master of the\nhuman heart. A readiness to remark the mind's fainter and involuntary\nutterances, and the power to express with certainty the meaning of these\nsigns, as determined by experience and reflection, constitutes \"the\nobserver of men;\" but tacitly to draw from these still further\nconclusions, and to arrange the separate observations according to grounds\nof probability, into a just and valid combination, this, it may be said,\nis to know men. The distinguishing property of the dramatic poet who is\ngreat in characterization, is something altogether different here, and\nwhich, (take it which way we will,) either includes in it this readiness\nand this acuteness, or dispenses with both. It is the capability of\ntransporting himself so completely into every situation, even the most\nunusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary of the whole human race,\nwithout particular instructions for each separate case, to act and speak\nin the name of every individual. It is the power of endowing the creatures\nof his imagination with such self-existent energy, that they afterwards\nact in each conjuncture according to general laws of nature: the poet, in\nhis dreams, institutes, as it were, experiments which are received with as\nmuch authority as if they had been made on waking objects. The\ninconceivable element herein, and what moreover can never be learned, is,\nthat the characters appear neither to do nor to say any thing on the\nspectator's account merely; and yet that the poet simply, by means of the\nexhibition, and without any subsidiary explanation, communicates to his\naudience the gift of looking into the inmost recesses of their minds.\nHence Goethe has ingeniously compared Shakspeare's characters to watches\nwith crystalline plates and cases, which, while they point out the hours\nas correctly as other watches, enable us at the same time to perceive the\ninward springs whereby all this is accomplished.\n\nNothing, however, is more foreign to Shakspeare than a certain anatomical\nstyle of exhibition, which laboriously enumerates all the motives by which\na man is determined to act in this or that particular manner. This rage of\nsupplying motives, the mania of so many modern historians, might be\ncarried at length to an extent which would abolish every thing like\nindividuality, and resolve all character into nothing but the effect of\nforeign or external, influences whereas we know that it often announces\nitself most decidedly in earliest infancy. After all, a man acts so\nbecause he is so. And what each man is, that Shakspeare reveals to us most\nimmediately: he demands and obtains our belief, even for what is singular\nand deviates from the ordinary course of nature. Never perhaps was there\nso comprehensive a talent for characterization as Shakspeare. It not only\ngrasps every diversity of rank, age, and sex, down to the lispings of\ninfancy; not only do the king and the beggar, the hero and the pickpocket,\nthe sage and the idiot, speak and act with equal truthfulness; not only\ndoes he transport himself to distant ages and foreign nations, and portray\nwith the greatest accuracy (a few apparent violations of costume excepted)\nthe spirit of the ancient Romans, of the French in the wars with the\nEnglish, of the English themselves during a great part of their history,\nof the Southern Europeans (in the serious part of many comedies), the\ncultivated society of the day, and the rude barbarism of a Norman fore-\ntime; his human characters have not only such depth and individuality that\nthey do not admit of being classed under common names, and are\ninexhaustible even in conception: no, this Prometheus not merely forms\nmen, he opens the gates of the magical world of spirits, calls up the\nmidnight ghost, exhibits before us the witches with their unhallowed\nrites, peoples the air with sportive fairies and sylphs; and these beings,\nthough existing only in the imagination, nevertheless possess such truth\nand consistency, that even with such misshapen abortions as Caliban, he\nextorts the assenting conviction, that were there such beings they would\nso conduct themselves. In a word, as he carries a bold and pregnant fancy\ninto the kingdom of nature, on the other hand, he carries nature into the\nregions of fancy, which lie beyond the confines of reality. We are lost in\nastonishment at the close intimacy he brings us into with the\nextraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard-of.\n\nPope and Johnson appear strangely to contradict each other, when the first\nsays, \"all the characters of Shakspeare are individuals,\" and the second,\n\"they are species.\" And yet perhaps these opinions may admit of\nreconciliation. Pope's expression is unquestionably the more correct. A\ncharacter which should be merely a personification of a naked general idea\ncould neither exhibit any great depth nor any great variety. The names of\ngenera and species are well known to be merely auxiliaries for the\nunderstanding, that we may embrace the infinite variety of nature in a\ncertain order. The characters which Shakspeare has so thoroughly\ndelineated have undoubtedly a number of individual peculiarities, but at\nthe same time they possess a significance which is not applicable to them\nalone: they generally supply materials for a profound theory of their most\nprominent and distinguishing property. But even with the above correction,\nthis opinion must still have its limitations. Characterization is merely\none ingredient of the dramatic art, and not dramatic poetry itself. It\nwould be improper in the extreme, if the poet were to draw our attention\nto superfluous traits of character, at a time when it ought to be his\nendeavour to produce other impressions. Whenever the musical or the\nfanciful preponderates, the characteristical necessarily falls into the\nbackground. Hence many of the figures of Shakspeare exhibit merely\nexternal designations, determined by the place which they occupy in the\nwhole: they are like secondary persons in a public procession, to whose\nphysiognomy we seldom pay much attention; their only importance is derived\nfrom the solemnity of their dress and the duty in which they are engaged.\nShakspeare's messengers, for instance, are for the most part mere\nmessengers, and yet not common, but poetical messengers: the messages\nwhich they have to bring is the soul which suggests to them their\nlanguage. Other voices, too, are merely raised to pour forth these as\nmelodious lamentations or rejoicings, or to dwell in reflection on what\nhas taken place; and in a serious drama without chorus this must always be\nmore or less the case, if we would not have it prosaical.\n\nIf Shakspeare deserves our admiration for his characters, he is equally\ndeserving of it for his exhibition of passion, taking this word in its\nwidest signification, as including every mental condition, every tone,\nfrom indifference or familiar mirth to the wildest rage and despair. He\ngives us the history of minds; he lays open to us, in a single word, a\nwhole series of their anterior states. His passions do not stand at the\nsame height, from first to last, as is the case with so many tragic poets,\nwho, in the language of Lessing, are thorough masters of the legal style\nof love. He paints, with inimitable veracity, the gradual advance from the\nfirst origin; \"he gives,\" as Lessing says, \"a living picture of all the\nslight and secret artifices by which a feeling steals into our souls, of\nall the imperceptible advantages which it there gains, of all the\nstratagems by which it makes every other passion subservient to itself,\ntill it becomes the sole tyrant of our desires and our aversions.\" Of all\nthe poets, perhaps, he alone has portrayed the mental diseases,\nmelancholy, delirium, lunacy, with such inexpressible and, in every\nrespect, definite truth, that the physician may enrich his observations\nfrom them in the same manner as from real cases.\n\nAnd yet Johnson has objected to Shakspeare that his pathos is not always\nnatural and free from affectation. There are, it is true, passages, though\ncomparatively speaking very few, where his poetry exceeds the bounds of\nactual dialogue, where a too soaring imagination, a too luxuriant wit,\nrendered a complete dramatic forgetfulness of himself impossible. With\nthis exception, the censure originated in a fanciless way of thinking, to\nwhich everything appears unnatural that does not consort with its own tame\ninsipidity. Hence an idea has been formed of simple and natural pathos,\nwhich consists in exclamations destitute of imagery and nowise elevated\nabove every-day life. But energetical passions electrify all the mental\npowers, and will consequently, in highly-favoured natures, give utterance\nto themselves in ingenious and figurative expressions. It has been often\nremarked that indignation makes a man witty; and as despair occasionally\nbreaks out into laughter, it may sometimes also give vent to itself in\nantithetical comparisons.\n\nBesides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly weighed.\nShakspeare, who was always sure of his power to excite, when he wished,\nsufficiently powerful emotions, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer\nplay of fancy, purposely tempered the impressions when too painful, and\nimmediately introduced a musical softening of our sympathy. [Footnote: A\ncontemporary of the poet, the author of the already-noticed poem,\n(subscribed I. M. S.,) tenderly felt this while he says--\n  Yet so to temper passion, that our ears\n  Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears\n  Both smile and weep.] He had not those rude ideas of his art which many\nmoderns seem to have, as if the poet, like the clown in the proverb, must\nstrike twice on the same place. An ancient rhetorician delivered a caution\nagainst dwelling too long on the excitation of pity; for nothing, he said,\ndries so soon as tears; and Shakspeare acted conformably to this ingenious\nmaxim without having learned it. The paradoxical assertion of Johnson that\n\"Shakspeare had a greater talent for comedy than tragedy, and that in the\nlatter he has frequently displayed an affected tone,\" is scarcely\ndeserving of lengthy notice. For its refutation, it is unnecessary to\nappeal to the great tragical compositions of the poet, which, for\noverpowering effect, leave far behind them almost everything that the\nstage has seen besides; a few of their less celebrated scenes would be\nquite sufficient. What to many readers might lend an appearance of truth\nto this assertion are the verbal witticisms, that playing upon words,\nwhich Shakspeare not unfrequently introduces into serious and sublime\npassages, and even into those also of a peculiarly pathetic nature.\n\nI have already stated the point of view in which we ought to consider this\nsportive play upon words. I shall here, therefore, merely deliver a few\nobservations respecting the playing upon words in general, and its\npoetical use. A thorough investigation would lead us too far from our\nsubject, and too deeply into considerations on the essence of language,\nand its relation to poetry, or rhyme, &c.\n\nThere is in the human mind a desire that language should exhibit the\nobject which it denotes, sensibly, by its very sound, which may be traced\neven as far back as in the first origin of poetry. As, in the shape in\nwhich language comes down to us, this is seldom perceptibly the case, an\nimagination which has been powerfully excited is fond of laying hold of\nany congruity in sound which may accidentally offer itself, that by such\nmeans he may, for the nonce, restore the lost resemblance between the word\nand the thing. For example, How common was it and is it to seek in the\nname of a person, however arbitrarily bestowed, a reference to his\nqualities and fortunes,--to convert it purposely into a significant name.\nThose who cry out against the play upon words as an unnatural and affected\ninvention, only betray their own ignorance of original nature. A great\nfondness for it is always evinced among children, as well as with nations\nof simple manners, among whom correct ideas of the derivation and affinity\nof words have not yet been developed, and do not, consequently, stand in\nthe way of this caprice. In Homer we find several examples of it; the\nBooks of Moses, the oldest written memorial of the primitive world, are,\nas is well known, full of them. On the other hand, poets of a very\ncultivated taste, like Petrarch, or orators, like Cicero, have delighted\nin them. Whoever, in _Richard the Second_, is disgusted with the affecting\nplay of words of the dying John of Gaunt on his own name, should remember\nthat the same thing occurs in the _Ajax_ of Sophocles. We do not mean to\nsay that all playing upon words is on all occasions to be justified. This\nmust depend on the disposition of mind, whether it will admit of such a\nplay of fancy, and whether the sallies, comparisons, and allusions, which\nlie at the bottom of them, possess internal solidity. Yet we must not\nproceed upon the principle of trying how the thought appears after it is\ndeprived of the resemblance in sound, any more than we are to endeavour to\nfeel the charm of rhymed versification after depriving it of its rhyme.\nThe laws of good taste on this subject must, moreover, vary with the\nquality of the languages. In those which possess a great number of\nhomonymes, that is, words possessing the same, or nearly the same,\nsound, though quite different in their derivation and signification, it is\nalmost more difficult to avoid, than to fall on such a verbal play. It\nhas, however, been feared, lest a door might be opened to puerile\nwitticism, if they were not rigorously proscribed. But I cannot, for my\npart, find that Shakspeare had such an invincible and immoderate passion\nfor this verbal witticism. It is true, he sometimes makes a most lavish\nuse of this figure; at others, he has employed it very sparingly; and at\ntimes (for example, in _Macbeth_), I do not believe a vestige of it\nis to be found. Hence, in respect to the use or the rejection of the play\nupon words, he must have been guided by the measure of the objects, and\nthe different style in which they required to be treated, and probably\nhave followed here, as in every thing else, principles which, fairly\nexamined, will bear a strict examination.\n\nThe objection that Shakspeare wounds our feelings by the open display of\nthe most disgusting moral odiousness, unmercifully harrows up the mind,\nand tortures even our eyes by the exhibition of the most insupportable and\nhateful spectacles, is one of greater and graver importance. He has, in\nfact, never varnished over wild and blood-thirsty passions with a pleasing\nexterior--never clothed crime and want of principle with a false show of\ngreatness of soul; and in that respect he is every way deserving of\npraise. Twice he has portrayed downright villains, and the masterly way in\nwhich he has contrived to elude impressions of too painful a nature may be\nseen in Iago and Richard the Third. I allow that the reading, and still\nmore the sight, of some of his pieces, is not advisable to weak nerves,\nany more than was the _Eumenides_ of Aeschylus; but is the poet, who\ncan only reach an important object by a bold and hazardous daring, to be\nchecked by considerations for such persons? If the effeminacy of the\npresent day is to serve as a general standard of what tragical composition\nmay properly exhibit to human nature, we shall be forced to set very\nnarrow limits indeed to art, and the hope of anything like powerful effect\nmust at once and for ever be renounced. If we wish to have a grand\npurpose, we must also wish to have the grand means, and our nerves ought\nin some measure to accommodate themselves to painful impressions, if, by\nway of requital, our mind is thereby elevated and strengthened. The\nconstant reference to a petty and puny race must cripple the boldness of\nthe poet. Fortunately for his art, Shakspeare lived in an age extremely\nsusceptible of noble and tender impressions, but which had yet inherited\nenough of the firmness of a vigorous olden time, not to shrink with dismay\nfrom every strong and forcible painting. We have lived to see tragedies of\nwhich the catastrophe consists in the swoon of an enamoured princess: if\nShakspeare falls occasionally into the opposite extreme, it is a noble\nerror, originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength. And this\ntragical Titan, who storms the heavens and threatens to tear the world\nfrom off its hinges, who, more terrible than Aeschylus, makes our hair to\nstand on end, and congeals our blood with horror, possessed at the same\ntime the insinuating loveliness of the sweetest poesy; he toys with love\nlike a child, and his songs die away on the ear like melting sighs. He\nunites in his soul the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most\nopposite and even apparently irreconcilable properties subsist in him\npeaceably together. The world of spirits and nature have laid all their\ntreasures at his feet: in strength a demi-god, in profundity of view a\nprophet, in all-seeing wisdom a guardian spirit of a higher order, he\nlowers himself to mortals as if unconscious of his superiority, and is as\nopen and unassuming as a child.\n\nIf the delineation of all his characters, separately considered, is\ninimitably bold and correct, he surpasses even himself in so combining and\ncontrasting them, that they serve to bring out each other's peculiarities.\nThis is the very perfection of dramatic characterization: for we can never\nestimate a man's true worth if we consider him altogether abstractedly by\nhimself; we must see him in his relations with others; and it is here that\nmost dramatic poets are deficient. Shakspeare makes each of his principal\ncharacters the glass in which the others are reflected, and by like means\nenables us to discover what could not be immediately revealed to us. What\nin others is most profound, is with him but surface. Ill-advised should we\nbe were we always to take men's declarations respecting themselves and\nothers for sterling coin. Ambiguity of design with much propriety he makes\nto overflow with the most praiseworthy principles; and sage maxims are not\nunfrequently put in the mouth of stupidity, to show how easily such\ncommon-place truisms may be acquired. Nobody ever painted so truthfully as\nhe has done the facility of self-deception, the half self-conscious\nhypocrisy towards ourselves, with which even noble minds attempt to\ndisguise the almost inevitable influence of selfish motives in human\nnature. This secret irony of the characterization commands admiration as\nthe profound abyss of acuteness and sagacity; but it is the grave of\nenthusiasm. We arrive at it only after we have had the misfortune to see\nhuman nature through and through; and when no choice remains but to adopt\nthe melancholy truth, that \"no virtue or greatness is altogether pure and\ngenuine,\" or the dangerous error that \"the highest perfection is\nattainable.\" Here we therefore may perceive in the poet himself,\nnotwithstanding his power to excite the most fervent emotions, a certain\ncool indifference, but still the indifference of a superior mind, which\nhas run through the whole sphere of human existence and survived feeling.\n\nThe irony in Shakspeare has not merely a reference to the separate\ncharacters, but frequently to the whole of the action. Most poets who\npourtray human events in a narrative or dramatic form take themselves a\npart, and exact from their readers a blind approbation or condemnation of\nwhatever side they choose to support or oppose. The more zealous this\nrhetoric is, the more certainly it fails of its effect. In every case we\nare conscious that the subject itself is not brought immediately before\nus, but that we view it through the medium of a different way of thinking.\nWhen, however, by a dexterous manoeuvre, the poet allows us an occasional\nglance at the less brilliant reverse of the medal, then he makes, as it\nwere, a sort of secret understanding with the select circle of the more\nintelligent of his readers or spectators; he shows them that he had\npreviously seen and admitted the validity of their tacit objections; that\nhe himself is not tied down to the represented subject, but soars freely\nabove it; and that, if he chose, he could unrelentingly annihilate the\nbeautiful and irresistibly attractive scenes which his magic pen has\nproduced. No doubt, wherever the proper tragic enters every thing like\nirony immediately ceases; but from the avowed raillery of Comedy, to the\npoint where the subjection of mortal beings to an inevitable destiny\ndemands the highest degree of seriousness, there are a multitude of human\nrelations which unquestionably may be considered in an ironical view,\nwithout confounding the eternal line of separation between good and evil.\nThis purpose is answered by the comic characters and scenes which are\ninterwoven with the serious parts in most of those pieces of Shakspeare\nwhere romantic fables or historical events are made the subject of a noble\nand elevating exhibition. Frequently an intentional parody of the serious\npart is not to be mistaken in them; at other times the connexion is more\narbitrary and loose, and the more so the more marvellous the invention of\nthe whole, and the more entirely it is become a light revelling of the\nfancy. The comic intervals everywhere serve to prevent the pastime from\nbeing converted into a business, to preserve the mind in the possession of\nits serenity, and to keep off that gloomy and inert seriousness which so\neasily steals upon the sentimental, but not tragical, drama. Most\nassuredly Shakspeare did not intend thereby, in defiance to his own better\njudgment, to humour the taste of the multitude: for in various pieces, and\nthroughout considerable portions of others, and especially when the\ncatastrophe is approaching, and the mind consequently is more on the\nstretch and no longer likely to give heed to any amusement which would\ndistract their attention, he has abstained from all such comic\nintermixtures. It was also an object with him, that the clowns or buffoons\nshould not occupy a more important place than that which he had assigned\nthem: he expressly condemns the extemporizing with which they love to\nenlarge their parts [Footnote: In Hamlet's directions to the players. Act\niii, sc. 2.]. Johnson founds the justification of the species of drama in\nwhich seriousness and mirth admixed, on this, that in real life the vulgar\nis found close to the sublime, that the merry and the sad usually\naccompany and succeed one another. But it does not follow that because\nboth are found together, therefore they must not be separable in the\ncompositions of art. The observation is in other respects just, and this\ncircumstance invests the poet with a power to adopt this procedure,\nbecause every thing in the drama must be regulated by the conditions of\ntheatrical probability; but the mixture of such dissimilar, and apparently\ncontradictory, ingredients, in the same works, can only be justifiable on\nprinciples reconcilable with the views of art, which I have already\ndescribed. In the dramas of Shakspeare the comic scenes are the\nantechamber of the poetry, where the servants remain; these prosaic\nattendants must not raise their voices so high as to deafen the speakers\nin the presence-chamber; however, in those intervals when the ideal\nsociety has retired they deserve to be listened to; their bold raillery,\ntheir presumption of mockery, may afford many an insight into the\nsituation and circumstances of their masters.\n\nShakspeare's comic talent is equally wonderful with that which he has\nshown in the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal elevation, and\npossesses equal extent and profundity; in all that I have hitherto said, I\nonly wished to guard against admitting that the former preponderated. He\nis highly inventive in comic situations and motives: it will be hardly\npossible to show whence he has taken any of them, whereas, in the serious\npart of his dramas, he has generally laid hold of some well-known story.\nHis comic characterization is equally true, various, and profound, with\nhis serious. So little is he disposed to caricature, that rather, it may\nbe said, many of his traits are almost too nice and delicate for the\nstage, that they can only be made available by a great actor, and fully\nunderstood by an acute audience. Not only has he delineated many kinds of\nfolly, but even of sheer stupidity has he contrived to give a most\ndiverting and entertaining picture. There is also in his pieces a peculiar\nspecies of the farcical, which apparently seems to be introduced more\narbitrarily, but which, however, is founded on imitation of some actual\ncustom. This is the introduction of the merry-maker, the fool with his cap\nand bells, and motley dress, called more commonly in England _Clown_,\nwho appears in several comedies, though not in all, but of the tragedies\nin _Lear_ alone, and who generally merely exercises his wit in\nconversation with the principal persons, though he is also sometimes\nincorporated into the action. In those times it was not only usual for\nprinces to have their court fools, but many distinguished families, among\ntheir other retainers, kept such an exhilarating housemate as a good\nantidote against the insipidity and wearisomeness of ordinary life, and as\na welcome interruption of established formalities. Great statesmen, and\neven ecclesiastics, did not consider it beneath their dignity to recruit\nand solace themselves after important business with the conversation of\ntheir fools; the celebrated Sir Thomas More had his fool painted along\nwith himself by Holbein. Shakspeare appears to have lived immediately\nbefore the time when the custom began to be abolished; in the English\ncomic authors who succeeded him the clown is no longer to be found. The\ndismissal of the fool has been extolled as a proof of refinement; and our\nhonest forefathers have been pitied for taking delight in such a coarse\nand farcical amusement. For my part, I am rather disposed to believe, that\nthe practice was dropped from the difficulty in finding fools able to do\nfull justice to their parts: [Footnote: See Hamlet's praise of Yorick. In\n_The Twelfth Night_, Viola says:--\n  This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,\n  And to do that well craves a kind of wit;\n  He must observe their mood on whom he jests,\n  The quality of the persons, and the time;\n  And like the haggard, check at every feather\n  That comes before his eye. This is a practice\n  As full of labour as a wise man's art:\n  For folly that he wisely shows if fit,\n  But wise mens' folly fall'n quite taints their wit.--AUTHOR.\nThe passages from Shakspeare, in the original work, are given from the\nauthor's masterly translation. We may be allowed, however, to observe that\nthe last line--\n  \"Doch wozu ist des Weisen Thorheit nutz?\"\nliterally, _Of what use is the folly of the wise?_--does not convey\nthe exact meaning of Shakespeare.--TRANS.] on the other hand, reason, with\nall its conceit of itself, has become too timid to tolerate such bold\nirony; it is always careful lest the mantle of its gravity should be\ndisturbed in any of its folds; and rather than allow a privileged place to\nfolly beside itself, it has unconsciously assumed the part of the\nridiculous; but, alas! a heavy and cheerless ridicule. [Footnote: \"Since\nthe little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise\nmen have makes a greater show.\"--_As You Like It_. Act i., sc. 2.] It\nwould be easy to make a collection of the excellent sallies and biting\nsarcasms which have been preserved of celebrated court fools. It is well\nknown that they frequently told such truths to princes as are never now\ntold to them. [Footnote: Charles the Bold, of Burgundy, is known to have\nfrequently boasted that he wished to rival Hannibal as the greatest\ngeneral of all ages. After his defeat at Granson, his fool accompanied him\nin his hurried flight, and exclaimed, \"Ah, your Grace, they have for once\nHanniballed us!\" If the Duke had given an ear to this warning raillery, he\nwould not so soon afterwards have come to a disgraceful end.] Shakspeare's\nfools, along with somewhat of an overstraining for wit, which cannot\naltogether be avoided when wit becomes a separate profession, have for the\nmost part an incomparable humour, and an infinite abundance of intellect,\nenough indeed to supply a whole host of ordinary wise men.\n\nI have still a few observations to make on the diction and versification\nof our poet. The language is here and there somewhat obsolete, but on the\nwhole much less so than in most of the contemporary writers, a sufficient\nproof of the goodness of his choice. Prose had as yet been but little\ncultivated, as the learned generally wrote in Latin: a favourable\ncircumstance for the dramatic poet; for what has he to do with the\nscientific language of books? He had not only read, but studied the\nearlier English poets; but he drew his language immediately from life\nitself, and he possessed a masterly skill in blending the dialogical\nelement with the highest poetical elevation. I know not what certain\ncritics mean, when they say that Shakspeare is frequently ungrammatical.\nTo make good their assertion, they must prove that similar constructions\nnever occur in his contemporaries, the direct contrary of which can,\nhowever, be easily shown. In no language is every thing determined on\nprinciple; much is always left to the caprice of custom, and if this has\nsince changed, is the poet to be made answerable for it? The English\nlanguage had not then attained to that correct insipidity which has been\nintroduced into the more recent literature of the country, to the\nprejudice, perhaps, of its originality. As a field when first brought\nunder the plough produces, along with the fruitful shoots, many luxuriant\nweeds, so the poetical diction of the day ran occasionally into\nextravagance, but an extravagance originating in the exuberance of its\nvigour. We may still perceive traces of awkwardness, but nowhere of a\nlaboured and spiritless display of art. In general Shakspeare's style yet\nremains the very best model, both in the vigorous and sublime, and the\npleasing and tender. In his sphere he has exhausted all the means and\nappliances of language. On all he has impressed the stamp of his mighty\nspirit. His images and figures, in their unsought, nay, uncapricious\nsingularity, have often a sweetness altogether peculiar. He becomes\noccasionally obscure from too great fondness for compressed brevity; but\nstill, the labour of poring over Shakspeare's lines will invariably meet\nan ample requital.\n\nThe verse in all his plays is generally the rhymeless Iambic of ten or\neleven syllables, occasionally only intermixed with rhymes, but more\nfrequently alternating with prose. No one piece is written entirely in\nprose; for even in those which approach the most to the pure Comedy, there\nis always something added which gives them a more poetical hue than\nusually belongs to this species. Many scenes are wholly in prose, in\nothers verse and prose succeed each other alternately. This can only\nappear an impropriety in the eyes of those who are accustomed to consider\nthe lines of a drama like so many soldiers drawn up rank and file on a\nparade, with the same uniform, arms, and accoutrements, so that when we\nsee one or two we may represent to ourselves thousands as being every way\nlike them.\n\nIn the use of verse and prose Shakspeare observes very nice distinctions\naccording to the ranks of the speakers, but still more according to their\ncharacters and disposition of mind. A noble language, elevated above the\nusual tone, is only suitable to a certain decorum of manners, which is\nthrown over both vices and virtues, and which does not even wholly\ndisappear amidst the violence of passion. If this is not exclusively\npossessed by the higher ranks, it still, however, belongs naturally more\nto them than to the lower; and therefore in Shakspeare dignity and\nfamiliarity of language, poetry, and prose, are in this manner distributed\namong the characters. Hence his tradesmen, peasants, soldiers, sailors,\nservants, but more especially his fools and clowns, speak almost without\nexception, in the tone of their actual life. However, inward dignity of\nsentiment, wherever it is possessed, invariably displays itself with a\nnobleness of its own, and stands not in need, for that end, of the\nartificial elegancies of education and custom; it is a universal right of\nman, of the highest as well as the lowest; and hence also, in Shakspeare,\nthe nobility of nature and morality is ennobled above the artificial\nnobility of society. Not unfrequently also he makes the very same persons\nexpress themselves at times in the sublimest language, and at others in\nthe lowest; and this inequality is in like manner founded in truth.\nExtraordinary situations, which intensely occupy the head and throw mighty\npassions into play, give elevation and tension to the soul: it collects\ntogether all its powers, and exhibits an unusual energy, both in its\noperations and in its communications by language. On the other hand, even\nthe greatest men have their moments of remissness, when to a certain\ndegree they forget the dignity of their character in unreserved\nrelaxation. This very tone of mind is necessary before they can receive\namusement from the jokes of others, or what surely cannot dishonour even a\nhero, from passing jokes themselves. Let any person, for example, go\ncarefully through the part of Hamlet. How bold and powerful the language\nof his poetry when he conjures the ghost of his father, when he spurs\nhimself on to the bloody deed, when he thunders into the soul of his\nmother! How he lowers his tone down to that of common life, when he has to\ndo with persons whose station demands from him such a line of conduct;\nwhen he makes game of Polonius and the courtiers, instructs the player,\nand even enters into the jokes of the grave-digger. Of all the poet's\nserious leading characters there is none so rich in wit and humour as\nHamlet; hence he it is of all of them that makes the greatest use of the\nfamiliar style. Others, again, never do fall into it; either because they\nare constantly surrounded by the pomp of rank, or because a uniform\nseriousness is natural to them; or, in short, because through the whole\npiece they are under the dominion of a passion, calculated to excite, and\nnot, like the sorrow of Hamlet, to depress the mind. The choice of the one\nform or the other is everywhere so appropriate, and so much founded in the\nnature of the thing, that I will venture to assert, even where the poet in\nthe very same speech makes the speaker leave prose for poetry, or the\nconverse, this could not be altered without danger of injuring or\ndestroying some beauty or other. The blank verse has this advantage, that\nits tone may be elevated or lowered; it admits of approximation to the\nfamiliar style of conversation, and never forms such an abrupt contrast as\nthat, for example, between plain prose and the rhyming Alexandrines.\n\nShakspeare's Iambics are sometimes highly harmonious and full sounding;\nalways varied and suitable to the subject, at one time distinguished by\nease and rapidity, at another they move along with ponderous energy. They\nnever fall out of the dialogical character, which may always be traced\neven in the continued discourses of individuals, excepting when the latter\nrun into the lyrical. They are a complete model of the dramatic use of\nthis species of verse, which, in English, since Milton, has been also used\nin epic poetry; but in the latter it has assumed a quite different turn.\nEven the irregularities of Shakspeare's versification are expressive; a\nverse broken off, or a sudden change of rhythmus, coincides with some\npause in the progress of the thought, or the entrance of another mental\ndisposition. As a proof that he purposely violated the mechanical rules,\nfrom a conviction that too symmetrical a versification does not suit with\nthe drama, and on the stage has in the long run a tendency to lull the\nspectators asleep, we may observe that his earlier pieces are the most\ndiligently versified, and that in the later works, when through practice\nhe must have acquired a greater facility, we find the strongest deviations\nfrom the regular structure of the verse. As it served with him merely to\nmake the poetical elevation perceptible, he therefore claimed the utmost\npossible freedom in the use of it.\n\nThe views or suggestions of feeling by which he was guided in the use of\nrhyme may likewise be traced with almost equal certainty. Not unfrequently\nscenes, or even single speeches, close with a few rhyming lines, for the\npurpose of more strongly marking the division, and of giving it more\nrounding. This was injudiciously imitated by the English tragic poets of a\nlater date; they suddenly elevated the tone in the rhymed lines, as if the\nperson began all at once to speak in another language. The practice was\nwelcomed by the actors from its serving as a signal for clapping when they\nmade their exit. In Shakspeare, on the other hand, the transitions are\nmore easy: all changes of forms are brought about insensibly, and as if of\nthemselves. Moreover, he is generally fond of heightening a series of\ningenious and antithetical sayings by the use of rhyme. We find other\npassages in continued rhyme, where solemnity and theatrical pomp were\nsuitable, as, for instance, in the mask, [Footnote: I shall take the\nopportunity of saying a few words respecting this species of drama when I\ncome to speak of Ben Jonson.] as it is called, _The Tempest_, and in\nthe play introduced in _Hamlet_. Of other pieces, for instance, the\n_Midsummer Night's Dream_, and _Romeo and Juliet_, the rhymes form a\nconsiderable part; either because he may have wished to give them a\nglowing colour, or because the characters appropriately utter in a more\nmusical tone their complaints or suits of love. In these cases he has even\nintroduced rhymed strophes, which approach to the form of the sonnet, then\nusual in England. The assertion of Malone, that Shakspeare in his youth\nwas fond of rhyme, but that he afterwards rejected it, is sufficiently\nrefuted by his own chronology of the poet's works. In some of the\nearliest, for instance, in the Second and Third Part of _Henry the\nSixth_, there are hardly any rhymes; in what is stated to be his last\npiece, _The Twelfth Night, or What You Will_, and in _Macbeth_, which is\nproved to have been composed under the reign of King James, we find them\nin no inconsiderable number. Even in the secondary matters of form\nShakspeare was not guided by humour and accident, but, like a genuine\nartist, acted invariably on good and solid grounds. This we might also\nshow of the kinds of verse which he least frequently used; for instance,\nif the rhyming verses of seven and eight syllables, were we not afraid of\ndwelling too long on merely technical peculiarities.\n\nIn England the manner of handling rhyming verse, and the opinion as to its\nharmony and elegance, have, in the course of two centuries, undergone a\nmuch greater change than is the case with the rhymeless Iambic or blank\nverse. In the former, Dryden and Pope have become models; these writers\nhave communicated the utmost smoothing to rhyme, but they have also tied\nit down to a harmonious uniformity. A foreigner, to whom antiquated and\nnew are the same, may perhaps feel with greater freedom the advantages of\nthe more ancient manner. Certain it is, the rhyme of the present day, from\nthe too great confinement of the couplet, is unfit for the drama. We must\nnot estimate the rhyme of Shakspeare by the mode of subsequent times, but\nby a comparison with his contemporaries or with Spenser. The comparison\nwill, without doubt, turn out to his advantage. Spenser is often diffuse;\nShakspeare, though sometimes hard, is always brief and vigorous. He has\nmore frequently been induced by the rhyme to leave out something necessary\nthan to insert anything superfluous. Many of his rhymes, however, are\nfaultless: ingenious with attractive ease, and rich without false\nbrilliancy. The songs interspersed (those, I mean, of the poet himself)\nare generally sweetly playful and altogether musical; in imagination,\nwhile we merely read them, we hear their melody.\n\nThe whole of Shakspeare's productions bear the certain stamp of his\noriginal genius, but yet no writer was ever farther removed from every\nthing like a mannerism derived from habit or personal peculiarities.\nRather is he, such is the diversity of tone and colour, which varies\naccording to the quality of his subjects he assumes, a very Proteus. Each\nof his compositions is like a world of its own, moving in its own sphere.\nThey are works of art, finished in one pervading style, which revealed the\nfreedom and judicious choice of their author. If the formation of a work\nthroughout, even in its minutest parts, in conformity with a leading idea;\nif the domination of one animating spirit over all the means of execution,\ndeserves the name of correctness (and this, excepting in matters of\ngrammar, is the only proper sense of the term); we shall then, after\nallowing to Shakspeare all the higher qualities which demand our\nadmiration, be also compelled, in most cases, to concede to him the title\nof a correct poet.\n\nIt would be in the highest degree instructive to follow, if we could, in\nhis career step by step, an author who at once founded and carried his art\nto perfection, and to go through his works in the order of time. But, with\nthe exception of a few fixed points, which at length have been obtained,\nall the necessary materials for this are still wanting. The diligent\nMalone has, indeed, made an attempt to arrange the plays of Shakspeare in\nchronological order; but he himself only gives out the result of his\nlabours for hypothetical, and it could not possibly be attended with\ncomplete success, since he excluded from his inquiry a considerable number\nof pieces which have been ascribed to the poet, though rejected as\nspurious by all the editors since Rowe, but which, in my opinion, must, if\nnot wholly, at least in great measure be attributed to him. [Footnote:\nWere this book destined immediately for an English public, I should not\nhave hazarded an opinion like this at variance with that which is\ngenerally received, without supporting it by proofs. The inquiry, however,\nis too extensive for our present limits, and I have therefore reserved it\nfor a separate treatise. Besides at the present moment, while I am putting\nthe last hand to my Lectures, no collection of English books but my own is\naccessible to me. The latter I should have enlarged with a view to this\nobject, if the interruption of intercourse with England had not rendered\nit impossible to procure any other than the most common English books. On\nthis point, therefore, I must request indulgence. In an Appendix to this\nLecture I shall merely make a few cursory observations.]\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXIV.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Comedies.\n\n\nThe best and easiest mode of reviewing Shakspeare's dramas will be to\narrange them in classes. This, it must be owned, is merely a makeshift:\nseveral critics have declared that all Shakspeare's pieces substantially\nbelong to the same species, although sometimes one ingredient, sometimes\nanother, the musical or the characteristical, the invention of the\nwonderful or the imitation of the real, the pathetic or the comic,\nseriousness or irony, may preponderate in the mixture. Shakspeare himself,\nit would appear, did but laugh at the petty endeavours of critics to find\nout divisions and subdivisions of species, and to hedge in what had been\nso separated with the most anxious care; thus the pedantic Polonius in\n_Hamlet_ commends the players, for their knowledge of \"tragedy, comedy,\nhistory, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-\nhistorical, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral, scene-undividable, or\npoem unlimited.\" On another occasion he ridicules the limitation of\nTragedy to an unfortunate catastrophe:\n\n  \"And tragical, my noble lord, it is;\nFor Pyramus therein doth kill himself.\"\n\nHowever the division into Comedies, Tragedies, and Historical Dramas,\naccording to the usual practice, may in some measure be adopted, if we do\nnot lose sight of the transitions and affinities. The subjects of the\ncomedies are generally taken from novels: they are romantic love tales;\nnone are altogether confined to the sphere of common or domestic\nrelations: all of them possess poetical ornament, some of them run into\nthe wonderful or the pathetic. With these two of his most famous tragedies\nare connected by an immediate link, _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Othello_; both\ntrue novels, and composed on the same principles. In many of the\nhistorical plays a considerable space is occupied by the comic characters\nand scenes; others are serious throughout, and leave behind a tragical\nimpression. The essential circumstance by which they are distinguished is,\nthat the plot bears reference to a poetical and national interest. This is\nnot equally the case in _Hamlet_, _Lear_, and _Macbeth_; and therefore it\nis that we do not include these tragedies among the historical pieces,\nthough the first is founded on an old northern, the second on a national\ntradition; and the third comes even within the era of Scottish history,\nafter it ceased to be fabulous.\n\nAmong the comedies, _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_, _The Taming of the\nShrew_, and _The Comedy of Errors_, bear many traces of an early origin.\n_The Two Gentlemen of Verona_ paints the irresolution of love, and its\ninfidelity to friendship, pleasantly enough, but in some degree\nsuperficially, we might almost say with the levity of mind which a passion\nsuddenly entertained, and as suddenly given up, presupposes. The faithless\nlover is at last, on account of a very ambiguous repentance, forgiven\nwithout much difficulty by his first mistress; for the more serious part,\nthe premeditated flight of the daughter of a Prince, the capture of her\nfather along with herself by a band of robbers, of which one of the Two\nGentlemen, the betrayed and banished friend, has been against his will\nelected captain: for all this a peaceful solution is soon found. It is as\nif the course of the world was obliged to accommodate itself to a\ntransient youthful caprice, called love. Julia, who accompanies her\nfaithless lover in the disguise of a page, is, as it were, a light sketch\nof the tender female figures of a Viola and an Imogen, who, in the latter\npieces of Shakspeare, leave their home in similar disguises on love\nadventures, and to whom a peculiar charm is communicated by the display of\nthe most virginly modesty in their hazardous and problematical situation.\n\n_The Comedy of Errors_ is the subject of the _Menaechmi_ of Plautus,\nentirely recast and enriched with new developments: of all the works of\nShakspeare this is the only example of imitation of, or borrowing\nfrom, the ancients. To the two twin brothers of the same name are added\ntwo slaves, also twins, impossible to be distinguished from each other,\nand of the same name. The improbability becomes by this means doubled: but\nwhen once we have lent ourselves to the first, which certainly borders on\nthe incredible, we shall not perhaps be disposed to cavil at the second;\nand if the spectator is to be entertained by mere perplexities they cannot\nbe too much varied. In such pieces we must, to give to the senses at least\nan appearance of truth, always pre-suppose that the parts by which the\nmisunderstandings are occasioned are played with masks, and this the poet\nno doubt observed. I cannot acquiesce in the censure that the discovery is\ntoo long deferred: so long as novelty and interest are possessed by the\nperplexing incidents, there is no need to be in dread of wearisomeness.\nAnd this is really the case here: matters are carried so far that one of\nthe two brothers is first arrested for debt, then confined as a lunatic,\nand the other is forced to take refuge in a sanctuary to save his life. In\na subject of this description it is impossible to steer clear of all sorts\nof low circumstances, abusive language, and blows; Shakspeare has however\nendeavoured to ennoble it in every possible way. A couple of scenes,\ndedicated to jealousy and love, interrupt the course of perplexities which\nare solely occasioned by the illusion of the external senses. A greater\nsolemnity is given to the discovery, from the Prince presiding, and from\nthe re-union of the long separated parents of the twins who are still\nalive. The exposition, by which the spectators are previously instructed\nwhile the characters themselves are still involved in ignorance, and which\nPlautus artlessly conveys in a prologue, is here masterly introduced in an\naffecting narrative by the father. In short, this is perhaps the best of\nall written or possible Menaechmi; and if the piece be inferior in worth\nto other pieces of Shakspeare, it is merely because nothing more could be\nmade of the materials.\n\n_The Taming of the Shrew_ has the air of an Italian comedy; and indeed the\nlove intrigue, which constitutes the main part of it, is derived mediately\nor immediately from a piece of Ariosto. The characters and passions are\nlightly sketched; the intrigue is introduced without much preparation, and\nin its rapid progress impeded by no sort of difficulties; while, in the\nmanner in which Petruchio, though previously cautioned as to Katherine,\nstill encounters the risks in marrying her, and contrives to tame her--in\nall this the character and peculiar humour of the English are distinctly\nvisible. The colours are laid on somewhat coarsely, but the ground is\ngood. That the obstinacy of a young and untamed girl, possessed of none of\nthe attractions of her sex, and neither supported by bodily nor mental\nstrength, must soon yield to the still rougher and more capricious but\nassumed self-will of a man: such a lesson can only be taught on the\nstage with all the perspicuity of a proverb.\n\nThe prelude is still more remarkable than the play itself: a drunken\ntinker, removed in his sleep to a palace, where he is deceived into the\nbelief of being a nobleman. The invention, however, is not Shakspeare's.\nHolberg has handled the same subject in a masterly manner, and with\ninimitable truth; but he has spun it out to five acts, for which such\nmaterial is hardly sufficient. He probably did not borrow from the English\ndramatist, but like him took the hint from a popular story. There are\nseveral comic motives of this description, which go back to a very remote\nage, without ever becoming antiquated. Here, as well as everywhere else,\nShakspeare has proved himself a great poet: the whole is merely a slight\nsketch, but in elegance and delicate propriety it will hardly ever be\nexcelled. Neither has he overlooked the irony which the subject naturally\nsuggested: the great lord, who is driven by idleness and ennui to deceive\na poor drunkard, can make no better use of his situation than the latter,\nwho every moment relapses into his vulgar habits. The last half of this\nprelude, that in which the tinker, in his new state, again drinks himself\nout of his senses, and is transformed in his sleep into his former\ncondition, is from some accident or other, lost. It ought to have followed\nat the end of the larger piece. The occasional remarks of the tinker,\nduring the course of the representation of the comedy, might have been\nimprovisatory, but it is hardly credible that Shakspeare should have\ntrusted to the momentary suggestions of the players, whom he did not hold\nin high estimation, the conclusion, however short, of a work which he had\nso carefully commenced. Moreover, the only circumstance which connects the\nplay with the prelude, is, that it belongs to the new life of the supposed\nnobleman to have plays acted in his castle by strolling actors. This\ninvention of introducing spectators on the stage, who contribute to the\nentertainment, has been very wittily used by later English poets.\n\n_Love's Labour Lost_ is also numbered among the pieces of his youth.\nIt is a humorsome display of frolic; a whole cornucopia of the most\nvivacious jokes is emptied into it. Youth is certainly perceivable in the\nlavish superfluity of labour in the execution: the unbroken succession of\nplays on words, and sallies of every description, hardly leave the\nspectator time to breathe; the sparkles of wit fly about in such\nprofusion, that they resemble a blaze of fireworks; while the dialogue,\nfor the most part, is in the same hurried style in which the passing masks\nat a carnival attempt to banter each other. The young king of Navarre,\nwith three of his courtiers, has made a vow to pass three years in rigid\nretirement, and devote them to the study of wisdom; for that purpose he\nhas banished all female society from his court, and imposed a penalty on\nthe intercourse with women. But scarcely has he, in a pompous harangue,\nworthy of the most heroic achievements, announced this determination, when\nthe daughter of the king of France appears at his court, in the name of\nher old and bed-ridden father, to demand the restitution of a province\nwhich he held in pledge. Compelled to give her audience, he falls\nimmediately in love with her. Matters fare no better with his companions,\nwho on their parts renew an old acquaintance with the princess's\nattendants. Each, in heart, is already false to his vow, without knowing\nthat the wish is shared by his associates; they overhear one another, as\nthey in turn confide their sorrows in a love-ditty to the solitary forest:\nevery one jeers and confounds the one who follows him. Biron, who from the\nbeginning was the most satirical among them, at last steps forth, and\nrallies the king and the two others, till the discovery of a love-letter\nforces him also to hang down his head. He extricates himself and his\ncompanions from their dilemma by ridiculing the folly of the broken vow,\nand, after a noble eulogy on women, invites them to swear new allegiance\nto the colours of love. This scene is inimitable, and the crowning beauty\nof the whole. The manner in which they afterwards prosecute their love-\nsuits in masks and disguise, and in which they are tricked and laughed at\nby the ladies, who are also masked and disguised, is, perhaps, spun out\ntoo long. It may be thought, too, that the poet, when he suddenly\nannounces the death of the king of France, and makes the princess postpone\nher answer to the young prince's serious advances till the expiration of\nthe period of her mourning, and impose, besides, a heavy penance on him\nfor his levity, drops the proper comic tone. But the tone of raillery,\nwhich prevails throughout the piece, made it hardly possible to bring\nabout a more satisfactory conclusion: after such extravagance, the\ncharacters could not return to sobriety, except under the presence of some\nforeign influence. The grotesque figures of Don Armado, a pompous\nfantastic Spaniard, a couple of pedants, and a clown, who between whiles\ncontribute to the entertainment, are the creation of a whimsical\nimagination, and well adapted as foils for the wit of so vivacious a\nsociety.\n\n_All's Well that Ends Well_, _Much Ado about Nothing_, _Measure for\nMeasure_, and _The Merchant of Venice_, bear, in so far, a resemblance to\neach other, that, along with the main plot, which turns on important\nrelations decisive of nothing less than the happiness or misery of life,\nand therefore is calculated to make a powerful impression on the moral\nfeeling, the poet, with the skill of a practised artist, has contrived to\ncombine a number of cheerful accompaniments. Not, however, that the poet\nseems both to allow full scope to the serious impressions: he merely adds\na due counterpoise to them in the entertainment which he supplies for the\nimagination and the understanding. He has furnished the story with all the\nseparate features which are necessary to give to it the appearance of a\nreal, though extraordinary, event. But he never falls into the lachrymose\ntone of the sentimental drama, nor into the bitterness of those dramas\nwhich have a moral direction, and which are really nothing but moral\ninvectives dramatized. Compassion, anxiety, and dissatisfaction become too\noppressive when they are too long dwelt on, and when the whole of a work\nis given up to them exclusively. Shakspeare always finds means to\ntransport us from the confinement of social institutions or pretensions,\nwhere men do but shut out the light and air from each other, into the open\nspace, even before we ourselves are conscious of our want.\n\n_All's Well that Ends Well_ is the old story of a young maiden whose\nlove looked much higher than her station. She obtains her lover in\nmarriage from the hand of the King as a reward for curing him of a\nhopeless and lingering disease, by means of a hereditary arcanum of her\nfather, who had been in his lifetime a celebrated physician. The young man\ndespises her virtue and beauty; concludes the marriage only in appearance,\nand seeks in the dangers of war, deliverance from a domestic happiness\nwhich wounds his pride. By faithful endurance and an innocent fraud, she\nfulfils the apparently impossible conditions on which the Count had\npromised to acknowledge her as his wife. Love appears here in humble\nguise: the wooing is on the woman's side; it is striving, unaided by a\nreciprocal inclination, to overcome the prejudices of birth. But as soon\nas Helena is united to the Count by a sacred bond, though by him\nconsidered an oppressive chain, her error becomes her virtue.--She affects\nus by her patient suffering: the moment in which she appears to most\nadvantage is when she accuses herself as the persecutor of her inflexible\nhusband, and, under the pretext of a pilgrimage to atone for her error,\nprivately leaves the house of her mother-in-law. Johnson expresses a\ncordial aversion for Count Bertram, and regrets that he should be allowed\nto come off at last with no other punishment than a temporary shame, nay,\neven be rewarded with the unmerited possession of a virtuous wife. But has\nShakspeare ever attempted to soften the impression made by his unfeeling\npride and light-hearted perversity? He has but given him the good\nqualities of a soldier. And does not the poet paint the true way of the\nworld, which never makes much of man's injustice to woman, if so-called\nfamily honour is preserved? Bertram's sole justification is, that by the\nexercise of arbitrary power, the King thought proper to constrain him, in\na matter of such delicacy and private right as the choice of a wife.\nBesides, this story, as well as that of Grissel and many similar ones, is\nintended to prove that woman's truth and patience will at last triumph\nover man's abuse of his superior power, while other novels and\n_fabliaux_ are, on the other hand, true satires on woman's inconsistency\nand cunning. In this piece old age is painted with rare favour: the plain\nhonesty of the King, the good-natured impetuosity of old Lafeu, the\nmaternal indulgence of the Countess to Helena's passion for her son, seem\nall as it were to vie with each other in endeavours to overcome the\narrogance of the young Count. The style of the whole is more sententious\nthan imaginative: the glowing colours of fancy could not with propriety\nhave been employed on such a subject. In the passages where the\nhumiliating rejection of the poor Helena is most painfully affecting, the\ncowardly Parolles steps in to the relief of the spectator. The\nmystification by which his pretended valour and his shameless slanders are\nunmasked must be ranked among the most comic scenes that ever were\ninvented: they contain matter enough for an excellent comedy, if\nShakspeare were not always rich even to profusion. Falstaff has thrown\nParolles into the shade, otherwise among the poet's comic characters he\nwould have been still more famous.\n\nThe main plot in _Much Ado about Nothing_ is the same with the story\nof _Ariodante and Ginevra_ in Ariosto; the secondary circumstances\nand development are no doubt very different. The mode in which the\ninnocent Hero before the altar at the moment of the wedding, and in the\npresence of her family and many witnesses, is put to shame by a most\ndegrading charge, false indeed, yet clothed with every appearance of\ntruth, is a grand piece of theatrical effect in the true and justifiable\nsense. The impression would have been too tragical had not Shakspeare\ncarefully softened it in order to prepare for a fortunate catastrophe. The\ndiscovery of the plot against Hero has been already partly made, though\nnot by the persons interested; and the poet has contrived, by means of the\nblundering simplicity of a couple of constables and watchmen, to convert\nthe arrest and the examination of the guilty individuals into scenes full\nof the most delightful amusement. There is also a second piece of\ntheatrical effect not inferior to the first, where Claudio, now convinced\nof his error, and in obedience to the penance laid on his fault, thinking\nto give his hand to a relation of his injured bride, whom he supposes\ndead, discovers on her unmasking, Hero herself. The extraordinary success\nof this play in Shakspeare's own day, and even since in England, is,\nhowever, to be ascribed more particularly to the parts of Benedict and\nBeatrice, two humoursome beings, who incessantly attack each other with\nall the resources of raillery. Avowed rebels to love, they are both\nentangled in its net by a merry plot of their friends to make them believe\nthat each is the object of the secret passion of the other. Some one or\nother, not over-stocked with penetration has objected to the same artifice\nbeing twice used in entrapping them; the drollery, however, lies in the\nvery symmetry of the deception. Their friends attribute the whole effect\nto their own device; but the exclusive direction of their raillery against\neach other is in itself a proof of a growing inclination. Their witty\nvivacity does not even abandon them in the avowal of love; and their\nbehaviour only assumes a serious appearance for the purpose of defending\nthe slandered Hero. This is exceedingly well imagined; the lovers of\njesting must fix a point beyond which they are not to indulge in their\nhumour, if they would not be mistaken for buffoons by trade.\n\nIn _Measure for Measure_ Shakspeare was compelled, by the nature of\nthe subject, to make his poetry more familiar with criminal justice than\nis usual with him. All kinds of proceedings connected with the subject,\nall sorts of active or passive persons, pass in review before us: the\nhypocritical Lord Deputy, the compassionate Provost, and the hard-hearted\nHangman; a young man of quality who is to suffer for the seduction of his\nmistress before marriage, loose wretches brought in by the police, nay,\neven a hardened criminal, whom even the preparations for his execution\ncannot awaken out of his callousness. But yet, notwithstanding this\nagitating truthfulness, how tender and mild is the pervading tone of the\npicture! The piece takes improperly its name from punishment; the true\nsignificance of the whole is the triumph of mercy over strict justice; no\nman being himself so free from errors as to be entitled to deal it out to\nhis equals. The most beautiful embellishment of the composition is the\ncharacter of Isabella, who, on the point of taking the veil, is yet\nprevailed upon by sisterly affection to tread again the perplexing ways of\nthe world, while, amid the general corruption, the heavenly purity of her\nmind is not even stained with one unholy thought: in the humble robes of\nthe novice she is a very angel of light. When the cold and stern Angelo,\nheretofore of unblemished reputation, whom the Duke has commissioned,\nduring his pretended absence, to restrain, by a rigid administration of\nthe laws, the excesses of dissolute immorality, is even himself tempted by\nthe virgin charms of Isabella, supplicating for the pardon of her brother\nClaudio, condemned to death for a youthful indiscretion; when at first, in\ntimid and obscure language, he insinuates, but at last impudently avouches\nhis readiness to grant Claudio's life to the sacrifice of her honour; when\nIsabella repulses his offer with a noble scorn; in her account of the\ninterview to her brother, when the latter at first applauds her conduct,\nbut at length, overcome by the fear of death, strives to persuade her to\nconsent to dishonour;--in these masterly scenes, Shakspeare has sounded\nthe depths of the human heart. The interest here reposes altogether on the\nrepresented action; curiosity contributes nothing to our delight, for the\nDuke, in the disguise of a Monk, is always present to watch over his\ndangerous representative, and to avert every evil which could possibly be\napprehended; we look to him with confidence for a happy result. The Duke\nacts the part of the Monk naturally, even to deception; he unites in his\nperson the wisdom of the priest and the prince. Only in his wisdom he is\ntoo fond of round-about ways; his vanity is flattered with acting\ninvisibly like an earthly providence; he takes more pleasure in\noverhearing his subjects than governing them in the customary way of\nprinces. As he ultimately extends a free pardon to all the guilty, we do\nnot see how his original purpose, in committing the execution of the laws\nto other hands, of restoring their strictness, has in any wise been\naccomplished. The poet might have had this irony in view, that of the\nnumberless slanders of the Duke, told him by the petulant Lucio, in\nignorance of the person whom he is addressing, that at least which\nregarded his singularities and whims was not wholly without foundation. It\nis deserving of remark, that Shakspeare, amidst the rancour of religious\nparties, takes a delight in painting the condition of a monk, and always\nrepresents his influence as beneficial. We find in him none of the black\nand knavish monks, which an enthusiasm for Protestantism, rather than\npoetical inspiration, has suggested to some of our modern poets.\nShakspeare merely gives his monks an inclination to busy themselves in the\naffairs of others, after renouncing the world for themselves; with\nrespect, however, to pious frauds, he does not represent them as very\nconscientious. Such are the parts acted by the monk in _Romeo and Juliet_,\nand another in _Much Ado about Nothing_, and even by the Duke, whom,\ncontrary to the well-known proverb, the cowl seems really to make a monk.\n\nThe _Merchant of Venice_ is one of Shakspeare's most perfect works:\npopular to an extraordinary degree, and calculated to produce the most\npowerful effect on the stage, and at the same time a wonder of ingenuity\nand art for the reflecting critic. Shylock, the Jew, is one of the\ninimitable masterpieces of characterization which are to be found only in\nShakspeare. It is easy for both poet and player to exhibit a caricature of\nnational sentiments, modes of speaking, and gestures. Shylock, however, is\neverything but a common Jew: he possesses a strongly-marked and original\nindividuality, and yet we perceive a light touch of Judaism in everything\nhe says or does. We almost fancy we can hear a light whisper of the Jewish\naccent even in the written words, such as we sometimes still find in the\nhigher classes, notwithstanding their social refinement. In tranquil\nmoments, all that is foreign to the European blood and Christian\nsentiments is less perceptible, but in passion the national stamp comes\nout more strongly marked. All these inimitable niceties the finished art\nof a great actor can alone properly express. Shylock is a man of\ninformation, in his own way, even a thinker, only he has not discovered\nthe region where human feelings dwell; his morality is founded on the\ndisbelief in goodness and magnanimity. The desire to avenge the wrongs and\nindignities heaped upon his nation is, after avarice, his strongest spring\nof action. His hate is naturally directed chiefly against those Christians\nwho are actuated by truly Christian sentiments: a disinterested love of\nour neighbour seems to him the most unrelenting persecution of the Jews.\nThe letter of the law is his idol; he refuses to lend an ear to the voice\nof mercy, which, from the mouth of Portia, speaks to him with heavenly\neloquence: he insists on rigid and inflexible justice, and at last it\nrecoils on his own head. Thus he becomes a symbol of the general history\nof his unfortunate nation. The melancholy and self-sacrificing magnanimity\nof Antonio is affectingly sublime. Like a princely merchant, he is\nsurrounded with a whole train of noble friends. The contrast which this\nforms to the selfish cruelty of the usurer Shylock was necessary to redeem\nthe honour of human nature. The danger which almost to the close of the\nfourth act, hangs over Antonio, and which the imagination is almost afraid\nto approach, would fill the mind with too painful anxiety, if the poet did\nnot also provide for its recreation and diversion. This is effected in an\nespecial manner by the scenes at Portia's country-seat, which transport\nthe spectator into quite another world. And yet they are closely connected\nwith the main business by the chain of cause and effect: Bassanio's\npreparations for his courtship are the cause of Antonio's subscribing the\ndangerous bond; and Portia again, by the counsel and advice of her uncle,\na famous lawyer, effects the safety of her lover's friend. But the\nrelations of the dramatic composition are the while admirably observed in\nyet another respect. The trial between Shylock and Antonio is indeed\nrecorded as being a real event, still, for all that, it must ever remain\nan unheard-of and singular case. Shakspeare has therefore associated it\nwith a love intrigue not less extraordinary: the one consequently is\nrendered natural and probable by means of the other. A rich, beautiful and\nclever heiress, who can only be won by the solving the riddle--the locked\ncaskets--the foreign princes, who come to try the venture--all this\npowerfully excites the imagination with the splendour of an olden tale of\nmarvels. The two scenes in which, first the Prince of Morocco, in the\nlanguage of Eastern hyperbole, and then the self-conceited Prince of\nArragon, make their choice among the caskets, serve merely to raise our\ncuriosity, and give employment to our wits; but on the third, where the\ntwo lovers stand trembling before the inevitable choice, which in one\nmoment must unite or separate them for ever, Shakspeare has lavished all\nthe charms of feeling--all the magic of poesy. We share in the rapture of\nPortia and Bassanio at the fortunate choice: we easily conceive why they\nare so fond of each other, for they are both most deserving of love. The\njudgment scene, with which the fourth act is occupied, is in itself a\nperfect drama, concentrating in itself the interest of the whole. The knot\nis now untied, and according to the common ideas of theatrical\nsatisfaction, the curtain ought to drop. But the poet was unwilling to\ndismiss his audience with the gloomy impressions which Antonio's\nacquittal, effected with so much difficulty, and contrary to all\nexpectation, and the condemnation of Shylock, were calculated to leave\nbehind them; he has therefore added the fifth act by way of a musical\nafterlude in the piece itself. The episode of Jessica, the fugitive\ndaughter of the Jew, in whom Shakspeare has contrived to throw a veil of\nsweetness over the national features, and the artifice by which Portia and\nher companion are enabled to rally their newly-married husbands, supply\nhim with the necessary materials. The scene opens with the playful\nprattling of two lovers in a summer evening; it is followed by soft music,\nand a rapturous eulogy on this powerful disposer of the human mind and the\nworld; the principal characters then make their appearance, and after a\nsimulated quarrel, which is gracefully maintained, the whole end with the\nmost exhilarating mirth.\n\n_As You Like It_ is a piece of an entirely different description. It\nwould be difficult to bring the contents within the compass of an ordinary\nnarrative; nothing takes place, or rather what is done is not so essential\nas what is said; even what may be called the _d\u00e9nouement_ is brought\nabout pretty arbitrarily. Whoever can perceive nothing but what can as it\nwere be counted on the fingers, will hardly be disposed to allow that it\nhas any plan at all. Banishment and flight have assembled together, in the\nforest of Arden, a strange band: a Duke dethroned by his brother, who,\nwith the faithful companions of his misfortune, lives in the wilds on the\nproduce of the chase; two disguised Princesses, who love each other with a\nsisterly affection; a witty court fool; lastly, the native inhabitants of\nthe forest, ideal and natural shepherds and shepherdesses. These lightly-\nsketched figures form a motley and diversified train; we see always the\nshady dark-green landscape in the background, and breathe in imagination\nthe fresh air of the forest. The hours are here measured by no clocks, no\nregulated recurrence of duty or of toil: they flow on unnumbered by\nvoluntary occupation or fanciful idleness, to which, according to his\nhumour or disposition, every one yields himself, and this unrestrained\nfreedom compensates them all for the lost conveniences of life. One throws\nhimself down in solitary meditation under a tree, and indulges in\nmelancholy reflections on the changes of fortune, the falsehood of the\nworld, and the self-inflicted torments of social life; others make the\nwoods resound with social and festive songs, to the accompaniment of their\nhunting-horns. Selfishness, envy, and ambition, have been left behind in\nthe city; of all the human passions, love alone has found an entrance into\nthis wilderness, where it dictates the same language alike to the simple\nshepherd and the chivalrous youth, who hangs his love-ditty to a tree. A\nprudish shepherdess falls at first sight in love with Rosalind, disguised\nin men's apparel; the latter sharply reproaches her with her severity to\nher poor lover, and the pain of refusal, which she feels from experience\nin her own case, disposes her at length to compassion and requital. The\nfool carries his philosophical contempt of external show, and his raillery\nof the illusion of love so far, that he purposely seeks out the ugliest\nand simplest country wench for a mistress. Throughout the whole picture,\nit seems to be the poet's design to show that to call forth the poetry\nwhich has its indwelling in nature and the human mind, nothing is wanted\nbut to throw off all artificial constraint, and restore both to mind and\nnature their original liberty. In the very progress of the piece, the\ndreamy carelessness of such an existence is sensibly expressed: it is even\nalluded to by Shakspeare in the title. Whoever affects to be displeased,\nif in this romantic forest the ceremonial of dramatic art is not duly\nobserved, ought in justice to be delivered over to the wise fool, to be\nled gently out of it to some prosaical region.\n\n_The Twelfth Night, or What you Will_, unites the entertainment of an\nintrigue, contrived with great ingenuity, to a rich fund of comic\ncharacters and situations, and the beauteous colours of an ethereal\npoetry. In most of his plays, Shakspeare treats love more as an affair of\nthe imagination than the heart; but here he has taken particular care to\nremind us that, in his language, the same word, _fancy_, signified\nboth fancy and love. The love of the music-enraptured Duke for Olivia is\nnot merely a fancy, but an imagination; Viola appears at first to fall\narbitrarily in love with the Duke, whom she serves as a page, although she\nafterwards touches the tenderest strings of feeling; the proud Olivia is\ncaptivated by the modest and insinuating messenger of the Duke, in whom\nshe is far from suspecting a disguised rival, and at last, by a second\ndeception, takes the brother for the sister. To these, which I might call\nideal follies, a contrast is formed by the naked absurdities to which the\nentertaining tricks of the ludicrous persons of the piece give rise, under\nthe pretext also of love: the silly and profligate Knight's awkward\ncourtship of Olivia, and her declaration of love to Viola; the imagination\nof the pedantic steward Malvolio, that his mistress is secretly in love\nwith him, which carries him so far that he is at last shut up as a\nlunatic, and visited by the clown in the dress of a priest. These scenes\nare admirably conceived, and as significant as they are laughable. If this\nwere really, as is asserted, Shakspeare's latest work, he must have\nenjoyed to the last the same youthful elasticity of mind, and have carried\nwith him to the grave the undiminished fulness of his talents.\n\n_The Merry Wives of Windsor_, though properly a comedy in the usual\nacceptation of the word, we shall pass over at present, till we come to\nspeak of _Henry the Fourth_, that we may give our opinion of the character\nof Falstaff in connexion.\n\n_The Midsummer Night's Dream_ and _The Tempest_, may be in so far compared\ntogether that in both the influence of a wonderful world of spirits is\ninterwoven with the turmoil of human passions and with the farcical\nadventures of folly. _The Midsummer Night's Dream_ is certainly an earlier\nproduction; but _The Tempest_, according to all appearance, was written in\nShakspeare's later days: hence most critics, on the supposition that the\npoet must have continued to improve with increasing maturity of mind, have\nhonoured the last piece with a marked preference. I cannot, however,\naltogether concur with them: the internal merit of these two works are, in\nmy opinion, pretty nearly balanced, and a predilection for the one or the\nother can only be governed by personal taste. In profound and original\ncharacterization the superiority of _The Tempest_ is obvious: as a whole\nwe must always admire the masterly skill which he has here displayed in\nthe economy of his means, and the dexterity with which he has disguised\nhis preparations,--the scaffoldings for the wonderful a\u00ebrial structure. In\n_The Midsummer Night's Dream_, on the other hand, there flows a luxuriant\nvein of the boldest and most fantastical invention; the most extraordinary\ncombination of the most dissimilar ingredients seems to have been brought\nabout without effort by some ingenious and lucky accident, and the colours\nare of such clear transparency that we think the whole of the variegated\nfabric may be blown away with a breath. The fairy world here described\nresembles those elegant pieces of arabesque, where little genii with\nbutterfly wings rise, half embodied, above the flower-cups. Twilight,\nmoonshine, dew, and spring perfumes, are the element of these tender\nspirits; they assist nature in embroidering her carpet with green leaves,\nmany-coloured flowers, and glittering insects; in the human world they do\nbut make sport childishly and waywardly with their beneficent or noxious\ninfluences. Their most violent rage dissolves in good-natured raillery;\ntheir passions, stripped of all earthly matter, are merely an ideal dream.\nTo correspond with this, the loves of mortals are painted as a poetical\nenchantment, which, by a contrary enchantment, may be immediately\nsuspended, and then renewed again. The different parts of the plot; the\nwedding of Theseus and Hippolyta, Oberon and Titania's quarrel, the flight\nof the two pair of lovers, and the theatrical manoeuvres of the mechanics,\nare so lightly and happily interwoven that they seem necessary to each\nother for the formation, of a whole. Oberon is desirous of relieving the\nlovers from their perplexities, but greatly adds to them through the\nmistakes of his minister, till he at last comes really to the aid of their\nfruitless amorous pain, their inconstancy and jealousy, and restores\nfidelity to its old rights. The extremes of fanciful and vulgar are united\nwhen the enchanted Titania awakes and falls in love with a coarse mechanic\nwith an ass's head, who represents, or rather disfigures, the part of a\ntragical lover. The droll wonder of Bottom's transformation is merely the\ntranslation of a metaphor in its literal sense; but in his behaviour\nduring the tender homage of the Fairy Queen we have an amusing proof how\nmuch the consciousness of such a head-dress heightens the effect of his\nusual folly. Theseus and Hippolyta are, as it were, a splendid frame for\nthe picture; they take no part in the action, but surround it with a\nstately pomp. The discourse of the hero and his Amazon, as they course\nthrough the forest with their noisy hunting-train, works upon the\nimagination like the fresh breath of morning, before which the shapes of\nnight disappear. Pyramus and Thisbe is not unmeaningly chosen as the\ngrotesque play within the play; it is exactly like the pathetic part of\nthe piece, a secret meeting of two lovers in the forest, and their\nseparation by an unfortunate accident, and closes the whole with the most\namusing parody.\n\n_The Tempest_ has little action or progressive movement; the union of\nFerdinand and Miranda is settled at their first interview, and Prospero\nmerely throws apparent obstacles in their way; the shipwrecked band go\nleisurely about the island; the attempts of Sebastian and Antonio on the\nlife of the King of Naples, and the plot of Caliban and the drunken\nsailors against Prospero, are nothing but a feint, for we foresee that\nthey will be completely frustrated by the magical skill of the latter;\nnothing remains therefore but the punishment of the guilty by dreadful\nsights which harrow up their consciences, and then the discovery and final\nreconciliation. Yet this want of movement is so admirably concealed by the\nmost varied display of the fascinations of poetry, and the exhilaration of\nmirth, the details of the execution are so very attractive, that it\nrequires no small degree of attention to perceive that the\n_d\u00e9nouement_ is, in some degree, anticipated in the exposition. The\nhistory of the loves of Ferdinand and Miranda, developed in a few short\nscenes, is enchantingly beautiful: an affecting union of chivalrous\nmagnanimity on the one part, and on the other of the virgin openness of a\nheart which, brought up far from the world on an uninhabited island, has\nnever learned to disguise its innocent movements. The wisdom of the\nprincely hermit Prospero has a magical and mysterious air; the\ndisagreeable impression left by the black falsehood of the two usurpers is\nsoftened by the honest gossipping of the old and faithful Gonzalo;\nTrinculo and Stephano, two good-for-nothing drunkards, find a worthy\nassociate in Caliban; and Ariel hovers sweetly over the whole as the\npersonified genius of the wonderful fable.\n\nCaliban has become a by-word as the strange creation of a poetical\nimagination. A mixture of gnome and savage, half daemon, half brute, in\nhis behaviour we perceive at once the traces of his native disposition,\nand the influence of Prospero's education. The latter could only unfold\nhis understanding, without, in the slightest degree, taming his rooted\nmalignity: it is as if the use of reason and human speech were\ncommunicated to an awkward ape. In inclination Caliban is maliciously\ncowardly, false, and base; and yet he is essentially different from the\nvulgar knaves of a civilized world, as portrayed occasionally by\nShakspeare. He is rude, but not vulgar; he never falls into the prosaic\nand low familiarity of his drunken associates, for he is, in his way, a\npoetical being; he always speaks in verse. He has picked up every thing\ndissonant and thorny in language to compose out of it a vocabulary of his\nown; and of the whole variety of nature, the hateful, repulsive, and\npettily deformed, have alone been impressed on his imagination. The\nmagical world of spirits, which the staff of Prospero has assembled on the\nisland, casts merely a faint reflection into his mind, as a ray of light\nwhich falls into a dark cave, incapable of communicating to it either heat\nor illumination, serves merely to set in motion the poisonous vapours. The\ndelineation of this monster is throughout inconceivably consistent and\nprofound, and, notwithstanding its hatefulness, by no means hurtful to our\nfeelings, as the honour of human nature is left untouched.\n\nIn the zephyr-like Ariel the image of air is not to be mistaken, his name\neven bears an allusion to it; as, on the other hand Caliban signifies the\nheavy element of earth. Yet they are neither of them simple, allegorical\npersonifications but beings individually determined. In general we find in\n_The Midsummer Night's Dream_, in _The Tempest_, in the magical part of\n_Macbeth_, and wherever Shakspeare avails himself of the popular belief in\nthe invisible presence of spirits, and the possibility of coming in\ncontact with them, a profound view of the inward life of nature and her\nmysterious springs, which, it is true, can never be altogether unknown to\nthe genuine poet, as poetry is altogether incompatible with mechanical\nphysics, but which few have possessed in an equal degree with Dante and\nhimself.\n\n_The Winter's Tale_ is as appropriately named as _The Midsummer Night's\nDream_. It is one of those tales which are peculiarly calculated to\nbeguile the dreary leisure of a long winter evening, and are even\nattractive and intelligible to childhood, while animated by fervent\ntruth in the delineation of character and passion, and invested with the\nembellishments of poetry lowering itself, as it were, to the simplicity of\nthe subject, they transport even manhood back to the golden age of\nimagination. The calculation of probabilities has nothing to do with such\nwonderful and fleeting adventures, when all end at last in universal joy;\nand, accordingly, Shakspeare has here taken the greatest license of\nanachronisms and geographical errors; not to mention other incongruities,\nhe opens a free navigation between Sicily and Bohemia, makes Giulio Romano\nthe contemporary of the Delphic oracle. The piece divides itself in some\ndegree into two plays. Leontes becomes suddenly jealous of his royal\nbosom-friend Polyxenes, who is on a visit to his court; makes an attempt\non his life, from which Polyxenes only saves himself by a clandestine\nflight;--Hermione, suspected of infidelity, is thrown into prison, and the\ndaughter which she there brings into the world is exposed on a remote\ncoast;--the accused Queen, declared innocent by the oracle, on learning\nthat her infant son has pined to death on her account, falls down in a\nswoon, and is mourned as dead by her husband, who becomes sensible, when\ntoo late, of his error: all this makes up the three first acts. The last\ntwo are separated from these by a chasm of sixteen years; but the\nforegoing tragical catastrophe was only apparent, and this serves to\nconnect the two parts. The Princess, who has been exposed on the coast of\nPolyxenes's kingdom, grows up among low shepherds; but her tender beauty,\nher noble manners, and elevation of sentiment, bespeak her descent; the\nCrown Prince Florizel, in the course of his hawking, falls in with her,\nbecomes enamoured, and courts her in the disguise of a shepherd; at a\nrural entertainment Polyxenes discovers their attachment, and breaks out\ninto a violent rage; the two lovers seek refuge from his persecutions at\nthe court of Leontes in Sicily, where the discovery and general\nreconciliation take place. Lastly, when Leontes beholds, as he imagines,\nthe statue of his lost wife, it descends from the niche: it is she\nherself, the still living Hermione, who has kept herself so long\nconcealed; and the piece ends with universal rejoicing. The jealousy of\nLeontes is not, like that of Othello, developed through all its causes,\nsymptoms and variations; it is brought forward at once full grown and\nmature, and is portrayed as a distempered frenzy. It is a passion whose\neffects the spectator is more concerned with than with its origin, and\nwhich does not produce the catastrophe, but merely ties the knot of the\npiece. In fact, the poet might perhaps have wished slightly to indicate\nthat Hermione, though virtuous, was too warm in her efforts to please\nPolyxenes; and it appears as if this germ of inclination first attained\nits proper maturity in their children. Nothing can be more fresh and\nyouthful, nothing at once so ideally pastoral and princely as the love of\nFlorizel and Perdita; of the prince, whom love converts into a voluntary\nshepherd; and the princess, who betrays her exalted origin without knowing\nit, and in whose hands nosegays become crowns. Shakspeare has never\nhesitated to place ideal poetry side by side of the most vulgar prose: and\nin the world of reality also this is generally the case. Perdita's foster-\nfather and his son are both made simple boors, that we may the more\ndistinctly see how all that ennobles her belongs only to herself.\nAutolycus, the merry pedlar and pickpocket, so inimitably portrayed, is\nnecessary to complete the rustic feast, which Perdita on her part seems to\nrender meet for an assemblage of gods in disguise.\n\n_Cymbeline_ is also one of Shakspeare's most wonderful compositions.\nHe has here combined a novel of Boccacio's with traditionary tales of the\nancient Britons reaching back to the times of the first Roman Emperors,\nand he has contrived, by the most gentle transitions, to blend together\ninto one harmonious whole the social manners of the newest times with\nolden heroic deeds, and even with appearances of the gods.\n\nIn the character of Imogen no one feature of female excellence is omitted:\nher chaste tenderness, her softness, and her virgin pride, her boundless\nresignation, and her magnanimity towards her mistaken husband, by whom she\nis unjustly persecuted, her adventures in disguise, her apparent death,\nand her recovery, form altogether a picture equally tender and affecting.\nThe two Princes, Guiderius and Arviragus, both educated in the wilds, form\na noble contrast to Miranda and Perdita. Shakspeare is fond of showing the\nsuperiority of the natural over the artificial. Over the art which\nenriches nature, he somewhere says, there is a higher art created by\nnature herself. [Footnote: The passage in Shakspeare here quoted, taken\nwith the context, will not bear the construction of the author. The whole\nruns thus:--\n  Yet nature is made better by no mean,\n  But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art\n  Which you say adds to nature, is an art\n  That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry\n  A gentler scion to the wildest stock;\n  And make conceive a bark of baser kind\n  By bud of nobler race: this is an art\n  Which does mend nature, change it rather; but\n  The art itself is nature.\n             _Winter's Tale_, Act iv. sc. 3.\nShakspeare does not here mean to institute a comparison between the\nrelative excellency of that which is innate and that which we owe to\ninstruction; but merely says, that the instruction or art is itself a part\nof nature. The speech is addressed by Polyxenes to Perdita, to persuade\nher that the changes effected in the appearance of flowers by the art of\nthe gardener are not to be accounted unnatural; and the expression of\n_making conceive a bark of baser kind by bud of nobler race_ (i.e.,\nengrafting), would rather lead to the inference, that the mind derived its\nchief value from the influence of culture.--TRANS.] As Miranda's\nunconscious and unstudied sweetness is more pleasing than those charms\nwhich endeavour to captivate us by the brilliant embellishments of a\nrefined cultivation, so in these two youths, to whom the chase has given\nvigour and hardihood, but who are ignorant of their high destination, and\nhave been brought up apart from human society, we are equally enchanted by\na _na\u00efve_ heroism which leads them to anticipate and to dream of\ndeeds of valour, till an occasion is offered which they are irresistibly\ncompelled to embrace. When Imogen comes in disguise to their cave; when,\nwith all the innocence of childhood, Guiderius and Arviragus form an\nimpassioned friendship for the tender boy, in whom they neither suspect a\nfemale nor their own sister; when, on their return from the chase, they\nfind her dead, then \"sing her to the ground,\" and cover the grave with\nflowers:--these scenes might give to the most deadened imagination a new\nlife for poetry. If a tragical event is only apparent, in such case,\nwhether the spectators are already aware of it or ought merely to suspect\nit, Shakspeare always knows how to mitigate the impression without\nweakening it: he makes the mourning musical, that it may gain in solemnity\nwhat it loses in seriousness. With respect to the other parts, the wise\nand vigorous Belarius, who after long living as a hermit again becomes a\nhero, is a venerable figure; the Italian Iachimo's ready dissimulation and\nquick presence of mind is quite suitable to the bold treachery which he\nplays; Cymbeline, the father of Imogen, and even her husband Posthumus,\nduring the first half of the piece, are somewhat sacrificed, but this\ncould not be otherwise; the false and wicked Queen is merely an instrument\nof the plot; she and her stupid son Cloton (the only comic part in the\npiece) whose rude arrogance is portrayed with much humour, are, before the\nconclusion, got rid of by merited punishment. As for the heroical part of\nthe fable, the war between the Romans and Britons, which brings on the\nd\u00e9nouement, the poet in the extent of his plan had so little room to\nspare, that he merely endeavours to represent it as a mute procession. But\nto the last scene, where all the numerous threads of the knot are untied,\nhe has again given its full development, that he might collect together\ninto one focus the scattered impressions of the whole. This example and\nmany others are a sufficient refutation of Johnson's assertion, that\nShakspeare usually hurries over the conclusion of his pieces. Rather does\nhe, from a desire to satisfy the feelings, introduce a great deal which,\nso far as the understanding of the _d\u00e9nouement_ requires, might in a\nstrict sense be justly spared: our modern spectators are much more\nimpatient to see the curtain drop, when there is nothing more to be\ndetermined, than those of his day could have been.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXV.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Tragedies.\n\n\n_Romeo and Juliet_, and _Othello_, differ from most of the pieces which we\nhave hitherto examined, neither in the ingredients of the composition, nor\nin the manner of treating them: it is merely the direction of the whole\nthat gives them the stamp of Tragedy. _Romeo and Juliet_ is a picture of\nlove and its pitiable fate, in a world whose atmosphere is too sharp for\nthis the tenderest blossom of human life. Two beings created for each\nother feel mutual love at the first glance; every consideration disappears\nbefore the irresistible impulse to live in one another; under\ncircumstances hostile in the highest degree to their union, they unite\nthemselves by a secret marriage, relying simply on the protection of an\ninvisible power. Untoward incidents following in rapid succession, their\nheroic constancy is within a few days put to the proof, till, forcibly\nseparated from each other, by a voluntary death they are united in the\ngrave to meet again in another world. All this is to be found in the\nbeautiful story which Shakspeare has not invented, and which, however\nsimply told, will always excite a tender sympathy: but it was reserved for\nShakspeare to join in one ideal picture purity of heart with warmth of\nimagination; sweetness and dignity of manners with passionate intensity of\nfeeling. Under his handling, it has become a glorious song of praise on\nthat inexpressible feeling which ennobles the soul and gives to it\nits highest sublimity, and which elevates even the senses into soul,\nwhile at the same time it is a melancholy elegy on its inherent and\nimparted frailty; it is at once the apotheosis and the obsequies of love.\nIt appears here a heavenly spark, that, as it descends to the earth, is\nconverted into the lightning flash, which almost in the same moment sets\non fire and consumes the mortal being on whom it lights. All that is most\nintoxicating in the odour of a southern spring,--all that is languishing\nin the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening of the\nrose, all alike breathe forth from this poem. But even more rapidly than\nthe earliest blossoms of youth and beauty decay, does it from the first\ntimidly-bold declaration and modest return of love hurry on to the most\nunlimited passion, to an irrevocable union; and then hastens, amidst\nalternating storms of rapture and despair, to the fate of the two lovers,\nwho yet appear enviable in their hard lot, for their love survives them,\nand by their death they have obtained an endless triumph over every\nseparating power. The sweetest and the bitterest love and hatred, festive\nrejoicings and dark forebodings, tender embraces and sepulchral horrors,\nthe fulness of life and self-annihilation, are here all brought close to\neach other; and yet these contrasts are so blended into a unity of\nimpression, that the echo which the whole leaves behind in the mind\nresembles a single but endless sigh.\n\nThe excellent dramatic arrangement, the significance of every character in\nits place, the judicious selection of all the circumstances, even the most\nminute, have already been dwelt upon in detail. I shall only request\nattention to a trait which may serve for an example of the distance to\nwhich Shakspeare goes back to lay the preparatory foundation. The most\nstriking and perhaps incredible circumstance in the whole story is the\nliquor given by the Monk to Julia, by which she for a number of hours not\nmerely sleeps, but fully resembles a corpse, without however receiving the\nleast injury. How does the poet dispose us to believe that Father Lorenzo\npossesses such a secret?--At his first appearance he exhibits him in a\ngarden, where he is collecting herbs and descanting on their wonderful\nvirtues. The discourse of the pious old man is full of deep meaning: he\nsees everywhere in nature emblems of the moral world; the same wisdom with\nwhich he looks through her has also made him master of the human heart. In\nthis manner a circumstance of an ungrateful appearance, has become the\nsource of a great beauty.\n\nIf _Romeo and Juliet_ shines with the colours of the dawn of morning,\nbut a dawn whose purple clouds already announce the thunder of a sultry\nday, _Othello_ is, on the other hand, a strongly shaded picture: we\nmight call it a tragical Rembrandt. What a fortunate mistake that the Moor\n(under which name in the original novel, a baptized Saracen of the\nNorthern coast of Africa was unquestionably meant), has been made by\nShakspeare in every respect a negro! We recognize in Othello the wild\nnature of that glowing zone which generates the most ravenous beasts of\nprey and the most deadly poisons, tamed only in appearance by the desire\nof fame, by foreign laws of honour, and by nobler and milder manners. His\njealousy is not the jealousy of the heart, which is compatible with the\ntenderest feeling and adoration of the beloved object; it is of that\nsensual kind which, in burning climes, has given birth to the disgraceful\nconfinement of women and many other unnatural usages. A drop of this\npoison flows in his veins, and sets his whole blood in the wildest\nferment. The Moor _seems_ noble, frank, confiding, grateful for the\nlove shown him; and he is all this, and, moreover, a hero who spurns at\ndanger, a worthy leader of an army, a faithful servant of the state; but\nthe mere physical force of passion puts to flight in one moment all his\nacquired and mere habitual virtues, and gives the upper hand to the savage\nover the moral man. This tyranny of the blood over the will betrays itself\neven in the expression of his desire of revenge upon Cassio. In his\nrepentance, a genuine tenderness for his murdered wife, and in the\npresence of the damning evidence of his deed, the painful feeling of\nannihilated honour at last bursts forth; and in the midst of these painful\nemotions he assails himself with the rage wherewith a despot punishes a\nrunaway slave. He suffers as a double man; at once in the higher and the\nlower sphere into which his being was divided.--While the Moor bears the\nnightly colour of suspicion and deceit only on his visage, Iago is black\nwithin. He haunts Othello like his evil genius, and with his light (and\ntherefore the more dangerous,) insinuations, he leaves him no rest; it is\nas if by means of an unfortunate affinity, founded however in nature, this\ninfluence was by necessity more powerful over him than the voice of his\ngood angel Desdemona. A more artful villain than this Iago was never\nportrayed; he spreads his nets with a skill which nothing can escape. The\nrepugnance inspired by his aims becomes tolerable from the attention of\nthe spectators being directed to his means: these furnish endless\nemployment to the understanding. Cool, discontented, and morose, arrogant\nwhere he dare be so, but humble and insinuating when it suits his\npurposes, he is a complete master in the art of dissimulation; accessible\nonly to selfish emotions, he is thoroughly skilled in rousing the passions\nof others, and of availing himself of every opening which they give him:\nhe is as excellent an observer of men as any one can be who is\nunacquainted with higher motives of action from his own experience; there\nis always some truth in his malicious observations on them. He does not\nmerely pretend an obdurate incredulity as to the virtue of women, he\nactually entertains it; and this, too, falls in with his whole way of\nthinking, and makes him the more fit for the execution of his purpose. As\nin every thing he sees merely the hateful side, he dissolves in the rudest\nmanner the charm which the imagination casts over the relation between the\ntwo sexes: he does so for the purpose of revolting Othello's senses, whose\nheart otherwise might easily have convinced him of Desdemona's innocence.\nThis must serve as an excuse for the numerous expressions in the speeches\nof Iago from which modesty shrinks. If Shakespeare had written in our days\nhe would not perhaps have dared to hazard them; and yet this must\ncertainly have greatly injured the truth of his picture. Desdemona is a\nsacrifice without blemish. She is not, it is true, a high ideal\nrepresentation of sweetness and enthusiastic passion like Juliet; full of\nsimplicity, softness, and humility, and so innocent, that she can hardly\nform to herself an idea of the possibility of infidelity, she seems\ncalculated to make the most yielding and tenderest of wives. The female\npropensity wholly to resign itself to a foreign destiny has led her into\nthe only fault of her life, that of marrying without her father's consent.\nHer choice seems wrong; and yet she has been gained over to Othello by\nthat which induces the female to honour in man her protector and guide,--\nadmiration of his determined heroism, and compassion for the sufferings\nwhich he had undergone. With great art it is so contrived, that from the\nvery circumstance that the possibility of a suspicion of her own purity of\nmotive never once enters her mind, she is the less reserved in her\nsolicitations for Cassio, and thereby does but heighten more and more the\njealousy of Othello. To throw out still more clearly the angelic purity of\nDesdemona, Shakspeare has in Emilia associated with her a companion of\ndoubtful virtue. From the sinful levity of this woman it is also\nconceivable that she should not confess the abstraction of the\nhandkerchief when Othello violently demands it back: this would otherwise\nbe the circumstance in the whole piece the most difficult to justify.\nCassio is portrayed exactly as he ought to be to excite suspicion without\nactual guilt,--amiable and nobly disposed, but easily seduced. The public\nevents of the first two acts show us Othello in his most glorious aspect,\nas the support of Venice and the terror of the Turks: they serve to\nwithdraw the story from the mere domestic circle, just as this is done in\n_Romeo and Juliet_ by the dissensions between the houses of Montague\nand Capulet. No eloquence is capable of painting the overwhelming force of\nthe catastrophe in _Othello_,--the pressure of feelings which measure\nout in a moment the abysses of eternity.\n\n_Hamlet_ is singular in its kind: a tragedy of thought inspired by\ncontinual and never-satisfied meditation on human destiny and the dark\nperplexity of the events of this world, and calculated to call forth the\nvery same meditation in the minds of the spectators. This enigmatical work\nresembles those irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown\nmagnitude always remains, that will in no way admit of solution. Much has\nbeen said, much written, on this piece, and yet no thinking head who anew\nexpresses himself on it, will (in his view of the connexion and the\nsignification of all the parts) entirely coincide with his predecessors.\nWhat naturally most astonishes us, is the fact that with such hidden\npurposes, with a foundation laid in such unfathomable depth, the whole\nshould, at a first view, exhibit an extremely popular appearance. The\ndread appearance of the Ghost takes possession of the mind and the\nimagination almost at the very commencement; then the play within the\nplay, in which, as in a glass, we see reflected the crime, whose\nfruitlessly attempted punishment constitutes the subject-matter of the\npiece; the alarm with which it fills the King; Hamlet's pretended and\nOphelia's real madness; her death and burial; the meeting of Hamlet and\nLaertes at her grave; their combat, and the grand determination; lastly,\nthe appearance of the young hero Fortinbras, who, with warlike pomp, pays\nthe last honours to an extinct family of kings; the interspersion of comic\ncharacteristic scenes with Polonius, the courtiers, and the grave-diggers,\nwhich have all of them their signification,--all this fills the stage with\nan animated and varied movement. The only circumstance from which this\npiece might be judged to be less theatrical than other tragedies of\nShakspeare is, that in the last scenes the main action either stands still\nor appears to retrograde. This, however, was inevitable, and lay in the\nnature of the subject. The whole is intended to show that a calculating\nconsideration, which exhausts all the relations and possible consequences\nof a deed, must cripple the power of acting; as Hamlet himself expresses\nit:--\n\n  And thus the native hue of resolution\n  Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;\n  And enterprises of great pith and moment,\n  With this regard, their currents turn awry,\n  And lose the name of action.\n\nWith respect to Hamlet's character: I cannot, as I understand the poet's\nviews, pronounce altogether so favourable a sentence upon it as Goethe\ndoes. He is, it is true, of a highly cultivated mind, a prince of royal\nmanners, endowed with the finest sense of propriety, susceptible of noble\nambition, and open in the highest degree to an enthusiastic admiration of\nthat excellence in others of which he himself is deficient. He acts the\npart of madness with unrivalled power, convincing the persons who are sent\nto examine into his supposed loss of reason, merely by telling them\nunwelcome truths, and rallying them with the most caustic wit. But in the\nresolutions which he so often embraces and always leaves unexecuted, his\nweakness is too apparent: he does himself only justice when he implies\nthat there is no greater dissimilarity than between himself and Hercules.\nHe is not solely impelled by necessity to artifice and dissimulation, he\nhas a natural inclination for crooked ways; he is a hypocrite towards\nhimself; his far-fetched scruples are often mere pretexts to cover his\nwant of determination: thoughts, as he says on a different occasion, which\nhave\n\n            ----but one part wisdom\n  And ever three parts coward.-----\n\nHe has been chiefly condemned both for his harshness in repulsing the love\nof Ophelia, which he himself had cherished, and for his insensibility at\nher death. But he is too much overwhelmed with his own sorrow to have any\ncompassion to spare for others; besides his outward indifference gives us\nby no means the measure of his internal perturbation. On the other hand,\nwe evidently perceive in him a malicious joy, when he has succeeded in\ngetting rid of his enemies, more through necessity and accident, which\nalone are able to impel him to quick and decisive measures, than by the\nmerit of his own courage, as he himself confesses after the murder of\nPolonius, and with respect to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet has no\nfirm belief either in himself or in anything else: from expressions of\nreligious confidence he passes over to sceptical doubts; he believes in\nthe Ghost of his father as long as he sees it, but as soon as it has\ndisappeared, it appears to him almost in the light of a deception.\n[Footnote: It has been censured as a contradiction, that Hamlet in the\nsoliloquy on self-murder should say,\n  The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn\n  No traveller returns-----\nFor was not the Ghost a returned traveller? Shakspeare, however, purposely\nwished to show, that Hamlet could not fix himself in any conviction of any\nkind whatever.] He has even gone so far as to say, \"there is nothing\neither good or bad, but thinking makes it so;\" with him the poet loses\nhimself here in labyrinths of thought, in which neither end nor beginning\nis discoverable. The stars themselves, from the course of events, afford\nno answer to the question so urgently proposed to them. A voice from\nanother world, commissioned it would appear, by heaven, demands vengeance\nfor a monstrous enormity, and the demand remains without effect; the\ncriminals are at last punished, but, as it were, by an accidental blow,\nand not in the solemn way requisite to convey to the world a warning\nexample of justice; irresolute foresight, cunning treachery, and impetuous\nrage, hurry on to a common destruction; the less guilty and the innocent\nare equally involved in the general ruin. The destiny of humanity is there\nexhibited as a gigantic Sphinx, which threatens to precipitate into the\nabyss of scepticism all who are unable to solve her dreadful enigmas.\n\nAs one example of the many niceties of Shakspeare which have never been\nunderstood, I may allude to the style in which the player's speech about\nHecuba is conceived. It has been the subject of much controversy among the\ncommentators, whether this was borrowed by Shakspeare from himself or from\nanother, and whether, in the praise of the piece of which it is supposed\nto be a part, he was speaking seriously, or merely meant to ridicule the\ntragical bombast of his contemporaries. It seems never to have occurred to\nthem that this speech must not be judged of by itself, but in connexion\nwith the place where it is introduced. To distinguish it in the play\nitself as dramatic poetry, it was necessary that it should rise above the\ndignified poetry of the former in the same proportion that generally\ntheatrical elevation soars above simple nature. Hence Shakspeare has\ncomposed the play in Hamlet altogether in sententious rhymes full of\nantitheses. But this solemn and measured tone did not suit a speech in\nwhich violent emotion ought to prevail, and the poet had no other\nexpedient than the one of which he made choice: overcharging the pathos.\nThe language of the speech in question is certainly falsely emphatical;\nbut yet this fault is so mixed up with true grandeur, that a player\npractised in artificially calling forth in himself the emotion he is\nimitating, may certainly be carried away by it. Besides, it will hardly be\nbelieved that Shakspeare knew so little of his art, as not to be aware\nthat a tragedy in which Aeneas had to make a lengthy epic relation of a\ntransaction that happened so long before as the destruction of Troy, could\nneither be dramatical nor theatrical.\n\nOf _Macbeth_ I have already spoken once in passing, and who could exhaust\nthe praises of this sublime work? Since _The Eumenides_ of Aeschylus,\nnothing so grand and terrible has ever been written. The witches are not,\nit is true, divine Eumenides, and are not intended to be: they are ignoble\nand vulgar instruments of hell. A German poet, therefore, very ill\nunderstood their meaning, when he transformed them into mongrel beings, a\nmixture of fates, furies, and enchantresses, and clothed them with tragic\ndignity. Let no man venture to lay hand on Shakspeare's works thinking to\nimprove anything essential: he will be sure to punish himself. The bad is\nradically odious, and to endeavour in any manner to ennoble it, is to\nviolate the laws of propriety. Hence, in my opinion, Dante, and even\nTasso, have been much more successful in their portraiture of daemons than\nMilton. Whether the age of Shakspeare still believed in ghosts and\nwitches, is a matter of perfect indifference for the justification of the\nuse which in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ he has made of pre-existing\ntraditions.\n\nNo superstition can be widely diffused without having a foundation in\nhuman nature: on this the poet builds; he calls up from their hidden\nabysses that dread of the unknown, that presage of a dark side of nature,\nand a world of spirits, which philosophy now imagines it has altogether\nexploded. In this manner he is in some degree both the portrayer and the\nphilosopher of superstition; that is, not the philosopher who denies and\nturns it into ridicule, but, what is still more difficult, who distinctly\nexhibits its origin in apparently irrational and yet natural opinions. But\nwhen he ventures to make arbitrary changes in these popular traditions, he\naltogether forfeits his right to them, and merely holds up his own idle\nfancies to our ridicule. Shakspeare's picture of the witches is truly\nmagical: in the short scenes where they enter, he has created for them a\npeculiar language, which, although composed of the usual elements, still\nseems to be a collection of formulae of incantation. The sound of the\nwords, the accumulation of rhymes, and the rhythmus of the verse, form, as\nit were, the hollow music of a dreary witch-dance. He has been abused for\nusing the names of disgusting objects; but he who fancies the kettle of\nthe witches can be made effective with agreeable aromatics, is as wise as\nthose who desire that hell should sincerely and honestly give good advice.\nThese repulsive things, from which the imagination shrinks, are here\nemblems of the hostile powers which operate in nature; and the repugnance\nof our senses is outweighed by the mental horror. With one another the\nwitches discourse like women of the very lowest class; for this was the\nclass to which witches were ordinarily supposed to belong: when, however,\nthey address Macbeth they assume a loftier tone: their predictions, which\nthey either themselves pronounce, or allow their apparitions to deliver,\nhave all the obscure brevity, the majestic solemnity of oracles.\n\nWe here see that the witches are merely instruments; they are governed by\nan invisible spirit, or the operation of such great and dreadful events\nwould be above their sphere. With what intent did Shakspeare assign the\nsame place to them in his play, which they occupy in the history of\nMacbeth as related in the old chronicles? A monstrous crime is committed:\nDuncan, a venerable old man, and the best of kings, is, in defenceless\nsleep, under the hospitable roof, murdered by his subject, whom he has\nloaded with honours and rewards. Natural motives alone seem inadequate, or\nthe perpetrator must have been portrayed as a hardened villain. Shakspeare\nwished to exhibit a more sublime picture: an ambitious but noble hero,\nyielding to a deep-laid hellish temptation; and in whom all the crimes to\nwhich, in order to secure the fruits of his first crime, he is impelled by\nnecessity, cannot altogether eradicate the stamp of native heroism. He\nhas, therefore, given a threefold division to the guilt of that crime. The\nfirst idea comes from that being whose whole activity is guided by a lust\nof wickedness. The weird sisters surprise Macbeth in the moment of\nintoxication of victory, when his love of glory has been gratified; they\ncheat his eyes by exhibiting to him as the work of fate what in reality\ncan only be accomplished by his own deed, and gain credence for all their\nwords by the immediate fulfilment of the first prediction. The opportunity\nof murdering the King immediately offers; the wife of Macbeth conjures him\nnot to let it slip; she urges him on with a fiery eloquence, which has at\ncommand all those sophisms that serve to throw a false splendour over\ncrime. Little more than the mere execution falls to the share of Macbeth;\nhe is driven into it, as it were, in a tumult of fascination. Repentance\nimmediately follows, nay, even precedes the deed, and the stings of\nconscience leave him rest neither night nor day. But he is now fairly\nentangled in the snares of hell; truly frightful is it to behold that same\nMacbeth, who once as a warrior could spurn at death, now that he dreads\nthe prospect of the life to come [Footnote: We'd jump the life to come.],\nclinging with growing anxiety to his earthly existence the more miserable\nit becomes, and pitilessly removing out of the way whatever to his dark\nand suspicious mind seems to threaten danger. However much we may abhor\nhis actions, we cannot altogether refuse to compassionate the state of his\nmind; we lament the ruin of so many noble qualities, and even in his last\ndefence we are compelled to admire the struggle of a brave will with a\ncowardly conscience. We might believe that we witness in this tragedy the\nover-ruling destiny of the ancients represented in perfect accordance with\ntheir ideas: the whole originates in a supernatural influence, to which\nthe subsequent events seem inevitably linked. Moreover, we even find here\nthe same ambiguous oracles which, by their literal fulfilment, deceive\nthose who confide in them. Yet it may be easily shown that the poet has,\nin his work, displayed more enlightened views. He wishes to show that the\nconflict of good and evil in this world can only take place by the\npermission of Providence, which converts the curse that individual mortals\ndraw down on their heads into a blessing to others. An accurate scale is\nfollowed in the retaliation. Lady Macbeth, who of all the human\nparticipators in the king's murder is the most guilty, is thrown by the\nterrors of her conscience into a state of incurable bodily and mental\ndisease; she dies, unlamented by her husband, with all the symptoms of\nreprobation. Macbeth is still found worthy to die the death of a hero on\nthe field of battle. The noble Macduff is allowed the satisfaction of\nsaving his country by punishing with his own hand the tyrant who had\nmurdered his wife and children. Banquo, by an early death, atones for the\nambitious curiosity which prompted the wish to know his glorious\ndescendants, as he thereby has roused Macbeth's jealousy; but he preserved\nhis mind pure from the evil suggestions of the witches: his name is\nblessed in his race, destined to enjoy for a long succession of ages that\nroyal dignity which Macbeth could only hold for his own life. In the\nprogress of the action, this piece is altogether the reverse of\n_Hamlet_: it strides forward with amazing rapidity, from the first\ncatastrophe (for Duncan's murder may be called a catastrophe) to the last.\n\"Thought, and done!\" is the general motto; for as Macbeth says,\n\n  The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,\n  Unless the deed go with it.\n\nIn every feature we see an energetic heroic age, in the hardy North which\nsteels every nerve. The precise duration of the action cannot be\nascertained,--years perhaps, according to the story; but we know that to\nthe imagination the most crowded time appears always the shortest. Here we\ncan hardly conceive how so very much could ever have been compressed into\nso narrow a space; not merely external events,--the very inmost recesses\nin the minds of the dramatic personages are laid open to us. It is as if\nthe drags were taken from the wheels of time, and they rolled along\nwithout interruption in their descent. Nothing can equal this picture in\nits power to excite terror. We need only allude to the circumstances\nattending the murder of Duncan, the dagger that hovers before the eyes of\nMacbeth, the vision of Banquo at the feast, the madness of Lady Macbeth;\nwhat can possibly be said on the subject that will not rather weaken the\nimpression they naturally leave? Such scenes stand alone, and are to be\nfound only in this poet; otherwise the tragic muse might exchange her mask\nfor the _head of Medusa_.\n\nI wish merely to point out as a secondary circumstance the prudent\ndexterity of Shakspeare, who could still contrive to flatter a king by a\nwork in every part of whose plan nevertheless the poetical views are\nevident. James the First drew his lineage from Banquo; he was the first\nwho united the threefold sceptre of England, Scotland, and Ireland: this\nis foreshown in the magical vision, when a long series of glorious\nsuccessors is promised to Banquo. Even the gift of the English kings to\nheal certain maladies by the touch, which James pretended to have\ninherited from Edward [Footnote: The naming of Edward the Confessor gives\nus at the same time the epoch in which these historically accredited\ntransactions are made to take place. The ruins of Macbeth's palace are yet\nstanding at Inverness; the present Earls of Fife are the descendants of\nthe valiant Macduff, and down to the union of Scotland with England they\nwere in the enjoyment of peculiar privileges for their services to the\ncrown.] the Confessor, and on which he set a great value, is brought in\nvery naturally.--With such occasional matters we may well allow ourselves\nto be pleased without fearing from them any danger to poetry: by similar\nallusions Aeschylus endeavoured to recommend the Areopagus to his fellow-\ncitizens, and Sophocles to celebrate the glory of Athens.\n\nAs in _Macbeth_ terror reaches its utmost height, in _King Lear_\nthe science of compassion is exhausted. The principal characters here are\nnot those who act, but those who suffer. We have not in this, as in most\ntragedies, the picture of a calamity in which the sudden blows of fate\nseem still to honour the head which they strike, and where the loss is\nalways accompanied by some flattering consolation in the memory of the\nformer possession; but a fall from the highest elevation into the deepest\nabyss of misery, where humanity is stripped of all external and internal\nadvantages, and given up a prey to naked helplessness. The threefold\ndignity of a king, an old man, and a father, is dishonoured by the cruel\ningratitude of his unnatural daughters; the old Lear, who out of a foolish\ntenderness has given away every thing, is driven out to the world a\nwandering beggar; the childish imbecility to which he was fast advancing\nchanges into the wildest insanity, and when he is rescued from the\ndisgraceful destitution to which he was abandoned, it is too late: the\nkind consolations of filial care and attention and of true friendship are\nnow lost on him; his bodily and mental powers are destroyed beyond all\nhope of recovery, and all that now remains to him of life is the\ncapability of loving and suffering beyond measure. What a picture we have\nin the meeting of Lear and Edgar in a tempestuous night and in a wretched\nhovel! The youthful Edgar has, by the wicked arts of his brother, and\nthrough his father's blindness, fallen, as the old Lear, from the rank to\nwhich his birth entitled him; and, as the only means of escaping further\npersecution, is reduced to assume the disguise of a beggar tormented by\nevil spirits. The King's fool, notwithstanding the voluntary degradation\nwhich is implied in his situation, is, after Kent, Lear's most faithful\nassociate, his wisest counsellor. This good-hearted fool clothes reason\nwith the livery of his motley garb; the high-born beggar acts the part of\ninsanity; and both, were they even in reality what they seem, would still\nbe enviable in comparison with the King, who feels that the violence of\nhis grief threatens to overpower his reason. The meeting of Edgar with the\nblinded Gloster is equally heart-rending; nothing can be more affecting\nthan to see the ejected son become the father's guide, and the good angel,\nwho under the disguise of insanity, saves him by an ingenious and pious\nfraud from the horror and despair of self-murder. But who can possibly\nenumerate all the different combinations and situations by which our minds\nare here as it were stormed by the poet? Respecting the structure of the\nwhole I will only make one observation. The story of Lear and his\ndaughters was left by Shakspeare exactly as he found it in a fabulous\ntradition, with all the features characteristical of the simplicity of old\ntimes. But in that tradition there is not the slightest trace of the story\nof Gloster and his sons, which was derived by Shakspeare from another\nsource. The incorporation of the two stories has been censured as\ndestructive of the unity of action. But whatever contributes to the\nintrigue or the _d\u00e9nouement_ must always possess unity. And with what\ningenuity and skill are the two main parts of the composition dovetailed\ninto one another! The pity felt by Gloster for the fate of Lear becomes\nthe means which enables his son Edmund to effect his complete destruction,\nand affords the outcast Edgar an opportunity of being the saviour of his\nfather. On the other hand, Edmund is active in the cause of Regan and\nGonerill, and the criminal passion which they both entertain for him\ninduces them to execute justice on each other and on themselves. The laws\nof the drama have therefore been sufficiently complied with; but that is\nthe least: it is the very combination which constitutes the sublime beauty\nof the work. The two cases resembles each other in the main: an infatuated\nfather is blind towards his well-disposed child, and the unnatural\nchildren, whom he prefers, requite him by the ruin of all his happiness.\nBut all the circumstances are so different, that these stories, while they\neach make a correspondent impression on the heart, form a complete\ncontrast for the imagination. Were Lear alone to suffer from his\ndaughters, the impression would be limited to the powerful compassion felt\nby us for his private misfortune. But two such unheard-of examples taking\nplace at the same time have the appearance of a great commotion in the\nmoral world: the picture becomes gigantic, and fills us with such alarm as\nwe should entertain at the idea that the heavenly bodies might one day\nfall from their appointed orbits. To save in some degree the honour of\nhuman nature, Shakspeare never wishes his spectators to forget that the\nstory takes place in a dreary and barbarous age: he lays particular stress\non the circumstance that the Britons of that day were still heathens,\nalthough he has not made all the remaining circumstances to coincide\nlearnedly with the time which he has chosen. From this point of view we\nmust judge of many coarsenesses in expression and manners; for instance,\nthe immodest manner in which Gloster acknowledges his bastard, Kent's\nquarrel with the Steward, and more especially the cruelty personally\ninflicted on Gloster by the Duke of Cornwall. Even the virtue of the\nhonest Kent bears the stamp of an iron age, in which the good and the bad\ndisplay the same uncontrollable energy. Great qualities have not been\nsuperfluously assigned to the King; the poet could command our sympathy\nfor his situation, without concealing what he had done to bring himself\ninto it. Lear is choleric, overbearing, and almost childish from age, when\nhe drives out his youngest daughter because she will not join in the\nhypocritical exaggerations of her sisters. But he has a warm and\naffectionate heart, which is susceptible of the most fervent gratitude;\nand even rays of a high and kingly disposition burst forth from the\neclipse of his understanding. Of Cordelia's heavenly beauty of soul,\npainted in so few words, I will not venture to speak; she can only be\nnamed in the same breath with Antigone. Her death has been thought too\ncruel; and in England the piece is in acting so far altered that she\nremains victorious and happy. I must own, I cannot conceive what ideas of\nart and dramatic connexion those persons have who suppose that we can at\npleasure tack a double conclusion to a tragedy; a melancholy one for hard-\nhearted spectators, and a happy one for souls of a softer mould. After\nsurviving so many sufferings, Lear can only die; and what more truly\ntragic end for him than to die from grief for the death of Cordelia? and\nif he is also to be saved and to pass the remainder of his days in\nhappiness, the whole loses its signification. According to Shakspeare's\nplan the guilty, it is true, are all punished, for wickedness destroys\nitself; but the virtues that would bring help and succour are everywhere\ntoo late, or overmatched by the cunning activity of malice. The persons of\nthis drama have only such a faint belief in Providence as heathens may be\nsupposed to have; and the poet here wishes to show us that this belief\nrequires a wider range than the dark pilgrimage on earth to be established\nin full extent.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXVI.\n\nCriticisms on Shakspeare's Historical Dramas.\n\n\nThe five tragedies of which I have just spoken are deservedly the most\ncelebrated of all the works of Shakspeare. In the three last, more\nespecially, we have a display of a loftiness of genius which may almost be\nsaid to surpass the powers of human nature: the mind is as much lost in\nthe contemplation of all the heights and depths of these works as our\nfeelings are overpowered by the first impression which they produce. Of\nhis historical plays, however, some possess a high degree of tragical\nperfection, and all are distinguished by peculiar excellencies.\n\nIn the three Roman pieces, _Coriolanus_, _Julius Caesar_, and _Antony and\nCleopatra_, the moderation with which Shakspeare excludes foreign\nappendages and arbitrary suppositions, and yet fully satisfies the wants\nof the stage, is particularly deserving of admiration. These plays are the\nvery thing itself; and under the apparent artlessness of adhering closely\nto history as he found it, an uncommon degree of art is concealed. Of\nevery historical transaction Shakspeare knows how to seize the true\npoetical point of view, and to give unity and rounding to a series of\nevents detached from the immeasurable extent of history without in any\ndegree changing them. The public life of ancient Rome is called up from\nits grave, and exhibited before our eyes with the utmost grandeur and\nfreedom of the dramatic form, and the heroes of Plutarch are ennobled by\nthe most eloquent poetry.\n\nIn _Coriolanus_ we have more comic intermixtures than in the others,\nas the many-headed multitude plays here a considerable part; and when\nShakspeare portrays the blind movements of the people in a mass, he almost\nalways gives himself up to his merry humour. To the plebeians, whose folly\nis certainly sufficiently conspicuous already, the original old satirist\nMenenius is added by way of abundance. Droll scenes arise of a description\naltogether peculiar, and which are compatible only with such a political\ndrama; for instance, when Coriolanus, to obtain the consulate, must\nsolicit the lower order of citizens whom he holds in contempt for their\ncowardice in war, but cannot so far master his haughty disposition as to\nassume the customary humility, and yet extorts from them their votes.\n\nI have already shown [Footnote: Page 240.] that the piece of _Julius\nCaesar_, to complete the action, requires to be continued to the fall\nof Brutus and Cassius. Caesar is not the hero of the piece, but Brutus.\nThe amiable beauty of this character, his feeling and patriotic heroism,\nare portrayed with peculiar care. Yet the poet has pointed out with great\nnicety the superiority of Cassius over Brutus in independent volition and\ndiscernment in judging of human affairs; that the latter from the purity\nof his mind and his conscientious love of justice, is unfit to be the head\nof a party in a state entirely corrupted; and that these very faults give\nan unfortunate turn to the cause of the conspirators. In the part of\nCaesar several ostentatious speeches have been censured as unsuitable. But\nas he never appears in action, we have no other measure of his greatness\nthan the impression which he makes upon the rest of the characters, and\nhis peculiar confidence in himself. In this Caesar was by no means\ndeficient, as we learn from history and his own writings; but he displayed\nit more in the easy ridicule of his enemies than in pompous discourses.\nThe theatrical effect of this play is injured by a partial falling off of\nthe last two acts compared with the preceding in external splendour and\nrapidity. The first appearance of Caesar in festal robes, when the music\nstops, and all are silent whenever he opens his mouth, and when the few\nwords which he utters are received as oracles, is truly magnificent; the\nconspiracy is a true conspiracy, which in stolen interviews and in the\ndead of night prepares the blow which is to be struck in open day, and\nwhich is to change the constitution of the world;--the confused thronging\nbefore the murder of Caesar, the general agitation even of the\nperpetrators after the deed, are all portrayed with most masterly skill;\nwith the funeral procession and the speech of Antony the effect reaches\nits utmost height. Caesar's shade is more powerful to avenge his fall than\nhe himself was to guard against it. After the overthrow of the external\nsplendour and greatness of the conqueror and ruler of the world, the\nintrinsic grandeur of character of Brutus and Cassius is all that remain\nto fill the stage and occupy the minds of the spectators: suitably to\ntheir name, as the last of the Romans, they stand there, in some degree\nalone; and the forming a great and hazardous determination is more\npowerfully calculated to excite our expectation, than the supporting the\nconsequences of the deed with heroic firmness.\n\n_Antony and Cleopatra_ may, in some measure, be considered as a\ncontinuation of _Julius Caesar_: the two principal characters of _Antony\nand Augustus_ are equally sustained in both pieces. _Antony and\nCleopatra_, is a play of great extent; the progress is less simple\nthan in _Julius Caesar_. The fulness and variety of political and\nwarlike events, to which the union of the three divisions of the Roman\nworld under one master necessarily gave rise, were perhaps too great to\nadmit of being clearly exhibited in one dramatic picture. In this consists\nthe great difficulty of the historical drama:--it must be a crowded\nextract, and a living development of history;--the difficulty, however,\nhas generally been successfully overcome by Shakspeare. But now many\nthings, which are transacted in the background, are here merely alluded\nto, in a manner which supposes an intimate acquaintance with the history;\nbut a work of art should contain, within itself, every thing necessary for\nits being fully understood. Many persons of historical importance are\nmerely introduced in passing; the preparatory and concurring circumstances\nare not sufficiently collected into masses to avoid distracting our\nattention. The principal personages, however, are most emphatically\ndistinguished by lineament and colouring, and powerfully arrest the\nimagination. In Antony we observe a mixture of great qualities,\nweaknesses, and vices; violent ambition and ebullitions of magnanimity; we\nsee him now sinking into luxurious enjoyment and then nobly ashamed of his\nown aberrations,--manning himself to resolutions not unworthy of himself,\nwhich are always shipwrecked against the seductions of an artful woman. It\nis Hercules in the chains of Omphale, drawn from the fabulous heroic ages\ninto history, and invested with the Roman costume. The seductive arts of\nCleopatra are in no respect veiled over; she is an ambiguous being made up\nof royal pride, female vanity, luxury, inconstancy, and true attachment.\nAlthough the mutual passion of herself and Antony is without moral\ndignity, it still excites our sympathy as an insurmountable fascination:--\nthey seem formed for each other, and Cleopatra is as remarkable for her\nseductive charms as Antony for the splendour of his deeds. As they die for\neach other, we forgive them for having lived for each other. The open and\nlavish character of Antony is admirably contrasted with the heartless\nlittleness of Octavius, whom Shakspeare seems to have completely seen\nthrough, without allowing himself to be led astray by the fortune and the\nfame of Augustus.\n\n_Timon of Athens_, and _Troilus and Cressida_, are not historical plays;\nbut we cannot properly call them either tragedies or comedies. By the\nselection of the materials from antiquity they have some affinity to the\nRoman pieces, and hence I have hitherto abstained from mentioning them.\n\n_Timon of Athens_, of all the works of Shakspeare, possesses most the\ncharacter of satire:--a laughing satire in the picture of the parasites\nand flatterers, and Juvenalian in the bitterness of Timon's imprecations\non the ingratitude of a false world. The story is very simply treated, and\nis definitely divided into large masses:--in the first act the joyous life\nof Timon, his noble and hospitable extravagance, and around him the throng\nof suitors of every description; in the second and third acts his\nembarrassment, and the trial which he is thereby reduced to make of his\nsupposed friends, who all desert him in the hour of need;--in the fourth\nand fifth acts, Timon's flight to the woods, his misanthropical\nmelancholy, and his death. The only thing which may be called an episode\nis the banishment of Alcibiades, and his return by force of arms. However,\nthey are both examples of ingratitude,--the one of a state towards its\ndefender, and the other of private friends to their benefactor. As the\nmerits of the General towards his fellow-citizens suppose more strength of\ncharacter than those of the generous prodigal, their respective behaviours\nare not less different; Timon frets himself to death, Alcibiades regains\nhis lost dignity by force. If the poet very properly sides with Timon\nagainst the common practice of the world, he is, on the other hand, by no\nmeans disposed to spare Timon. Timon was a fool in his generosity; in his\ndiscontent he is a madman: he is every where wanting in the wisdom which\nenables a man in all things to observe the due measure. Although the truth\nof his extravagant feelings is proved by his death, and though when he\ndigs up a treasure he spurns the wealth which seems to tempt him, we yet\nsee distinctly enough that the vanity of wishing to be singular, in both\nthe parts that he plays, had some share in his liberal self-forgetfulness,\nas well as in his anchoritical seclusion. This is particularly evident in\nthe incomparable scene where the cynic Apemantus visits Timon in the\nwilderness. They have a sort of competition with each other in their trade\nof misanthropy: the Cynic reproaches the impoverished Timon with having\nbeen merely driven by necessity to take to the way of living which he\nhimself had long been following of his free choice, and Timon cannot bear\nthe thought of being merely an imitator of the Cynic. In such a subject as\nthis the due effect could only be produced by an accumulation of similar\nfeatures, still, in the variety of the shades, an amazing degree of\nunderstanding has been displayed by Shakspeare. What a powerfully\ndiversified concert of flatteries and of empty testimonies of devotedness!\nIt is highly amusing to see the suitors, whom the ruined circumstances of\ntheir patron had dispersed, immediately flock to him again when they learn\nthat he has been revisited by fortune. On the other hand, in the speeches\nof Timon, after he is undeceived, all hostile figures of speech are\nexhausted,--it is a dictionary of eloquent imprecations.\n\n_Troilus and Cressida_ is the only play of Shakspeare which he allowed to\nbe printed without being previously represented. It seems as if he here\nfor once wished, without caring for theatrical effect, to satisfy the\nnicety of his peculiar wit, and the inclination to a certain guile, if\nI may say so, in the characterization. The whole is one continued irony of\nthat crown of all heroic tales, the tale of Troy. The contemptible nature\nof the origin of the Trojan war, the laziness and discord with which it\nwas carried on, so that the siege was made to last ten years, are only\nplaced in clearer light by the noble descriptions, the sage and ingenious\nmaxims with which the work overflows, and the high ideas which the heroes\nentertain of themselves and each other. Agamemnon's stately behaviour,\nMenelaus' irritation, Nestor's experience, Ulysses' cunning, are all\nproductive of no effect; when they have at last arranged a single combat\nbetween the coarse braggart Ajax and Hector, the latter will not fight in\ngood earnest, as Ajax is his cousin. Achilles is treated worst: after\nhaving long stretched himself out in arrogant idleness, and passed his\ntime in the company of Thersites the buffoon, he falls upon Hector at a\nmoment when he is defenceless, and kills him by means of his myrmidons. In\nall this let no man conceive that any indignity was intended to the\nvenerable Homer. Shakspeare had not the _Iliad_ before him, but the\nchivalrous romances of the Trojan war derived from _Dares Phrygius_.\nFrom this source also he took the love-intrigue of _Troilus and Cressida_,\na story at one time so popular in England, that the name of Troilus had\nbecome proverbial for faithful and ill-requited love, and Cressida for\nfemale falsehood. The name of the agent between them, Pandarus, has even\nbeen adopted into the English language to signify those personages\n(_panders_) who dedicate themselves to similar services for inexperienced\npersons of both sexes. The endless contrivances of the courteous Pandarus\nto bring the two lovers together, who do not stand in need of him, as\nCressida requires no seduction, are comic in the extreme. The manner in\nwhich this treacherous beauty excites while she refuses, and converts the\nvirgin modesty which she pretends, into a means of seductive allurement,\nis portrayed in colours extremely elegant, though certainly somewhat\nvoluptuous. Troilus, the pattern of lovers, looks patiently on, while his\nmistress enters into an intrigue with Diomed. No doubt, he swears that he\nwill be revenged; but notwithstanding his violence in the fight next day,\nhe does no harm to any one, and ends with only high-sounding threats. In a\nword, in this heroic comedy, where, from traditional fame, and the pomp of\npoetry, every thing seems to lay claim to admiration, Shakspeare did not\nwish that any room should be left, except, perhaps, in the character of\nHector, for esteem and sympathy; but in this double meaning of the\npicture, he has afforded us the most choice entertainment.\n\nThe dramas derived from the English history, ten in number, form one of\nthe most valuable of Shakspeare's works, and partly the fruit of his\nmaturest age. I say advisedly _one_ of his works, for the poet\nevidently intended them to form one great whole. It is, as it were, an\nhistorical heroic poem in the dramatic form, of which the separate plays\nconstitute the rhapsodies. The principal features of the events are\nexhibited with such fidelity; their causes, and even their secret springs,\nare placed in such a clear light, that we may attain from them a knowledge\nof history in all its truth, while the living picture makes an impression\non the imagination which can never be effaced. But this series of dramas\nis intended as the vehicle of a much higher and much more general\ninstruction; it furnishes examples of the political course of the world,\napplicable to all times. This mirror of kings should be the manual of\nyoung princes; from it they may learn the intrinsic dignity of their\nhereditary vocation, but they will also learn from it the difficulties of\ntheir situation, the dangers of usurpation, the inevitable fall of\ntyranny, which buries itself under its attempts to obtain a firmer\nfoundation; lastly, the ruinous consequences of the weaknesses, errors,\nand crimes of kings, for whole nations, and many subsequent generations.\nEight of these plays, from _Richard the Second_ to _Richard the\nThird_, are linked together in an uninterrupted succession, and embrace\na most eventful period of nearly a century of English history. The events\nportrayed in them not only follow one another, but they are linked\ntogether in the closest and most exact connexion; and the cycle of\nrevolts, parties, civil and foreign wars, which began with the deposition\nof Richard II., first ends with the accession of Henry VII. to the throne.\nThe careless rule of the first of these monarchs, and his injudicious\ntreatment of his own relations, drew upon him the rebellion of\nBolingbroke; his dethronement, however, was, in point of form, altogether\nunjust, and in no case could Bolingbroke be considered the rightful heir\nto the crown. This shrewd founder of the House of Lancaster never as Henry\nIV. enjoyed in peace the fruits of his usurpation: his turbulent Barons,\nthe same who aided him in ascending the throne, allowed him not a moment's\nrepose upon it. On the other hand, he was jealous of the brilliant\nqualities of his son, and this distrust, more than any really low\ninclination, induced the Prince, that he might avoid every appearance of\nambition, to give himself up to dissolute society. These two circumstances\nform the subject-matter of the two parts of _Henry the Fourth_; the\nenterprises of the discontented make up the serious, and the wild youthful\nfrolics of the heir-apparent supply the comic scenes. When this warlike\nPrince ascended the throne under the name of Henry V., he was determined\nto assert his ambiguous title; he considered foreign conquests as the best\nmeans of guarding against internal disturbances, and this gave rise to the\nglorious, but more ruinous than profitable, war with France, which\nShakspeare has celebrated in the drama of _Henry the Fifth_. The early\ndeath of this king, the long legal minority of Henry VI., and his\nperpetual minority in the art of government, brought the greatest troubles\non England. The dissensions of the Regents, and the consequently wretched\nadministration, occasioned the loss of the French conquests and there\narose a bold candidate for the crown, whose title was indisputable, if the\nprescription of three governments may not be assumed to confer legitimacy\non usurpation. Such was the origin of the wars between the Houses of York\nand Lancaster, which desolated the kingdom for a number of years, and\nended with the victory of the House of York. All this Shakspeare has\nrepresented in the three parts of _Henry the Sixth_. Edward IV. shortened\nhis life by excesses, and did not long enjoy the throne purchased at the\nexpense of so many cruel deeds. His brother Richard, who had a great share\nin the elevation of the House of York, was not contented with the regency,\nand his ambition paved himself a way to the throne through treachery and\nviolence; but his gloomy tyranny made him the object of the people's\nhatred, and at length drew on him the destruction which he merited. He was\nconquered by a descendant of the royal house unstained by the guilt of the\ncivil wars, and what might seem defective in his title was made good by\nthe merit of freeing his country from a monster. With the accession of\nHenry VII. to the throne, a new epoch of English history begins: the curse\nseemed at length to be expiated, and the long series of usurpations,\nrevolts, and civil wars, occasioned by the levity with which the Second\nRichard sported away his crown, was now brought to a termination.\n\nSuch is the evident connexion of these eight plays with each other, but\nthey were not, however, composed in chronological order. According to all\nappearance, the four last were first written; this is certain, indeed,\nwith respect to the three parts of _Henry the Sixth_; and _Richard\nthe Third_ is not only from its subject a continuation of these, but is\nalso composed in the same style. Shakspeare then went back to _Richard\nthe Second_, and with the most careful art connected the second series\nwith the first. The trilogies of the ancients have already given us an\nexample of the possibility of forming a perfect dramatic whole, which\nshall yet contain allusions to something which goes before, and follows\nit. In like manner the most of these plays end with a very definite\ndivision in the history: _Richard the Second_, with the murder of that\nKing; _the Second Part of Henry the Fourth_, with the accession of his son\nto the throne; _Henry the Fifth_, with the conclusion of peace with\nFrance; _the First Part of Henry the Sixth_, also, with a treaty of Peace;\nthe third, with the murder of Henry, and Edward's elevation to the throne;\n_Richard the Third_, with his overthrow and death. _The First Part of\nHenry the Fourth_, and _the Second of Henry the Sixth_, are rounded off in\na less satisfactory manner. The revolt of the nobles was only half quelled\nby the overthrow of Percy, and it is therefore continued through the\nfollowing part of the piece. The victory of York at St. Alban's could as\nlittle be considered a decisive event, in the war of the two houses.\nShakspeare has fallen into this dramatic imperfection, if we may so call\nit, for the sake of advantages of much more importance. The picture of the\ncivil war was too great and too rich in dreadful events for a single\ndrama, and yet the uninterrupted series of events offered no more\nconvenient resting-place. The government of Henry IV. might certainly have\nbeen comprehended in one piece, but it possesses too little tragical\ninterest, and too little historical splendour, to be attractive, if\nhandled in a serious manner throughout: hence Shakspeare has given to the\ncomic characters belonging to the retinue of Prince Henry, the freest\ndevelopment, and the half of the space is occupied by this constant\ninterlude between the political events.\n\nThe two other historical plays taken from the English history are\nchronologically separate from this series: King John reigned nearly two\ncenturies before Richard II., and between Richard III. and Henry VIII.\ncomes the long reign of Henry VII., which Shakspeare justly passed over as\nunsusceptible of dramatic interest. However, these two plays may in some\nmeasure be considered as the Prologue and the Epilogue to the other eight.\nIn _King John_, all the political and national motives which play so\ngreat a part in the following pieces are already indicated: wars and\ntreaties with France; a usurpation, and the tyrannical actions which it\ndraws after it; the influence of the clergy, the factions of the nobles.\n_Henry the Eighth_ again shows us the transition to another age; the\npolicy of modern Europe, a refined court-life under a voluptuous monarch,\nthe dangerous situation of favourites, who, after having assisted in\neffecting the fall of others, are themselves precipitated from power; in a\nword, despotism under a milder form, but not less unjust and cruel. By the\nprophecies on the birth of Elizabeth, Shakspeare has in some degree\nbrought his great poem on English history down to his own time, as far at\nleast as such recent events could be yet handled with security. He\ncomposed probably the two plays of _King John_ [Footnote: I mean the\npiece with this title in the collection of his works. There is an older\n_King John_, in two parts, of which the former is a re-cast:--perhaps\na juvenile work of Shakspeare, though not hitherto acknowledged as such by\nthe English critics. See the disquisition appended to this Lecture.] and\n_Henry the Eighth_ at a later period, as an addition to the others.\n\nIn _King John_ the political and warlike events are dressed out with\nsolemn pomp, for the very reason that they possess but little of true\ngrandeur. The falsehood and selfishness of the monarch speak in the style\nof a manifesto. Conventional dignity is most indispensable where personal\ndignity is wanting. The bastard Faulconbridge is the witty interpreter of\nthis language: he ridicules the secret springs of politics, without\ndisapproving of them, for he owns that he is endeavouring to make his\nfortune by similar means, and wishes rather to belong to the deceivers\nthan the deceived, for in his view of the world there is no other choice.\nHis litigation with his brother respecting the succession of his pretended\nfather, by which he effects his acknowledgment at court as natural son of\nthe most chivalrous king of England, Richard Coeur de Lion, forms a very\nentertaining and original prelude in the play itself. When, amidst so many\ndisguises of real sentiments, and so much insincerity of expression, the\npoet shows us human nature without a veil, and allows us to take deep\nviews of the inmost recesses of the mind, the impression produced is only\nthe more deep and powerful. The short scene in which John urges Hubert to\nput out of the way Arthur, his young rival for the possession of the\nthrone, is superlatively masterly: the cautious criminal hardly ventures\nto say to himself what he wishes the other to do. The young and amiable\nprince becomes a sacrifice of unprincipled ambition: his fate excites the\nwarmest sympathy. When Hubert, about to put out his eyes with the hot\niron, is softened by his prayers, our compassion would be almost\noverwhelming, were it not sweetened by the winning innocence of Arthur's\nchildish speeches. Constance's maternal despair on her son's imprisonment\nis also of the highest beauty; and even the last moments of John--an\nunjust and feeble prince, whom we can neither respect nor admire--are yet\nso portrayed as to extinguish our displeasure with him, and fill us with\nserious considerations on the arbitrary deeds and the inevitable fate of\nmortals.\n\nIn _Richard the Second_, Shakspeare exhibits a noble kingly nature,\nat first obscured by levity and the errors of an unbridled youth, and\nafterwards purified by misfortune, and rendered by it more highly and\nsplendidly illustrious. When he has lost the love and reverence of his\nsubjects, and is on the point of losing also his throne, he then feels\nwith a bitter enthusiasm the high vocation of the kingly dignity and its\ntranscendental rights, independent of personal merit or changeable\ninstitutions. When the earthly crown is fallen from his head, he first\nappears a king whose innate nobility no humiliation can annihilate. This\nis felt by a poor groom: he is shocked that his master's favourite horse\nshould have carried the proud Bolingbroke to his coronation; he visits the\ncaptive king in prison, and shames the desertion of the great. The\npolitical incident of the deposition is sketched with extraordinary\nknowledge of the world;--the ebb of fortune, on the one hand, and on the\nother, the swelling tide, which carries every thing along with it. While\nBolingbroke acts as a king, and his adherents behave towards him as if he\nreally were so, he still continues to give out that he has come with an\narmed band merely to demand his birthright and the removal of abuses. The\nusurpation has been long completed, before the word is pronounced and the\nthing publicly avowed. The old John of Gaunt is a model of chivalrous\nhonour: he stands there like a pillar of the olden time which he has\noutlived. His son, Henry IV., was altogether unlike him: his character is\nadmirably sustained throughout the three pieces in which he appears. We\nsee in it that mixture of hardness, moderation, and prudence, which, in\nfact, enabled him to secure the possession of the throne which he had\nviolently usurped; but without openness, without true cordiality, and\nincapable of noble ebullitions, he was so little able to render his\ngovernment beloved, that the deposed Richard was even wished back again.\n\nThe first part of _Henry the Fourth_ is particularly brilliant in the\nserious scenes, from the contrast between two young heroes, Prince Henry\nand Percy (with the characteristical name of Hotspur.) All the amiability\nand attractiveness is certainly on the side of the prince: however\nfamiliar he makes himself with bad company, we can never mistake him for\none of them: the ignoble does indeed touch, but it does not contaminate\nhim; and his wildest freaks appear merely as witty tricks, by which his\nrestless mind sought to burst through the inactivity to which he was\nconstrained, for on the first occasion which wakes him out of his unruly\nlevity he distinguishes himself without effort in the most chivalrous\nguise. Percy's boisterous valour is not without a mixture of rude manners,\narrogance, and boyish obstinacy; but these errors, which prepare for him\nan early death, cannot disfigure the majestic image of his noble youth; we\nare carried away by his fiery spirit at the very moment we would most\ncensure it. Shakspeare has admirably shown why so formidable a revolt\nagainst an unpopular and really an illegitimate prince was not attended\nwith success: Glendower's superstitious fancies respecting himself, the\neffeminacy of the young Mortimer, the ungovernable disposition of Percy,\nwho will listen to no prudent counsel, the irresolution of his older\nfriends, the want of unity of plan and motive, are all characterized by\ndelicate but unmistakable traits. After Percy has departed from the scene,\nthe splendour of the enterprise is, it is true, at an end; there remain\nnone but the subordinate participators in the revolts, who are reduced by\nHenry IV., more by policy than by warlike achievements. To overcome this\ndearth of matter, Shakspeare was in the second part obliged to employ\ngreat art, as he never allowed himself to adorn history with more\narbitrary embellishments than the dramatic form rendered indispensable.\nThe piece is opened by confused rumours from the field of battle; the\npowerful impression produced by Percy's fall, whose name and reputation\nwere peculiarly adapted to be the watchword of a bold enterprise, make him\nin some degree an acting personage after his death. The last acts are\noccupied with the dying king's remorse of conscience, his uneasiness at\nthe behaviour of the prince, and lastly, the clearing up of the\nmisunderstanding between father and son, which make up several most\naffecting scenes. All this, however, would still be inadequate to fill the\nstage, if the serious events were not interrupted by a comedy which runs\nthrough both parts of the play, which is enriched from time to time with\nnew figures, and which first comes to its catastrophe at the conclusion of\nthe whole, namely, when Henry V., immediately after ascending the throne,\nbanishes to a proper distance the companions of his youthful excesses, who\nhad promised to themselves a rich harvest from his kingly favour.\n\nFalstaff is the crown of Shakspeare's comic invention. He has, without\nexhausting himself, continued this character throughout three plays, and\nexhibited him in every variety of situation; the figure is drawn so\ndefinitely and individually, that even to the mere reader it conveys the\nclear impression of personal acquaintance. Falstaff is the most agreeable\nand entertaining knave that ever was portrayed. His contemptible qualities\nare not disguised: old, lecherous, and dissolute; corpulent beyond\nmeasure, and always intent upon cherishing his body with eating, drinking,\nand sleeping; constantly in debt, and anything but conscientious in his\nchoice of means by which money is to be raised; a cowardly soldier, and a\nlying braggart; a flatterer of his friends before their face, and a\nsatirist behind their backs; and yet we are never disgusted with him. We\nsee that his tender care of himself is without any mixture of malice\ntowards others; he will only not be disturbed in the pleasant repose of\nhis sensuality, and this he obtains through the activity of his\nunderstanding. Always on the alert, and good-humoured, ever ready to crack\njokes on others, and to enter into those of which he is himself the\nsubject, so that he justly boasts he is not only witty himself, but the\ncause of wit in others, he is an admirable companion for youthful idleness\nand levity. Under a helpless exterior, he conceals an extremely acute\nmind; he has always at command some dexterous turn whenever any of his\nfree jokes begin to give displeasure; he is shrewd in his distinctions,\nbetween those whose favour he has to win and those over whom he may assume\na familiar authority. He is so convinced that the part which he plays can\nonly pass under the cloak of wit, that even when alone he is never\naltogether serious, but gives the drollest colouring to his love-\nintrigues, his intercourse with others, and to his own sensual philosophy.\nWitness his inimitable soliloquies on honour, on the influence of wine on\nbravery, his descriptions of the beggarly vagabonds whom he enlisted, of\nJustice Shallow, &c. Falstaff has about him a whole court of amusing\ncaricatures, who by turns make their appearance, without ever throwing him\ninto the shade. The adventure in which the Prince, under the disguise of a\nrobber, compels him to give up the spoil which he had just taken; the\nscene where the two act the part of the King and the Prince; Falstaff's\nbehaviour in the field, his mode of raising recruits, his patronage of\nJustice Shallow, which afterwards takes such an unfortunate turn:--all\nthis forms a series of characteristic scenes of the most original\ndescription, full of pleasantry, and replete with nice and ingenious\nobservation, such as could only find a place in a historical play like the\npresent.\n\nSeveral of the comic parts of _Henry the Fourth_, are continued in _The\nMerry Wives of Windsor_. This piece is said to have been composed by\nShakspeare, in compliance with the request of Queen Elizabeth, [Footnote:\nWe know with certainty, that it was acted before the Queen. Many local\ndescriptions of Windsor and its neighbourhood, and an allusion in\nwhich the Order of the Garter is very poetically celebrated, make it\ncredible that the play was destined to be first represented on the\noccasion of some festival of the Order at the palace of Windsor, where the\nKnights of the Garter have their hall of meeting.] who admired the\ncharacter of Falstaff, and wished to see him exhibited once more, and in\nlove. In love, properly speaking, Falstaff could not be; but for other\npurposes he could pretend to be so, and at all events imagine that he was\nthe object of love. In the present piece accordingly he pays his court, as\na favoured Knight, to two married ladies, who lay their heads together and\nagree to listen apparently to his addresses, for the sake of making him\nthe butt of their just ridicule. The whole plan of the intrigue is\ntherefore derived from the ordinary circle of Comedy, but yet richly and\nartificially interwoven with another love affair. The circumstance which\nhas been so much admired in Moli\u00e8re's _School of Women_, that a\njealous individual should be made the constant confidant of his rival's\nprogress, had previously been introduced into this play, and certainly\nwith much more probability. I would not, however, be understood as\nmaintaining that it was the original invention of Shakspeare: it is one of\nthose circumstances which must almost be considered as part of the common\nstock of Comedy, and everything depends on the delicacy and humour with\nwhich it is used. That Falstaff should fall so repeatedly into the snare\ngives us a less favourable opinion of his shrewdness than the foregoing\npieces had led us to form; still it will not be thought improbable, if\nonce we admit the probability of the first infatuation on which the whole\npiece is founded, namely, that he can believe himself qualified to inspire\na passion. This leads him, notwithstanding his age, his corpulency, and\nhis dislike of personal inconveniences and dangers, to venture on an\nenterprise which requires the boldness and activity of youth; and the\nsituations occasioned by this infatuation are droll beyond all\ndescription. Of all Shakspeare's pieces, this approaches the nearest to\nthe species of pure Comedy: it is exclusively confined to the English\nmanners of the day, and to the domestic relations; the characters are\nalmost all comic, and the dialogue, with the exception of a couple of\nshort love scenes, is written in prose. But we see that it was a point of\nprinciple with Shakspeare to make none of his compositions a mere\nimitation of the prosaic world, and to strip them of all poetical\ndecoration: accordingly he has elevated the conclusion of the comedy by a\nwonderful intermixture, which suited the place where it was probably first\nrepresented. A popular superstition is made the means of a fanciful\nmystification [Footnote: This word is French; but it has lately been\nadopted by some English writers.--TRANS.] of Falstaff; disguised as the\nGhost of a Hunter who, with ragged horns, wanders about in the woods of\nWindsor, he is to wait for his frolicsome mistress; in this plight he is\nsurprised by a chorus of boys and girls disguised like fairies, who,\nagreeably to the popular belief, are holding their midnight dances, and\nwho sing a merry song as they pinch and torture him. This is the last\naffront put upon poor Falstaff; and with this contrivance the conclusion\nof the second love affair is made in a most ingenious manner to depend.\n\nKing Henry the Fifth is manifestly Shakspeare's favourite hero in English\nhistory: he paints him as endowed with every chivalrous and kingly virtue;\nopen, sincere, affable, yet, as a sort of reminiscence of his youth, still\ndisposed to innocent raillery, in the intervals between his perilous but\nglorious achievements. However, to represent on the stage his whole\nhistory subsequent to his accession to the throne, was attended with great\ndifficulty. The conquests in France were the only distinguished event of\nhis reign; and war is an epic rather than a dramatic object. For wherever\nmen act in masses against each other, the appearance of chance can never\nwholly be avoided; whereas it is the business of the drama to exhibit to\nus those determinations which, with a certain necessity, issue from the\nreciprocal relations of different individuals, their characters and\npassions. In several of the Greek tragedies, it is true, combats and\nbattles are exhibited, that is, the preparations for them and their\nresults; and in historical plays war, as the _ultima ratio regum_,\ncannot altogether be excluded. Still, if we would have dramatic interest,\nwar must only be the means by which something else is accomplished, and\nnot the last aim and substance of the whole. For instance, in _Macbeth_,\nthe battles which are announced at the very beginning merely serve to\nheighten the glory of Macbeth and to fire his ambition; and the combats\nwhich take place towards the conclusion, before the eyes of the spectator,\nbring on the destruction of the tyrant. It is the very same in the Roman\npieces, in the most of those taken from English history, and, in short,\nwherever Shakspeare has introduced war in a dramatic combination. With\ngreat insight into the essence of his art, he never paints the fortune of\nwar as a blind deity who sometimes favours one and sometimes another;\nwithout going into the details of the art of war, (though sometimes he\neven ventures on this), he allows us to anticipate the result from the\nqualities of the general, and their influence on the minds of the\nsoldiers; sometimes, without claiming our belief for miracles, he yet\nexhibits the issue in the light of a higher volition: the consciousness of\na just cause and reliance on the protection of Heaven give courage to the\none party, while the presage of a curse hanging over their undertaking\nweighs down the other. [Footnote: Aeschylus, with equal wisdom, in the\nuniformly warlike tragedy of the _Seven before Thebes_, has given to the\nTheban chiefs foresight, determination, and presence of mind; to their\nadversaries, arrogant audacity. Hence all the combats, excepting that\nbetween Eteocles and Polynices, turn out in favour of the former. The\npaternal curse, and the blindness to which it gives rise, carry headlong\nthe two brothers to the unnatural strife in which they both fall by the\nhands of each other.--See page 91.] In _Henry the Fifth_, no opportunity\nwas afforded Shakspeare of adopting the last-mentioned course, namely,\nrendering the issue of the war dramatic; but he has skilfully availed\nhimself of the first.--Before the battle of Agincourt he paints in the\nmost lively colours the light-minded impatience of the French leaders for\nthe moment of battle, which to them seemed infallibly the moment of\nvictory; on the other hand, he paints the uneasiness of the English King\nand his army in their desperate situation, coupled with their firm\ndetermination, if they must fall, at least to fall with honour. He applies\nthis as a general contrast between the French and English national\ncharacters; a contrast which betrays a partiality for his own nation,\ncertainly excusable in a poet, especially when he is backed with such a\nglorious document as that of the memorable battle in question.\nHe has surrounded the general events of the war with a fulness of\nindividual, characteristic, and even sometimes comic features. A heavy\nScotchman, a hot Irishman, a well-meaning, honourable, but pedantic\nWelchman, all speaking in their peculiar dialects, are intended to show us\nthat the warlike genius of Henry did not merely carry the English with\nhim, but also the other natives of the two islands, who were either not\nyet fully united or in no degree subject to him. Several good-for-nothing\nassociates of Falstaff among the dregs of the army either afford an\nopportunity for proving Henry's strictness of discipline, or are sent home\nin disgrace. But all this variety still seemed to the poet insufficient to\nanimate a play of which the subject was a conquest, and nothing but a\nconquest. He has, therefore, tacked a prologue (in the technical language\nof that day a _chorus_) to the beginning of each act. These prologues,\nwhich unite epic pomp and solemnity with lyrical sublimity, and\namong which the description of the two camps before the battle of\nAgincourt forms a most admirable night-piece, are intended to keep the\nspectators constantly in mind, that the peculiar grandeur of the actions\ndescribed cannot be developed on a narrow stage, and that they must,\ntherefore, supply, from their own imaginations, the deficiencies of the\nrepresentation. As the matter was not properly dramatic, Shakspeare chose\nto wander in the form also beyond the bounds of the species, and to sing,\nas a poetical herald, what he could not represent to the eye, rather than\nto cripple the progress of the action by putting long descriptions in the\nmouths of the dramatic personages. The confession of the poet that \"four\nor five most vile and ragged foils, right ill disposed, can only disgrace\nthe name of Agincourt,\" (a scruple which he has overlooked in the occasion\nof many other great battles, and among others of that of Philippi,) brings\nus here naturally to the question how far, generally speaking, it may be\nsuitable and advisable to represent wars and battles on the stage. The\nGreeks have uniformly renounced them: as in the whole of their theatrical\nsystem they proceeded on ideas of grandeur and dignity, a feeble and petty\nimitation of the unattainable would have appeared insupportable in their\neyes. With them, consequently, all fighting was merely recounted. The\nprinciple of the romantic dramatists was altogether different: their\nwonderful pictures were infinitely larger than their theatrical means of\nvisible execution; they were every where obliged to count on the willing\nimagination of the spectators, and consequently they also relied on them\nin this point. It is certainly laughable enough that a handful of awkward\nwarriors in mock armour, by means of two or three swords, with which we\nclearly see they take especial care not to do the slightest injury to one\nanother, should decide the fate of mighty kingdoms. But the opposite\nextreme is still much worse. If we in reality succeed in exhibiting the\ntumult of a great battle, the storming of a fort, and the like, in a\nmanner any way calculated to deceive the eye, the power of these sensible\nimpressions is so great that they render the spectator incapable of\nbestowing that attention which a poetical work of art demands; and thus\nthe essential is sacrificed to the accessory. We have learned from\nexperience, that whenever cavalry combats are introduced the men soon\nbecome secondary personages beside the four-footed players [Footnote: The\nGreeks, it is true, brought horses on the tragic stage, but only in solemn\nprocessions, not in the wild disorder of a fight. Agamemnon and Pallas, in\nAeschylus, make their appearance drawn in a chariot with four horses. But\ntheir theatres were built on a scale very different from ours.].\nFortunately, in Shakspeare's time, the art of converting the yielding\nboards of the theatre into a riding course had not yet been invented. He\ntells the spectators in the first prologue in _Henry the Fifth_:--\n\n  Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them\n  Printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth.\n\nWhen Richard the Third utters the famous exclamation,--\n\n  A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!\n\nit is no doubt inconsistent to see him both before and afterwards\nconstantly fighting on foot. It is however better, perhaps, that the poet\nand player should by overpowering impressions dispose us to forget this,\nthan by literal exactness to expose themselves to external interruptions.\nWith all the disadvantages which I have mentioned, Shakspeare and several\nSpanish poets have contrived to derive such great beauties from the\nimmediate representation of war, that I cannot bring myself to wish they\nhad abstained from it. A theatrical manager of the present day will have a\nmiddle course to follow: his art must, in an especial manner, be directed\nto make what he shows us appear only as separate groups of an immense\npicture, which cannot be taken in at once by the eye; he must convince the\nspectators that the main action takes place behind the stage; and for this\npurpose he has easy means at his command in the nearer or more remote\nsound of warlike music and the din of arms.\n\nHowever much Shakspeare celebrates the French conquest of Henry, still he\nhas not omitted to hint, after his way, the secret springs of this\nundertaking. Henry was in want of foreign war to secure himself on the\nthrone; the clergy also wished to keep him employed abroad, and made an\noffer of rich contributions to prevent the passing of a law which would\nhave deprived them of the half of their revenues. His learned bishops\nconsequently are as ready to prove to him his indisputable right to the\ncrown of France, as he is to allow his conscience to be tranquillized by\nthem. They prove that the Salic law is not, and never was, applicable to\nFrance; and the matter is treated in a more succinct and convincing manner\nthan such subjects usually are in manifestoes. After his renowned battles,\nHenry wished to secure his conquests by marriage with a French princess;\nall that has reference to this is intended for irony in the play. The\nfruit of this union, from which two nations promised to themselves such\nhappiness in future, was the weak and feeble Henry VI., under whom every\nthing was so miserably lost. It must not, therefore, be imagined that it\nwas without the knowledge and will of the poet that a heroic drama turns\nout a comedy in his hands, and ends in the manner of Comedy with a\nmarriage of convenience.\n\nThe three parts of _Henry the Sixth_, as I have already remarked,\nwere composed much earlier than the preceding pieces. Shakspeare's choice\nfell first on this period of English history, so full of misery and\nhorrors of every kind, because the pathetic is naturally more suitable\nthan the characteristic to a young poet's mind. We do not yet find here\nthe whole maturity of his genius, yet certainly its whole strength.\nCareless as to the apparent unconnectedness of contemporary events, he\nbestows little attention on preparation and development: all the figures\nfollow in rapid succession, and announce themselves emphatically for what\nwe ought to take them; from scenes where the effect is sufficiently\nagitating to form the catastrophe of a less extensive plan, the poet\nperpetually hurries us on to catastrophes still more dreadful. The First\nPart contains only the first forming of the parties of the White and Red\nRose, under which blooming ensigns such bloody deeds were afterwards\nperpetrated; the varying results of the war in France principally fill the\nstage. The wonderful saviour of her country, Joan of Arc, is portrayed by\nShakspeare with an Englishman's prejudices: yet he at first leaves it\ndoubtful whether she has not in reality a heavenly mission; she appears in\nthe pure glory of virgin heroism; by her supernatural eloquence (and this\ncircumstance is of the poet's invention) she wins over the Duke of\nBurgundy to the French cause; afterwards, corrupted by vanity and luxury,\nshe has recourse to hellish fiends, and comes to a miserable end. To her\nis opposed Talbot, a rough iron warrior, who moves us the more powerfully,\nas, in the moment when he is threatened with inevitable death, all his\ncare is tenderly directed to save his son, who performs his first deeds of\narms under his eye. After Talbot has in vain sacrificed himself, and the\nMaid of Orleans has fallen into the hands of the English, the French\nprovinces are completely lost by an impolitic marriage; and with this the\npiece ends. The conversation between the aged Mortimer in prison, and\nRichard Plantagenet, afterwards Duke of York, contains an exposition of\nthe claims of the latter to the throne: considered by itself it is a\nbeautiful tragic elegy.\n\nIn the Second Part, the events more particularly prominent are the murder\nof the honest Protector, Gloster, and its consequences; the death of\nCardinal Beaufort; the parting of the Queen from her favourite Suffolk,\nand his death by the hand of savage pirates; then the insurrection of Jack\nCade under an assumed name, and at the instigation of the Duke of York.\nThe short scene where Cardinal Beaufort, who is tormented by his\nconscience on account of the murder of Gloster, is visited on his death-\nbed by Henry VI. is sublime beyond all praise. Can any other poet be named\nwho has drawn aside the curtain of eternity at the close of this life with\nsuch overpowering and awful effect? And yet it is not mere horror with\nwhich the mind is filled, but solemn emotion; a blessing and a curse stand\nside by side; the pious King is an image of the heavenly mercy which, even\nin the sinner's last moments, labours to enter into his soul. The\nadulterous passion of Queen Margaret and Suffolk is invested with tragical\ndignity and all low and ignoble ideas carefully kept out of sight. Without\nattempting to gloss over the crime of which both are guilty, without\nseeking to remove our disapprobation of this criminal love, he still, by\nthe magic force of expression, contrives to excite in us a sympathy with\ntheir sorrow. In the insurrection of Cade he has delineated the conduct of\na popular demagogue, the fearful ludicrousness of the anarchical tumult of\nthe people, with such convincing truth, that one would believe he was an\neye-witness of many of the events of our age, which, from ignorance of\nhistory, have been considered as without example.\n\nThe civil war only begins in the Second Part; in the Third it is unfolded\nin its full destructive fury. The picture becomes gloomier and gloomier;\nand seems at last to be painted rather with blood than with colours. With\nhorror we behold fury giving birth to fury, vengeance to vengeance, and\nsee that when all the bonds of human society are violently torn asunder,\neven noble matrons became hardened to cruelty. The most bitter contempt is\nthe portion of the unfortunate; no one affords to his enemy that pity\nwhich he will himself shortly stand in need of. With all party is family,\ncountry, and religion, the only spring of action. As York, whose ambition\nis coupled with noble qualities, prematurely perishes, the object of the\nwhole contest is now either to support an imbecile king, or to place on\nthe throne a luxurious monarch, who shortens the dear-bought possession by\nthe gratification of an insatiable voluptuousness. For this the celebrated\nand magnanimous Warwick spends his chivalrous life; Clifford revenges the\ndeath of his father with blood-thirsty filial love; and Richard, for the\nelevation of his brother, practises those dark deeds by which he is soon\nafter to pave the way to his own greatness. In the midst of the general\nmisery, of which he has been the innocent cause, King Henry appears like\nthe powerless image of a saint, in whose wonder-working influence no man\nany longer believes: he can but sigh and weep over the enormities which he\nwitnesses. In his simplicity, however, the gift of prophecy is lent to\nthis pious king: in the moment of his death, at the close of this great\ntragedy, he prophesies a still more dreadful tragedy with which futurity\nis pregnant, as much distinguished for the poisonous wiles of cold-blooded\nwickedness as the former for deeds of savage fury.\n\nThe part of Richard III. has become highly celebrated in England from its\nhaving been filled by excellent performers, and this has naturally had an\ninfluence on the admiration of the piece itself, for many readers of\nShakspeare stand in want of good interpreters of the poet to understand\nhim properly. This admiration is certainly in every respect well founded,\nthough I cannot help thinking there is an injustice in considering the\nthree parts of _Henry the Sixth_ as of little value compared with\n_Richard the Third_. These four plays were undoubtedly composed in\nsuccession, as is proved by the style and the spirit in the handling of\nthe subject: the last is definitely announced in the one which precedes\nit, and is also full of references to it: the same views run through the\nseries; in a word, the whole make together only one single work. Even the\ndeep characterization of Richard is by no means the exclusive property of\nthe piece which bears his name: his character is very distinctly drawn in\nthe two last parts of _Henry the Sixth_; nay, even his first speeches\nlead us already to form the most unfavourable anticipations of his future\nconduct. He lowers obliquely like a dark thundercloud on the horizon,\nwhich gradually approaches nearer and nearer, and first pours out the\ndevastating elements with which it is charged when it hangs over the heads\nof mortals. Two of Richard's most significant soliloquies which enable us\nto draw the most important conclusions with regard to his mental\ntemperament, are to be found in _The Last Part of Henry the Sixth_.\nAs to the value and the justice of the actions to which passion impels us,\nwe may be blind, but wickedness cannot mistake its own nature; Richard, as\nwell as Iago, is a villain with full consciousness. That they should say\nthis in so many words, is not perhaps in human nature: but the poet has\nthe right in soliloquies to lend a voice to the most hidden thoughts,\notherwise the form of the monologue would, generally speaking, be\ncensurable. [Footnote: What, however, happens in so many tragedies, where\na person is made to avow himself a villain to his confidants, is most\ndecidedly unnatural. He will, indeed, announce his way of thinking, not,\nhowever, under damning names, but as something that is understood of\nitself, and is equally approved of by others.] Richard's deformity is the\nexpression of his internal malice, and perhaps in part the effect of it:\nfor where is the ugliness that would not be softened by benevolence and\nopenness? He, however, considers it as an iniquitous neglect of nature,\nwhich justifies him in taking his revenge on that human society from which\nit is the means of excluding him. Hence these sublime lines:\n\n  And this word love, which graybeards call divine.\n  Be resident in men like one another,\n  And not in me. I am myself alone.\n\nWickedness is nothing but selfishness designedly unconscientious; however\nit can never do altogether without the form at least of morality, as this\nis the law of all thinking beings,--it must seek to found its depraved way\nof acting on something like principles. Although Richard is thoroughly\nacquainted with the blackness of his mind and his hellish mission, he yet\nendeavours to justify this to himself by a sophism: the happiness of being\nbeloved is denied to him; what then remains to him but the happiness of\nruling? All that stands in the way of this must be removed. This envy of\nthe enjoyment of love is so much the more natural in Richard, as his\nbrother Edward, who besides preceded him in the possession of the crown,\nwas distinguished by the nobleness and beauty of his figure, and was an\nalmost irresistible conqueror of female hearts. Notwithstanding his\npretended renunciation, Richard places his chief vanity in being able to\nplease and win over the women, if not by his figure at least by his\ninsinuating discourse. Shakspeare here shows us, with his accustomed\nacuteness of observation, that human nature, even when it is altogether\ndecided in goodness or wickedness, is still subject to petty infirmities.\nRichard's favourite amusement is to ridicule others, and he possesses an\neminent satirical wit. He entertains at bottom a contempt for all mankind:\nfor he is confident of his ability to deceive them, whether as his\ninstruments or his adversaries. In hypocrisy he is particularly fond of\nusing religious forms, as if actuated by a desire of profaning in the\nservice of hell the religion whose blessings he had inwardly abjured.\n\nSo much for the main features of Richard's character. The play named after\nhim embraces also the latter part of the reign of Edward IV., in the whole\na period of eight years. It exhibits all the machinations by which Richard\nobtained the throne, and the deeds which he perpetrated to secure himself\nin its possession, which lasted however but two years. Shakspeare intended\nthat terror rather than compassion should prevail throughout this tragedy:\nhe has rather avoided than sought the pathetic scenes which he had at\ncommand. Of all the sacrifices to Richard's lust of power, Clarence alone\nis put to death on the stage: his dream excites a deep horror, and proves\nthe omnipotence of the poet's fancy: his conversation with the murderers\nis powerfully agitating; but the earlier crimes of Clarence merited death,\nalthough not from his brother's hand. The most innocent and unspotted\nsacrifices are the two princes: we see but little of them, and their\nmurder is merely related. Anne disappears without our learning any thing\nfarther respecting her: in marrying the murderer of her husband, she had\nshown a weakness almost incredible. The parts of Lord Rivers, and other\nfriends of the queen, are of too secondary a nature to excite a powerful\nsympathy; Hastings, from his triumph at the fall of his friend, forfeits\nall title to compassion; Buckingham is the satellite of the tyrant, who is\nafterwards consigned by him to the axe of the executioner. In the\nbackground the widowed Queen Margaret appears as the fury of the past, who\ninvokes a curse on the future: every calamity, which her enemies draw down\non each other, is a cordial to her revengeful heart. Other female voices\njoin, from time to time, in the lamentations and imprecations. But Richard\nis the soul or rather the daemon, of the whole tragedy. He fulfils the\npromise which he formerly made of leading the murderous Macchiavel to\nschool. Notwithstanding the uniform aversion with which he inspires us, he\nstill engages us in the greatest variety of ways by his profound skill in\ndissimulation, his wit, his prudence, his presence of mind, his quick\nactivity, and his valour. He fights at last against Richmond like a\ndesperado, and dies the honourable death of a hero on the field of battle.\nShakspeare could not change this historical issue, and yet it is by no\nmeans satisfactory to our moral feelings, as Lessing, when speaking of a\nGerman play on the same subject, has very judiciously remarked. How has\nShakspeare solved this difficulty? By a wonderful invention he opens a\nprospect into the other world, and shows us Richard in his last moments\nalready branded with the stamp of reprobation. We see Richard and Richmond\nin the night before the battle sleeping in their tents; the spirits of the\nmurdered victims of the tyrant ascend in succession, and pour out their\ncurses against him, and their blessings on his adversary. These\napparitions are properly but the dreams of the two generals represented\nvisibly. It is no doubt contrary to probability that their tents should\nonly be separated by so small a space; but Shakspeare could reckon on\npoetical spectators who were ready to take the breadth of the stage for\nthe distance between two hostile camps, if for such indulgence they were\nto be recompensed by beauties of so sublime a nature as this series of\nspectres and Richard's awakening soliloquy. The catastrophe of _Richard\nthe Third_ is, in respect of the external events, very like that of\n_Macbeth_: we have only to compare the thorough difference of handling\nthem to be convinced that Shakspeare has most accurately observed poetical\njustice in the genuine sense of the word, that is, as signifying the\nrevelation of an invisible blessing or curse which hangs over human\nsentiments and actions.\n\nAlthough the last four pieces of the historical series paint later events,\nyet the plays of _Henry the Fourth and Fifth_ have, in tone and\ncostume, a much more modern appearance. This is partly owing to the number\nof comic scenes; for the comic must always be founded not only in\nnational, but also in contemporary manners. Shakspeare, however, seems\nalso to have had the same design in the serious part. Bloody revolutions\nand devastations of civil war appear to posterity as a relapse into an\nearlier and more uncultivated condition of society, or they are in reality\naccompanied by such a relapse into unbridled savageness. If therefore the\npropensity of a young poetical mind to remove its object to a wonderful\ndistance has had an influence on the style in which _Henry the Sixth_\nand _Richard the Third_ are conceived, Shakspeare has been rightly\nguided by his instinct. As it is peculiar to the heroic poem to paint the\nraces of men in times past as colossal in strength of body and resolution,\nso in these plays, the voices of a Talbot, a Warwick, a Clifford, and\nothers, so ring on our ear that we imagine we hear the clanging trumpets\nof foreign or of civil war. The contest of the Houses of York and\nLancaster was the last outbreak of feudal independence; it was the cause\nof the great and not of the people, who were only dragged into the\nstruggle by the former. Afterwards the part was swallowed up in the whole,\nand no longer could any one be, like Warwick, a maker of kings. Shakspeare\nwas as profound a historian as a poet; when we compare his _Henry the\nEighth_ with the preceding pieces, we see distinctly that the English\nnation during the long, peaceable, and economical reign of Henry VII.,\nwhether from the exhaustion which was the fruit of the civil wars, or from\nmore general European influences, had made a sudden transition from the\npowerful confusion of the middle age, to the regular tameness of modern\ntimes. _Henry the Eighth_ has, therefore, somewhat of a prosaic\nappearance; for Shakspeare, artist-like, adapted himself always to the\nquality of his materials. If others of his works, both in elevation of\nfancy and in energy of pathos and character, tower far above this, we have\nhere on the other hand occasion to admire his nice powers of\ndiscrimination and his perfect knowledge of courts and the world. What\ntact was requisite to represent before the eyes of the queen [Footnote: It\nis quite clear that _Henry the Eighth_ was written while Elizabeth\nwas still alive. We know that Ben Jonson, in the reign of King James,\nbrought the piece again on the stage with additional pomp, and took the\nliberty of making several changes and additions. Without doubt, the\nprophecy respecting James the First is due to Ben Jonson: it would only\nhave displeased Elizabeth, and is so ill introduced that we at once\nrecognize in it a foreign interpolation.] subjects of such a delicate\nnature, and in which she was personally so nearly concerned, without doing\nviolence to the truth! He has unmasked the tyrannical king, and to the\nintelligent observer exhibited him such as he was actually: haughty and\nobstinate, voluptuous and unfeeling, extravagant in conferring favours,\nand revengeful under the pretext of justice; and yet the picture is so\ndexterously handled that a daughter might take it for favourable. The\nlegitimacy of Elizabeth's birth depended on the invalidity of Henry's\nfirst marriage, and Shakspeare has placed the proceedings respecting his\nseparation from Catharine of Arragon in a very doubtful light. We see\nclearly that Henry's scruples of conscience are no other than the beauty\nof Anne Boleyn. Catharine is, properly speaking, the heroine of the piece;\nshe excites the warmest sympathy by her virtues, her defenceless misery,\nher mild but firm opposition, and her dignified resignation. After her,\nthe fall of Cardinal Wolsey constitutes the principal part of the\nbusiness. Henry's whole reign was not adapted for dramatic poetry. It\nwould have merely been a repetition of the same scenes: the repudiation,\nor the execution of his wives, and the disgrace of his most estimable\nministers, which was usually soon followed by death. Of all that\ndistinguished Henry's life Shakspeare has given us sufficient specimens.\nBut as, properly speaking, there is no division in the history where he\nbreaks off, we must excuse him if he gives us a flattering compliment of\nthe great Elizabeth for a fortunate catastrophe. The piece ends with the\ngeneral joy at the birth of that princess, and with prophecies of the\nhappiness which she was afterwards to enjoy or to diffuse. It was only by\nsuch a turn that the hazardous freedom of thought in the rest of the\ncomposition could have passed with impunity: Shakspeare was not certainly\nhimself deceived respecting this theatrical delusion. The true conclusion\nis the death of Catharine, which under a feeling of this kind, he has\nplaced earlier than was conformable to history.  I have now gone through\nall the unquestionably genuine works of Shakspeare. I have carefully\nabstained from all indefinite eulogies, which merely serve to prove a\ndisproportion betwixt the feeling and the capability of expressing it. To\nmany the above observations will appear too diffuse for the object and\nplan of these Lectures; to others they will perhaps seem unsatisfactory. I\nshall be satisfied if they place those readers who are not yet familiar\nwith the poet in the right point of view, and pave the way for a solid\nknowledge, and if they recall to the minds of intelligent critics some of\nthose thoughts which have occurred to themselves.\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n_Respecting the Pieces said to be falsely attributed to Shakspeare._\n\nThe commentators of Shakspeare, in their attempts to deprive him of parts\nof his works, or even of whole pieces, have for the most part displayed\nvery little of a true critical spirit. Pope, as is well known, was\nstrongly disposed to reject whole scenes as interpolations by the players;\nbut his opinion was not much listened to. However, Steevens acceded to the\nopinion of Pope, as to the apparition of the ghosts and of Jupiter, in\n_Cymbeline_, while Posthumus is sleeping in the dungeon. But Posthumus\nfinds on waking a tablet on his breast, with a prophecy on which the\n_d\u00e9nouement_ of the piece depends. Is it to be imagined that Shakspeare\nwould require of his spectators the belief in a wonder without a visible\ncause? Can Posthumus have got this tablet with the prophecy by dreaming?\nBut these gentlemen do not descend to this objection. The verses which the\napparitions deliver do not appear to them good enough to be Shakspeare's.\nI imagine I can discover why the poet has not given them more of the\nsplendour of diction. It is the aged parents and brothers of Posthumus,\nwho, from concern for his fate, return from the world below: ought they\nnot consequently to speak the language of a more simple olden time, and\ntheir voices, too, ought they not also to seem a feeble sound of wailing,\nwhen contrasted with the thundering oracular language of Jupiter? For this\nreason Shakspeare chose a syllabic measure which was very common before\nhis time, but which was then going out of fashion, though it still\ncontinued to be frequently used, especially in translations of the\nclassical poets. In some such manner might the shades express themselves\nin the then existing translations of Homer and Virgil. The speech of\nJupiter is, on the other hand, majestic, and in form and style bears a\ncomplete resemblance to Shakspeare's sonnets. Nothing but incapacity to\nappreciate the views of the poet, and the perspective observed by him,\ncould lead them to stumble at this passage.\n\nPope would willingly have declared the _Winter's Tale_ spurious, one\nof the noblest creations of the equally bold and lovely fancy of\nShakspeare. Why? I suppose on account of the ship coming to Bohemia, and\nof the chasm of sixteen years between the third and fourth acts, which\nTime as a prologue entreats us to overleap.\n\n_The Three Parts of Henry the Sixth_ are now at length admitted to be\nShakspeare's. Theobald, Warburton, and lastly Farmer, affirmed that they\nwere not Shakspeare's. In this case, we might well ask them to point out\nthe other works of the unknown author, who was capable of inventing, among\nmany others, the noble death-scenes of Talbot, Suffolk, Beaufort, and\nYork. The assertion is so ridiculous, that in this case _Richard the\nThird_ might also not be Shakspeare's, as it is linked in the most\nimmediate manner to the three other pieces, both by the subject, and the\nspirit and style of handling.\n\nAll the editors, with the exception of Capell, are unanimous in rejecting\n_Titus Andronicus_ as unworthy of Shakspeare, though they always\nallow it to be printed with the other pieces, as the scape-goat, as it\nwere, of their abusive criticism. The correct method in such an\ninvestigation is first to examine into the external grounds, evidences,\n&c., and to weigh their value; and then to adduce the internal reasons\nderived from the quality of the work. The critics of Shakspeare follow a\ncourse directly the reverse of this; they set out with a preconceived\nopinion against a piece, and seek, in justification of this opinion, to\nrender the historical ground suspicious, and to set them aside. Now\n_Titus Andronicus_ is to be found in the first folio edition of\nShakspeare's works, which it is known was published by Heminge and\nCondell, for many years his friends and fellow-managers of the same\ntheatre. Is it possible to persuade ourselves that they would not have\nknown if a piece in their repertory did or did not really belong to\nShakspeare? And are we to lay to the charge of these honourable men an\nintentional fraud in this single case, when we know that they did not show\nthemselves so very desirous of scraping everything together which went by\nthe name of Shakspeare, but, as it appears, merely gave those plays of\nwhich they had manuscripts in hand? Yet the following circumstance is\nstill stronger. George Meres, a contemporary and admirer of Shakspeare, in\nan enumeration of his works, mentions _Titus Andronicus_, in the year\n1598. Meres was personally acquainted with the poet, and so very\nintimately, that the latter read over to him his sonnets before they were\nprinted. I cannot conceive that all the critical scepticism in the world\nwould ever be able to get over such a testimony.\n\nThis tragedy, it is true, is framed according to a false idea of the\ntragic, which by an accumulation of cruelties and enormities, degenerates\ninto the horrible, and yet leaves no deep impression behind: the story of\nTereus and Philomela is heightened and overcharged under other names, and\nmixed up with the repast of Atreus and Thyestes, and many other incidents.\nIn detail there is no want of beautiful lines, bold images, nay, even\nfeatures which betray the peculiar conception of Shakspeare. Among these\nwe may reckon the joy of the treacherous Moor at the blackness and\nugliness of his adulterous offspring; and in the compassion of Titus\nAndronicus, grown childish through grief, for a fly which had been struck\ndead, while his rage afterwards, when he imagines he discovers in it his\nblack enemy, we recognize the future poet of _Lear_. Are the critics\nafraid that Shakspeare's fame would be injured, were it established that\nin his early youth he ushered into the world a feeble and immature work?\nWas Rome the less the conqueror of the world, because Remus could leap\nover its first walls? Let any one place himself in Shakspeare's situation\nat the commencement of his career. He found only a few indifferent models,\nand yet these met with the most favourable reception, because in the\nnovelty of an art, men are never difficult to please, before their taste\nhas been made fastidious by choice and abundance. Must not this situation\nhave had its influence on him before he learned to make higher demands on\nhimself, and by digging deeper in his own mind, discovered the rich veins\nof noble metal that ran there? It is even highly probable that he must\nhave made several failures before he succeeded in getting into the right\npath. Genius is in a certain sense infallible, and has nothing to learn;\nbut art is to be learned, and must be acquired by practice and experience.\nIn Shakspeare's acknowledged works we find hardly any traces of his\napprenticeship, and yet apprenticeship he certainly had. This every artist\nmust have, and especially in a period where he has not before him the\nexamples of a school already formed. I consider it as extremely probable\nthat Shakspeare began to write for the theatre at a much earlier period\nthan the one which is generally stated, namely, after the year 1590. It\nappears that, as early as the year 1584, when only twenty years of age, he\nhad left his paternal home and repaired to London. Can we imagine that\nsuch an active head would remain idle for six whole years without making\nany attempt to emerge by his talents from an uncongenial situation? That\nin the dedication of the poem of _Venus and Adonis_ he calls it \"the\nfirst heir of his invention,\" proves nothing against the supposition. It\nwas the first which he printed; he might have composed it at an earlier\nperiod; perhaps, also, in this term, \"heirs of his invention,\" he did not\nindulge theatrical labours, especially as they then conferred but little\nto his literary dignity. The earlier Shakspeare began to compose for the\ntheatre, the less are we enabled to consider the immaturity and\nimperfection of a work a proof of its spuriousness in opposition to\nhistorical evidence, if only we can discern in it prominent features of\nhis mind. Several of the works rejected as spurious, may still have been\nproduced in the period betwixt _Titus Andronicus_, and the earliest of\nthe acknowledged pieces.\n\nAt last, in two supplementary volumes, Steevens published seven pieces\nascribed to Shakspeare. It is to be remarked, that they all appeared in\nprint in Shakspeare's life-time, with his name prefixed at full length.\nThey are the following:--\n\n1. _Lochrine._ The proofs of the genuineness of this piece are not\naltogether unambiguous; the grounds for doubt, on the other hand, are\nentitled to attention. However, this question is immediately connected\nwith that respecting _Titus Andronicus_, and must with it be resolved\nin the affirmative or negative.\n\n2. _Pericles, Prince of Tyre._ This piece was acknowledged by Dryden\nto be a work, but a youthful work of Shakspeare's. It is most undoubtedly\nhis, and it has been admitted into several late editions of his works. The\nsupposed imperfections originate in the circumstance, that Shakspeare here\nhandled a childish and extravagant romance of the old poet Gower, and was\nunwilling to drag the subject out of its proper sphere. Hence he even\nintroduces Gower himself, and makes him deliver a prologue in his own\nantiquated language and versification. This power of assuming so foreign a\nmanner is at least no proof of helplessness.\n\n3. _The London Prodigal._ If we are not mistaken, Lessing pronounced\nthis piece to be Shakspeare's, and wished to bring it on the German stage.\n\n4. _The Puritan; or The Widow of Wailing Street._ One of my literary\nfriends, intimately acquainted with Shakspeare, was of opinion that the\npoet must have wished for once to write a play in the style of Ben Jonson,\nand that in this way we must account for the difference between the\npresent piece and his usual manner. To follow out this idea, however,\nwould lead to a long and very nice critical investigation.\n\n5. _Thomas Lord Cromwell._\n\n6. _Sir John Oldcastle._--First part.\n\n7. _A Yorkshire Tragedy._\n\nThe three last pieces are not only unquestionably Shakspeare's, but in my\nopinion they deserve to be classed among his best and maturest works.\nSteevens at last admits, in some degree, that they, as well as the rest,\nexcept _Lochrine_, are Shakspeare's, but he speaks of all of them\nwith great contempt, as worthless productions. His condemnatory sentence\nis not, however, in the slightest degree convincing, nor is it supported\nby much critical acumen. I should like to see how such a critic would, of\nhis own natural suggestion, have decided on Shakspeare's acknowledged\nmaster-pieces, and how much he would have thought of praising in them, had\nnot the public opinion already imposed on him the duty of admiration.\n_Thomas Lord Cromwell_ and _Sir John Oldcastle_ are biographical dramas,\nand in this species they are models: the first, by its subject, attaches\nitself to _Henry the Eighth_, and the second to _Henry the Fifth_. The\nsecond part of _Sir John Oldcastle_ is wanting; I know not whether a copy\nof the old edition has been discovered in England, or whether it is lost.\n_The Yorkshire Tragedy_ is a tragedy in one act, a dramatised tale of\nmurder: the tragical effect is overpowering, and it is extremely important\nto see how poetically Shakspeare could handle such a subject.\n\nStill farther, there have been ascribed to him, 1st. _The Merry Devil of\nEdmonton_, a comedy in one act, printed in Dodsley's Collection of Old\nPlays. This has, certainly, some appearance in its favour. It contains a\nmerry landlord, who bears great similarity to the one in _The Merry Wives\nof Windsor_. However, at all events, though a clever, it is but a hasty\nsketch. 2nd. _The Arraignment of Paris_. 3rd. _The Birth of Merlin_. 4th.\n_Edward the Third_. 5th. _The Fair Em_. (Emma). 6th. _Mucedorus_. 7th.\n_Arden of Feversham_. I have never seen any of these, and cannot therefore\nsay anything respecting them. From the passages cited, I am led to\nconjecture that the subject of _Mucedorus_ is the popular story of\nValentine and Orson: a beautiful subject which Lope de Vega has also taken\nfor a play. _Arden of Feversham_ is said to be a tragedy on the story of a\nman from whom the poet descended by the mother's side. This circumstance,\nif the quality of the piece be not too directly at variance with its\nsupposed authorship, would afford an additional probability in its favour.\nFor such motives were not without their influence on Shakspeare: thus he\ntreated with a manifest partiality, Henry VII., who had bestowed lands on\nhis forefathers for services performed by them.\n\nOf Shakspeare's share in _The Two Noble Cousins_, it will be the time\nto speak when I come to mention Fletcher's works.\n\nIt would be very instructive, if it could be proved that several earlier\nattempts of works, afterwards re-written, proceeded from himself, and not\nfrom an unknown author. We should thus be best enabled to trace his\ndevelopment as an artist. Of the older _King John_, in two parts, (printed\nby Steevens among six old plays,) this might probably be made out. That he\nsometimes returned to an old piece is certain. With respect to _Hamlet_,\nfor instance, it is well known, that it was very gradually formed by him\nto its present perfect state.\n\nWhoever takes from Shakspeare a play early ascribed to him, and\nconfessedly belonging to his time, is certainly bound to answer, with some\ndegree of probability, this question: who then wrote it? Shakspeare's\ncompetitors in the dramatic walk are pretty well known, and if those of\nthem who have even acquired a considerable reputation, a Lilly, a Marlow,\na Heywood, are still very far below him, we can hardly imagine that the\nauthor of a work, which rises so high beyond theirs, could have remained\nunknown.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXVII.\n\nTwo periods of the English Theatre: the first the most important--The\nfirst conformation of the Stage, and its advantages--State of the\nHistrionic Art in Shakspeare's time--Antiquities of Dramatic Literature--\nLilly, Marlow, Heywood--Ben Jonson--Criticism of his Works--Masques--\nBeaumont and Fletcher--General characterization of these Poets, and\nremarks on some of their Pieces--Massinger and other contemporaries of\nCharles the First.\n\n\nThe great master of whom we have spoken in the preceding Lecture, forms so\nsingular an exception to the whole history of art, that we are compelled\nto assign a particular place to him. He owed hardly anything to his\npredecessors, and he has had the greatest influence on his successors: but\nno man has yet learned from him his secret. For two whole centuries,\nduring which his countrymen have diligently employed themselves in the\ncultivation of every branch of science and art, according to their own\nconfession, he has not only never yet been surpassed, but has left every\ndramatic poet at a great distance behind him.\n\nIn the sketch of a history of the English theatre which I am now to give,\nI shall be frequently obliged to return to Shakspeare. The dramatic\nliterature of the English is very rich; they can boast of a large number\nof dramatic poets, who possessed in an eminent degree the talent of\noriginal characterization, and the knowledge of theatrical effect. Their\nhands were not shackled by prejudices, by arbitrary rules, and by the\nanxious observance of so-called proprieties. There has never been in\nEngland an academical court of taste; in art, as in life, every man there\ngives his voice for what best pleases him, or what is most suitable to his\nnature. Notwithstanding this liberty, their writers have not, however,\nbeen able to escape the influence either of varying modes, or of the\nspirit of different ages.\n\nWe shall here remain true to our principle of merely dwelling at length on\nwhat we consider as the highest efforts of poetry, and of taking brief\nviews of all that occupies but the second or third place.\n\nThe antiquities of the English theatre have been sufficiently illustrated\nby the English writers, and especially by Malone. The earliest dramatic\nattempts were here as well as elsewhere Mysteries and Moralities. However\nit would seem that in these productions the English distinguished\nthemselves at an earlier period than other nations. In the History of the\nCouncil of Constance it is recorded that the English prelates, in one of\nthe intervals between the sittings, entertained their brethren with a\nspiritual play in Latin, such as the latter were either entirely\nunacquainted with, or at least in such perfection, (as perfection was\nunderstood by the simple ideas of art of those times). The beginning of a\ntheatre, properly so called, cannot, however, be placed farther back than\nthe reign of Elizabeth. John Heywood, the buffoon of Henry VIII. is\nconsidered as the oldest comic writer: the single _Interlude_ under\nhis name, published in Dodsley's collection, is in fact merely a dialogue,\nand not a drama. But _Gammer Gurton's Needle_, which was first acted\nabout the year 1560, certainly deserves the name of a comedy. However\nantiquated in language and versification, it possesses unequivocal merit\nin the low comic. The whole plot turns on a lost needle, the search for\nwhich is pursued with the utmost assiduity: the poverty of the persons of\nthe drama, which this supposes, and the whole of their domestic condition,\nis very amusingly portrayed, and the part of a cunning beggar especially\nis drawn with much humour. The coarse comic of this piece bears a\nresemblance to that of the _Avocat Patelin_; yet the English play has\nnot, like the French, been honoured with a revival on the stage in a new\nshape.\n\nThe history of the English theatre divides itself naturally into two\nperiods. The first begins nearly with the accession of Elizabeth, and\nextends to about the end of the reign of Charles I., when the Puritans\ngained the ascendency, and effected the prohibition of all plays\nwhatsoever. The closing of the theatres lasted thirteen years; and they\nwere not again opened till the restoration of Charles II. This\ninterruption, the change which had taken place in the mean time on the\ngeneral way of thinking and in manners, and lastly, the influence of the\nFrench literature which was then flourishing, gave quite a different\ncharacter to the plays subsequently written. The works of the older school\nwere indeed in part sought out, but the school itself was extinct. I apply\nthe term of a \"school\" to the dramatical poets of the first aera, in the\nsame sense as it is taken in art, for with all their personal differences\nwe may still perceive on the whole a common character in their\nproductions. Independently of the language or contemporary allusions, we\nshould never be disposed to take a play of that school, though ignorant of\nits author, and the date of its production, for a work of the more modern\nperiod. The latter period admits of many subdivisions, but with these,\nhowever, we may dispense. The talents of the authors, and the taste of the\npublic, have fluctuated in every possible way; foreign influence has\ngained more and more the ascendency, and (to express myself without\ncircumlocution,) the English theatre has in its progress become more and\nmore destitute of character and independence. For a critic, who everywhere\nseeks originality, troubling himself little about what has arisen from the\nfollowing or the avoiding of imitation, the dramatic poets of the first\nperiod are by far the most important, although, with the exception of\nShakspeare, they may be reproached with great defects and extravagances,\nand although many of the moderns are distinguished for a more careful\npolish.\n\nThere are times when the human mind all at once makes gigantic strides in\nan art previously almost unknown, as if during its long sleep it had been\ncollecting strength for the effort. The age of Elizabeth was in England\nsuch an epoch for dramatic poetry. This queen, during her long reign,\nwitnessed the first infantine attempts of the English theatre, and its\nmost masterly productions. Shakspeare had a lively feeling of this general\nand rapid development of qualities not before called into exercise; in one\nof his sonnets he calls his age, _these time-lettering days_. The\npredilection for the theatre was so great, that in a period of sixty\nyears, under this and the following reign, seventeen play-houses were\nbuilt or fitted up in London, whereas the capital of the present day, with\ntwice the population, [Footnote: The author might almost have said six\ntimes.--TRANS.] is satisfied with two. No doubt they did not act every\nday, and several of these theatres were very small, and probably not much\nbetter fitted up than Marionette booths. However, they served to call\nforth the fertility of those writers who possessed, or supposed that they\npossessed, dramatic talents; for every theatre must have had its peculiar\nrepertory, as the pieces were either not printed at all, or at least not\ntill long after their composition, and as a single theatrical company was\nin the exclusive possession of the manuscripts. However many of feeble and\nlame productions might have been called forth, still it was impossible\nthat such an extensive competition should not have been advantageous. Of\nall the different species of poetry the dramatic is the only one in which\nexperience is necessary: and the failure of others is, for the man of\ntalents, an experiment at their expense. Moreover, the exercise of this\nart requires vigorous determination, to which the great artist is often\nthe least inclined, as in the execution he finds the greatest difficulty\nin satisfying himself; while, on the other hand, his greatest enjoyment\nconsists in embodying in his own mind the beloved creation of his\nimagination. It is therefore fortunate for him when the bolder forwardness\nof those who, with trifling means, venture on this difficult career\nstimulates him to put fresh hand to the work. Further, it is of importance\nto the dramatic poet to be connected immediately with the stage, that he\nmay either himself guide it, or learn to accommodate himself to its wants;\nand the dramatic poets of that day were, for the most part, also players.\nThe theatre still made small claims to literature, and it thus escaped the\npedantry of scholastic learning. There were as yet no periodical writings\nwhich, as the instrument of cabal, could mislead opinion. Of jealousies,\nindeed, and bickerings among the authors there was no want: this, however,\nwas more a source of amusement than of displeasure to the public, who\ndecided without prejudice or partiality according to the amount of\nentertainment. The poets and players, as well as the spectators, possessed\nin general the most essential requisite of success: a true love for the\nbusiness. This was the more unquestionable, as the theatrical art was not\nthen surrounded with all those foreign ornaments and inventions of luxury\nwhich serve to distract the attention and corrupt the sense, but made its\nappearance in the most modest, and we may well say in the most humble\nshape. For the admirers of Shakspeare it must be an object of curiosity to\nknow what was the appearance of the theatre in which his works were first\nperformed. We have an engraving of the play-house of which he was manager,\nand which, from the symbol of a Hercules supplying the place of Atlas, was\ncalled the Globe: it is a massive structure destitute of architectural\nornaments, and almost without windows in the outward walls. The pit was\nopen to the sky, and the acting was by day-light; the scene had no other\ndecoration than wrought tapestry, which hung at some distance from the\nwalls, and left space for several entrances. In the back-ground of the\nstage there was a second stage raised above it, a sort of balcony, which\nserved for various purposes, and according to circumstances signified all\nmanner of things. The players appeared, excepting on a few rare occasions,\nin the dress of their time, or at most distinguished by higher feathers on\ntheir hats and roses on their shoes. The chief means of disguise were\nfalse hair and beards, and occasionally also masks. The female parts were\nplayed by boys so long as their voice allowed it. Two companies of actors\nin London consisted entirely of boys, namely, the choir of the Queen's\nChapel and that of St. Paul's. Betwixt the acts it was not customary to\nhave music, but in the pieces themselves marches, dances, solo songs, and\nthe like, were introduced on fitting occasions, and trumpet flourishes at\nthe entrance of great personages. In the more early time it was usual to\nrepresent the action before it was spoken, in silent pantomime (_dumb\nshow_) between each act, allegorically or even without any disguise, to\ngive a definite direction to the expectation. Shakspeare has observed this\npractice in the play in _Hamlet_.\n\nBy the present lavish appliance of every theatrical accessory;--of\narchitecture, lighting, music, the illusion of decorations changing in a\nmoment as if by enchantment, machinery and costume;--by all this, we are\nnow so completely spoiled, that this earlier meagreness of stage\ndecoration will in no wise satisfy us. Much, however, might be urged in\nfavour of such a constitution of the theatre. Where the spectators are not\nallured by any splendid accessories, they will be the more difficult to\nplease in the main thing, namely, the excellence of the dramatic\ncomposition, and its embodying by delivery and action. When perfection is\nnot attainable in external decoration, the critic will rather altogether\noverlook it than be disturbed by its deficiencies and tastelessness. And\nhow seldom has perfection been here attained! It is about a century and a\nhalf since attention began to be paid to the observance of costume on the\nEuropean stage; what with this view has been accomplished has always\nappeared excellent to the multitude, and yet, to judge from the engravings\nwhich sometimes accompany the printed plays, and from every other\nevidence, it is plain that it was always characterized by puerility and\nmannerism, and that in none the endeavours to assume a foreign or antique\nappearance, could shake themselves free of the fashions of the time. A\nsort of hoop was long considered as an indispensable appendage of a hero;\nthe long peruques and _fontanges_, or topknots, kept their ground in\nheroical tragedy as long as in real life; afterwards it would have been\nconsidered as barbarous to appear without powdered and frizzled hair; on\nthis was placed a helmet with variegated feathers; a taffeta scarf\nfluttered over the gilt paper coat of mail; and the Achilles or Alexander\nwas then completely mounted. We have now at last returned to a purer\ntaste, and in some great theatres the costume is actually observed in a\nlearned and severe style. We owe this principally to the antiquarian\nreform in the arts of design, and the approximation of the female dress to\nthe Grecian; for the actresses were always the most inveterate in\nretaining on the stage those fashions by which they turned their charms to\naccount in society. However, even yet there are very few players who know\nhow to wear a Grecian purple mantle, or a toga, in a natural and becoming\nmanner; and who, in moments of passion, do not seem to be unduly occupied\nwith holding and tossing about their drapery.\n\nOur system of decoration was properly invented for the opera, to which it\nis also in reality best adapted. It has several unavoidable defects;\nothers which certainly may be, but seldom are avoided. Among the\ninevitable defects I reckon the breaking of the lines in the side scenes\nfrom every point of view except one; the disproportion between the size of\nthe player when he appears in the background, and the objects as\ndiminished in the perspective; the unfavourable lighting from below and\nbehind; the contrast between the painted and the actual lights and shades;\nthe impossibility of narrowing the stage at pleasure, so that the inside\nof a palace and a hut have the same length and breadth, &c. The errors\nwhich may be avoided are, want of simplicity and of great and reposing\nmasses; overloading the scenery with superfluous and distracting objects,\neither from the painter being desirous of showing his strength in\nperspective, or not knowing how otherwise to fill up the space; an\narchitecture full of mannerism, often altogether unconnected, nay, even at\nvariance with possibility, coloured in a motley manner which resembles no\nspecies of stone in the world. Most scene-painters owe their success\nentirely to the spectator's ignorance of the arts of design; I have often\nseen a whole pit enchanted with a decoration from which the eye of skill\nmust have turned away with disgust, and in whose place a plain green wall\nwould have been infinitely better. A vitiated taste for splendour of\ndecoration and magnificence of dress, has rendered the arrangement of the\ntheatre a complicated and expensive business, whence it frequently happens\nthat the main requisites, good pieces and good players, are considered as\nsecondary matters; but this is an inconvenience which it is here\nunnecessary to mention.\n\nAlthough the earlier English stage had properly no decorations, we must\nallow, however, that it was not altogether destitute of machinery: without\nit, it is almost impossible to conceive how several pieces, for instance,\n_Macbeth_, _The Tempest_, and others, could ever be represented. The\ncelebrated architect, Inigo Jones, who lived in the reign of James the\nFirst, put in motion very complicated and artificial machines for the\ndecoration of the Masques of Ben Jonson which were acted at court.\n\nWith the Spanish theatre at the time of its formation, it was the same as\nwith the English, and when the stage had remained a moment empty, and\nother persons came in by another entrance, a change of scene was to be\nsupposed though none was visible; and this circumstance had the most\nfavourable influence on the form of the dramas. The poet was not obliged\nto consult the scene-painter to know what could or what could not be\nrepresented; nor to calculate whether the store of decorations on hand\nwere sufficient, or new ones would be requisite: he was not driven to\nimpose restraint on the action as to change of times and places, but\nrepresented it entirely as it would naturally have taken place: [Footnote:\nCapell, an intelligent commentator on Shakspeare, unjustly underrated by\nthe others, has placed the advantages in this respect in the clearest\nlight, in an observation on _Antony and Cleopatra_. It emboldened the\npoet, when the truth of the action required it, to plan scenes which the\nmost skilful mechanist and scene-painter could scarcely exhibit to the\neye; as for instance, in a Spanish play where sea-fights occur.] he left\nto the imagination to fill up the intervals agreeably to the speeches, and\nto conceive all the surrounding circumstances. This call on the fancy to\nsupply the deficiencies supposes, indeed, not merely benevolent, but also\nintelligent spectators of a poetical tone of mind. That is the true\nillusion, when the spectators are so completely carried away by the\nimpressions of the poetry and the acting, that they overlook the secondary\nmatters, and forget the whole of the remaining objects around them. To lie\nmorosely on the watch to detect every circumstance that may violate an\napparent reality which, strictly speaking, can never be attained, is in\nfact a proof of inertness of imagination and an incapacity for mental\nillusion. This prosaical incredulity may be carried so far as to render it\nutterly impossible for the theatrical artists, who in every constitution\nof the theatre require many indulgences, to amuse the spectators by their\nproductions; and thus they are, in the end, the enemies of their own\nenjoyment.\n\nWe now complain, and with justice, that in the acting of Shakspeare's\npieces the too frequent change of scenes occasions an interruption. But\nthe poet is here perfectly blameless. It ought to be known that the\nEnglish plays of that time, as well as the Spanish, were printed without\nany mention of the scene and its changes. In Shakspeare the modern editors\nhave inserted the scenical directions; and in doing so, they have\nproceeded with the most pedantic accuracy. Whoever has the management of\nthe representation of a piece of Shakspeare's may, without any hesitation,\nstrike out at once all such changes of scene as the following:-\"Another\nroom in the palace, another street, another part of the field of battle,\"\n&c. By these means alone, in most cases, the change of decorations will be\nreduced to a very moderate number.\n\nOf the actor's art on a theatre which possessed so little external\nsplendour as the old English, those who are in the habit of judging of the\nman from his dress will not be inclined to entertain a very favourable\nidea. I am induced, however, from this very circumstance, to draw quite a\ncontrary conclusion: the want of attractions of an accessory nature\nrenders it the more necessary to be careful in essentials. Several\nEnglishmen [Footnote: See a Dialogue prefixed to the 11th volume of\nDodsley's _Old Plays_.] have given it as their opinion, that the\nplayers of the first epoch were in all likelihood greatly superior to\nthose of the second, at least with the exception of Garrick; and if we had\nno other proof, the quality of Shakspeare's pieces renders this extremely\nprobable. That most of his principal characters require a great player is\nself-evident; the elevated and compressed style of his poetry cannot be\nunderstood without the most energetic and flexible delivery; besides, he\noften supposes between the speeches a mute action of great difficulty, for\nwhich he gives no directions. A poet who labours only and immediately for\nthe stage will not rely for his main effect on traits which he must\nbeforehand know will be lost in the representation from the unskilfulness\nof his interpreters. Shakspeare consequently would have been driven to\nlower the tone of his dramatic art, if he had not possessed excellent\ntheatrical coadjutors. Of these, some have descended by name and fame even\nto our times. As for Shakspeare himself, since we are not fond of allowing\nany one man to possess two great talents in an equal degree, it has been\nassumed on very questionable grounds, that he was but an indifferent\nactor. [Footnote: No certain account has yet been obtained of any\nprincipal part played by Shakspeare in his own pieces. In _Hamlet_ he\nplayed the Ghost; certainly a very important part, if we consider that\nfrom the failure in it, the whole piece runs a risk of appearing\nridiculous. A writer of his time says in a satirical pamphlet, that the\nGhost whined in a pitiful manner; and it has been concluded from this that\nShakspeare was a bad player. What logic! On the restoration of the theatre\nunder Charles II., a desire was felt of collecting traditions and\ninformation respecting the former period. Lowin, the original Hamlet,\ninstructed Betterton as to the proper conception of the character. There\nwas still alive a brother of Shakspeare, a decrepid old man, who had never\nhad any literary cultivation, and whose memory was impaired by age. From\nhim they could extract nothing, but that he had sometimes visited his\nbrother in town, and once saw him play an old man with grey hair and\nbeard. From the above description it was concluded that this must have\nbeen the faithful servant Adam in _As You Like It_, also a second-\nrate part. In most of Shakspeare's pieces we have not the slightest\nknowledge of the manner in which the parts were distributed. In two of Ben\nJonson's pieces we see Shakspeare's name among the principal actors.]\nHamlet's instructions, however, to the players prove at least that he was\nan excellent judge of acting. We know that correctness of conception and\njudgment are not always coupled with the power of execution; Shakspeare,\nhowever, possessed a very important and too frequently neglected requisite\nfor serious acting, a beautiful and noble countenance. Neither is it\nprobable that he could have been the manager of the most respectable\ntheatre, had he not himself possessed the talent both of acting and\nguiding the histrionic talents of others. Ben Jonson, though a meritorious\npoet, could not even obtain the situation of a player, as he did not\npossess the requisite qualifications. From the passage cited from\n_Hamlet_, from the burlesque tragedy of the mechanics in the _Midsummer\nNight's Dream_, and many other passages, it is evident that there was then\nan inundation of bad players, who fell into all the aberrations from\npropriety which offend at the present day, but the public, it would\nappear, knew well how to distinguish good and bad acting, and would not be\neasily satisfied. [Footnote: In this respect, the following simile in\n_Richard the Second_ is deserving of attention:--\n  As in a theatre the eyes of men,\n  After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,\n  Are idly bent on him that enters next,\n  Thinking his prattle to be tedious, &c.]\n\nA thorough critical knowledge of the antiquities of the English theatre\ncan only he obtained in England; the old editions of the pieces which\nbelong to the earlier period are even there extremely rare, and in foreign\nlibraries they are never to be met with; the modern collectors have merely\nbeen able to give a few specimens, and not the whole store. It would be\nhighly important to see together all the plays which were undoubtedly in\nexistence before Shakspeare entered on his career, that we might be able\nto decide with certainty how much of the dramatic art it was possible for\nhim to learn from others. The year of the appearance of a piece on the\nstage is generally, however, difficult to ascertain, as it was often not\nprinted till long afterwards. If in the labours of Shakspeare's\ncontemporaries, even the older who continued to write at the same time\nwith himself, we can discover resemblances to his style and traces of his\nart, still it will always remain doubtful whether we are to consider these\nas the feeble model, or the imperfect imitation. Shakspeare appears to\nhave had all the flexibility of mind, and all the modesty of Raphael, who,\nalso, without ever being an imitator and becoming unfaithful to his\nsublime and tranquil genius, applied to his own advantage all the\nimprovements of his competitors.\n\nA few feeble attempts to introduce the form of the antique tragedy with\nchoruses, &c., were at an early period made, and praised, without\nproducing any effect. They, like most of the attempts of the moderns in\nthis way, serve to prove how strange were the spectacles through which the\nold poets were viewed; for it is hardly to be conceived how unlike they\nare to the Greek tragedies, not merely in merit (for that we may easily\nsuppose), but even in those external circumstances which may be the most\neasily seized and imitated. _Ferrex and Porrex, or the Tragedy of\nGorboduc_, is most frequently cited, which was the production of a\nnobleman [Footnote: Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, conjointly with\nNorton.--F.D.], in the first part of the reign of Elizabeth. Pope bestows\nhigh praise on this piece, on account of its regularity, and laments that\nthe contemporary poets did not follow in the same track; for thus he\nthought a classical theatre might have been formed in England. This\nopinion only proves that Pope (who, however, passes for a perfect judge of\npoetry,) had not even an idea of the first elements of Dramatic Art.\nNothing can be more spiritless and inanimate, nor more drawling and\nmonotonous in the language and the versification, than this _Ferrex and\nPorrex_; and although the Unities of Place and Time are in no way\nobserved, and a number of events are crowded into it, yet the scene is\nwholly destitute of movement: all that happens is previously announced by\nendless consultations, and afterwards stated in equally endless\nnarratives. _Mustapha_, another unsuccessful work of a kindred\ndescription, and also by a great lord, [Footnote: Grevile, Lord Broke.] is\na tedious web of all sorts of political subtleties; the choruses in\nparticular are true treatises. However, of the innumerable maxims in\nrhyme, there are many which might well have a place in the later pieces of\nCorneille. Kyd, one of the predecessors of Ben Jonson, and mentioned by\nhim in terms of praise, handled the _Cornelia_ of Garnier. This may\nbe called receiving an imitation of the ancients from the third or fourth\nhand.\n\nThe first serious piece calculated for popular effect is _The Spanish\nTragedy_ [by Thomas Kyd], so called from the scene of the story, and\nnot from its being borrowed from a Spanish writer. It kept possession of\nthe stage for a tolerable length of time, though it was often the subject\nof the ridicule and the parodies of succeeding poets. It usually happens\nthat the public do not easily give up a predilection formed in their first\nwarm susceptibility for the impressions of an art yet unknown to them,\neven after they have long been acquainted with better, nay, with excellent\nworks. This piece is certainly full of puerilities; the author has\nventured on the picture of violent situations and passions without\nsuspecting his own want of power; the catastrophe, more especially, which\nin horror is intended to outstrip everything conceivable, is very sillily\nintroduced, and produces merely a ludicrous effect. The whole is like the\ndrawings of children, without the observance of proportion, and without\nsteadiness of hand. With a great deal of bombast, the tone of the\ndialogue, however, has something natural, nay, even familiar, and in the\nchange of scenes we perceive a light movement, which in some degree will\naccount for the general applause received by this immature production.\n\nLilly and Marlow deserve to be noticed among the predecessors of\nShakspeare. Lilly was a scholar, and laboured to introduce a stilted\nelegance into English prose, and in the tone of dialogue, with such\nsuccess, that for a period he was the fashionable writer, and the court\nladies even formed their conversation after the model of his\n_Euphues_. His comedy in prose, _Campaspe_, is a warning example of the\nimpossibility of ever constructing, out of mere anecdotes and epigrammatic\nsallies, anything like a dramatic whole. The author was a learned witling,\nbut in no respect a poet.\n\nMarlow possessed more real talent, and was in a better way. He has handled\nthe history of Edward the Second with very little of art, it is true, but\nwith a certain truth and simplicity, so that in many scenes he does not\nfail to produce a pathetic effect. His verses are flowing, but without\nenergy: how Ben Jonson could come to use the expression \"_Marlow's\nmighty line_,\" is more than I can conceive. Shakspeare could neither\nlearn nor derive anything from the luscious manner of Lilly: but in\nMarlow's _Edward the Second_ I certainly imagine that I can discover\nthe feebler model of the earliest historical pieces of Shakspeare.\n\nOf the old comedies in Dodsley's collection, _The Pinner of Wakefielde_,\nand _Grim, the Collier of Croydon_, seem alone to belong to a period\nbefore Shakspeare. Both are not without merit, in the manner of Marionette\npieces; in the first, a popular tradition, and in the second, a merry\nlegend, is handled with hearty joviality.\n\nI have dwelt longer on the beginnings of the English theatre, than from\ntheir internal worth they deserve, because it has been affirmed recently\nin England that Shakspeare shows more affinity to the works of his\ncontemporaries now sunk in oblivion than people have hitherto been usually\ndisposed to believe. We are as little to wonder at certain outward\nresemblances, as at the similarity of the dresses in portraits of the same\nperiod. In a more limited sense, however, we apply the word resemblance\nexclusively to the relation of those features which express the spirit and\nthe mind. Moreover, such plays alone can be admitted to be a satisfactory\nproof of an assertion of this kind as are ascertained to have been written\nbefore the commencement of Shakspeare's career; for in the works of his\nyounger contemporaries, a Decker, Marston, Webster, and others, something\nof a resemblance may be very naturally accounted for: distinct traces of\nimitation of Shakspeare are sufficiently abundant. Their imitation was,\nhowever, merely confined to external appearance and separate\npeculiarities; these writers, without the virtues of their model, possess\nin reality all the faults which senseless critics have falsely censured in\nShakspeare.\n\nA sentence somewhat more favourable is merited by Chapman, the translator\nof Homer, and Thomas Heywood, if we may judge of them from the single\nspecimens of their works in Dodsley's collection. Chapman has handled the\nwell-known story of the Ephesian matron, under the title of _The Widow's\nTears_, not without comic talent. Heywood's _Woman Killed with Kindness_\nis a familiar tragedy: so early may we find examples of this species,\nwhich has been given out for new. It is the story of a wife tenderly\nbeloved by her husband, and seduced by a man whom he had loaded with\nbenefits; her sin is discovered, and the severest resolution which\nher husband can bring himself to form is to remove her from him, without\nproclaiming her dishonour; she repents, and grieves to death in bitter\nrepentence. A due gradation is not observed in the seduction, but the last\nscenes are truly agitating. A distinct avowal of a moral aim is, perhaps,\nessential to the familiar tragedy; or rather, by means of such an aim, a\npicture of human destinies, whether afflicting kings or private families,\nis drawn from the ideal sphere into the prosaic world. But when once we\nadmit the title of this subordinate species, we shall find that the\ndemands of morality and the dramatic art coincide, and that the utmost\nseverity of moral principles leads again to poetical elevation. The aspect\nof that false repentance which merely seeks exemption from punishment, is\npainful; repentance, as the pain arising from the irreparable forfeiture\nof innocence, is susceptible of a truly tragic portraiture. Let only the\nplay in question receive a happy conclusion, such as in a well-known piece\n[Footnote: The author alludes to Kotzebue's play of _Menschenhass und\nReue--(The Stranger)_.--TRANS.] has, notwithstanding this painful\nfeeling, been so generally applauded in the present day--viz., the\nreconciliation of the husband and wife, not on the death-bed of the\nrepentant sinner, but in sound mind and body, and the renewal of the\nmarriage; and it will then be found that it has not merely lost its moral,\nbut also its poetical impression.\n\nIn other respects, this piece of Heywood is very inartistic, and\ncarelessly finished: instead of duly developing the main action, the\nauthor distracts our attention by a second intrigue, which can hardly be\nsaid to have the slightest connection with the other. At this we need\nhardly be astonished, for Heywood was both a player and an excessively\nprolific author. Two hundred and twenty pieces were, he says, written\nentirely, or for the greatest part, by himself; and he was so careless\nrespecting these productions, which were probably thrown off without any\ngreat labour, that he had lost the manuscript of the most of them, and\nonly twenty-five remained for publication through the press.\n\nAll the above authors, and many others beside, whatever applause they\nobtained in their life-time, have been unsuccessful in transmitting a\nliving memorial of their works to posterity. Of Shakspeare's younger\ncontemporaries and competitors, few have attained this distinction; and of\nthese Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, are the chief.\n\nBen Jonson found in Shakspeare a ready encourager of his talents. His\nfirst piece, imperfect in many respects, _Every Man in his Humour_,\nwas by Shakspeare's intervention brought out on the stage; _Sejanus_\nwas even retouched by him, and in both he undertook a principal character.\nThis hospitable reception on the part of that great man, who was far above\nevery thing like jealousy and petty rivalry, met with a very ungrateful\nreturn. Jonson assumed a superiority over Shakspeare on account of his\nschool learning, the only point in which he really had an advantage; he\nintroduced all sorts of biting allusions into his pieces and prologues,\nand reprobated more especially those magical flights of fancy, the\npeculiar heritage of Shakspeare, as contrary to genuine taste. In his\nexcuse we must plead, that he was not born under a happy star: his pieces\nwere either altogether unsuccessful, or, compared with the astonishing\npopularity of Shakspeare's, they obtained but a small share of applause;\nmoreover, he was incessantly attacked, both on the stage and elsewhere, by\nhis rivals, as a disgraceful pedant, who pretended to know every thing\nbetter than themselves, and with all manner of satires: all this rendered\nhim extremely irritable and uneven of temper. He possessed in reality a\nvery solid understanding; he was conscious that in the exercise of his art\nhe displayed zeal and earnestness: that Nature had denied him grace, a\nquality which no labour can acquire, he could not indeed suspect. He\nthought every man may boast of his assiduity, as Lessing says on a similar\noccasion. After several failures on the stage, he formed the resolution to\ndeclare of his pieces in the outset that they were good, and that if they\nshould not please, this could only proceed from the stupidity of the\nmultitude. The epigraph on one of his unsuccessful pieces with which he\ncommitted it to the press, is highly amusing: \"As it was never acted, but\nmost negligently played by some, the King's servants, and more squeamishly\nbeheld and censured by others, the King's subjects.\"\n\nJonson was a critical poet in the good and the bad sense of the word. He\nendeavoured to form an exact estimate of what he had on every occasion to\nperform; hence he succeeded best in that species of the drama which makes\nthe principal demand on the understanding and with little call on the\nimagination and feeling,--the comedy of character. He introduced nothing\ninto his works which critical dissection should not be able to extract\nagain, as his confidence in it was such, that he conceived it exhausted\nevery thing which pleases and charms us in poetry. He was not aware that,\nin the chemical retort of the critic, what is most valuable, the volatile\nliving spirit of a poem, evaporates. His pieces are in general deficient\nin soul, in that nameless something which never ceases to attract and\nenchant us, even because it is indefinable. In the lyrical pieces, his\nMasques, we feel the want of a certain mental music of imagery and\nintonation, which the most accurate observation of difficult measures\ncannot give. He is everywhere deficient in those excellencies which,\nunsought, flow from the poet's pen, and which no artist, who purposely\nhunts for them, can ever hope to find. We must not quarrel with him,\nhowever, for entertaining a high opinion of his own works; since, whatever\nmerits they have, he owed like acquired moral properties altogether to\nhimself. The production of them was attended with labour, and\nunfortunately it is also a labour to read them. They resemble solid and\nregular, edifices, before which, however, the clumsy scaffolding still\nremains, to interrupt and prevent us from viewing the architecture with\nease, and receiving from it a harmonious impression.\n\nWe have of Jonson two tragical attempts, and a number of comedies and\nmasques.\n\nHe could have risen to the dignity of the tragic tone, but, for the\npathetic, he had not the smallest turn. As he incessantly preaches up the\nimitation of the ancients, (and he had, we cannot deny, a learned\nacquaintance with their works,) it is astonishing to observe how much his\ntwo tragedies differ, both in substance and form, from the Greek tragedy.\nFrom this example we see the influence which the prevailing tone of an\nage, and the course already pursued in any art, necessarily have upon even\nthe most independent minds. In the historical extent given by Jonson to\nhis _Sejanus_ and _Cataline_, unity of time and place were entirely out of\nthe question; and both pieces are crowded with a multitude of secondary\npersons, such as are never to be found in a Greek tragedy. In _Cataline_,\nthe prologue is spoken by the spirit of Sylla, and it bears a good deal of\nresemblance to that of Tantalus, in the _Atreus and Thyestes_ of Seneca;\nto the end of each act an instructive moralizing chorus is appended,\nwithout being duly introduced or connected with the whole. This is the\nextent of the resemblance to the ancients; in other respects, the form of\nShakspeare's historical dramas is adhered to, but without their romantic\ncharm. We cannot with certainty say, whether or not Jonson had the Roman\npieces of Shakspeare before him: it is probable that he had in _Cataline_\nat least; but, at all events, he has not learned from him the art of being\ntrue to history, and yet satisfying the demands of poetry. In Jonson's\nhands, the subject continues history, without becoming poetry; the\npolitical events which he has described have more the appearance of a\nbusiness than an action. _Cataline_ and _Sejanus_ are solid dramatic\nstudies after Sallust and Cicero, after Tacitus, Suetonius, Juvenal, and\nothers; and that is the best which we can say of them. In _Cataline_,\nwhich upon the whole is preferable to _Sejanus_, he is also to be blamed\nfor not having blended the dissimilarity of the masses. The first act\npossesses most elevation, though it disgusts us from its want of\nmoderation: we see a secret assembly of conspirators, and nature appears\nto answer the furious inspiration of wickedness by dreadful signs. The\nsecond act, which paints the intrigues and loves of depraved women, by\nmeans of which the conspiracy was brought to light, treads closely on\ncomedy; the last three acts contain a history in dialogue, developed with\nmuch good sense, but little poetical elevation. It is to be lamented that\nJonson gave only his own text of _Sejanus_ without communicating\nShakspeare's alterations. We should have been curious to know the means by\nwhich he might have attempted to give animation to the monotony of the\npiece without changing its plan, and how far his genius could adapt itself\nto another's conceptions.\n\nAfter these attempts, Jonson took his leave of the Tragic Muse, and in\nreality his talents were far better suited to Comedy, and that too merely\nthe Comedy of Character. His characterization, however, is more marked\nwith serious satire than playful ridicule: the later Roman satirists,\nrather than the comic authors, were his models. Nature had denied him that\nlight and easy raillery which plays harmlessly round every thing, and\nwhich seems to be the mere effusion of gaiety, but which is so much the\nmore philosophic, as it is not the vehicle of any definite doctrine, but\nmerely the expression of a general irony. There is more of a spirit of\nobservation than of fancy in the comic inventions of Jonson. From this\ncause his pieces are also defective in point of intrigue. He was a strong\nadvocate for the purity of the species, was unwilling to make use of any\nromantic motives, and he never had recourse to a novel for the subject of\nhis plots. But his contrivances for the entangling and disentangling his\nplot are often improbable and forced, without gaining over the imagination\nby their attractive boldness. Even where he had contrived a happy plot, he\ntook so much room for the delineation of the characters, that we often\nlose sight of the intrigue altogether, and the action lags with heavy\npace. Occasionally he reminds us of those over-accurate portrait painters,\nwho, to insure a likeness, think they must copy every mark of the small-\npox, every carbuncle or freckle. Frequently he has been suspected of\nhaving, in the delineation of particular characters, had real persons in\nhis eye, while, at the same time, he has been reproached with making his\ncharacters mere personifications of general ideas; and, however\ninconsistent with each other these reproaches may appear, they are neither\nof them, however, without some foundation. He possessed a methodical head;\nconsequently, where he had once conceived a character in its leading idea,\nhe followed it out with the utmost rigour; whatever, having no reference\nto this leading idea, served merely to give individual animation, appeared\nto him in the light of a digression. Hence his names are, for the most\npart, expressive even to an unpleasant degree of distinctness: and, to add\nto our satiety, he not unfrequently tacks explanatory descriptions to the\ndramatis personae. On the other hand, he acted upon the principle, that\nthe comic writer must exhibit real life, with a minute and petty accuracy.\nGenerally he succeeded in seizing the manners of his own age and nation:\nin itself this was deserving of praise; but even here he confined himself\ntoo much to external peculiarities, to the singularities and affectations\nof the modish tone which were then called humours, and which from their\nnature are as transient as dresses. Hence a great part of his comic very\nsoon became obsolete, and as early as the re-opening of the theatre under\nCharles II., no actors could be found who were capable of doing justice to\nsuch caricatures. Local colours like these can only be preserved from\nfading by the most complete seasoning with wit. This is what Shakspeare\nhas effected. Compare, for instance, his Osric, in _Hamlet_, with\nFastidius Brisk, in Jonson's _Every Man out of his Humour_: both are\nportraitures of the insipid affectation of a courtier of the day; but\nOsric, although he speaks his own peculiar language, will remain to the\nend of time an exact and intelligible image of foppish folly, whereas\nFastidius is merely a portrait in a dress no longer in fashion, and\nnothing more. However, Jonson has not always fallen into this error; his\nCaptain Bobadil, for example, in _Every Man in his Humour_, a beggarly and\ncowardly adventurer, who passes himself off with young and simple people\nfor a Hector, is, it is true, far from being as amusing and original as\nPistol; but he also, notwithstanding the change of manners, still remains\na model in his way, and he has been imitated by English writers of comedy\nin after times.\n\nIn the piece I have just named, the first work of Jonson, the action is\nextremely feeble and insignificant. In the following, _Every Man out of\nhis Humour_, he has gone still farther astray, in seeking the comic\neffect merely in caricatured traits, without any interest of situation: it\nis a rhapsody of ludicrous scenes without connexion and progress. The\n_Bartholomew Fair_, also, is nothing but a coarse _Bambocciate_, in which\nno more connexion is to be found than usually exists in the hubbub, the\nnoise, the quarrelling, and thefts, which attend upon such amusements of\nthe populace. Vulgar delight is too naturally portrayed; the part of the\nPuritan, however, is deserving of distinction: his casuistical\nconsultation, whether he ought to eat a sucking-pig according to the\ncustom of the fair, and his lecture afterwards against puppet-shows as a\nheathen idolatry, are inimitable, and full of the most biting salt of\ncomedy. Ben Jonson did not then foresee that, before the lapse of one\ngeneration, the Puritans would be sufficiently powerful to take a very\nsevere revenge on his art, on account of similar railleries.\n\nIn so far as plot is concerned, the greatest praise is merited by\n_Volpone, The Alchemist_, and _Epicoene, or the Silent Woman_. In\n_Volpone_ Jonson for once has entered into Italian manners, without,\nhowever, taking an ideal view of them. The leading idea is admirable, and\nfor the most part worked out with masterly skill. Towards the end,\nhowever, the whole turns too much on swindling and villany, which\nnecessarily call for the interference of criminal justice, and the piece,\nfrom the punishment of the guilty, has everything but a merry conclusion.\nIn the _Alchemist_, both the deceivers and deceived supply a fund of\nentertainment, only the author enters too deeply into the learning of\nalchemy. Of an unintelligible jargon very short specimens at most ought to\nbe given in comedy, and it is best that they should also have a secondary\nsignification, of which the person who uses the mysterious language should\nnot himself be aware; when carried to too great a length, the use of them\noccasions as much weariness as the writings themselves which served as a\nmodel. In _The Devil's an Ass_ the poet has failed to draw due advantage\nfrom a fanciful invention with which he opens, but which indeed was not\nhis own; and our expectation, after being once deceived, causes us to\nremain dissatisfied with other scenes however excellently comic.\n\nOf all Jonson's pieces there is hardly one which, as it stands, would\nplease on the stage in the present day, even as most of them failed to\nplease in his own time; extracts from them, however, could hardly fail to\nbe successful. In general, much might be borrowed from him, and much might\nbe learned both from his merits and defects. His characters are, for the\nmost part, solidly and judiciously drawn; what he most fails in, is the\nart of setting them off by the contrast of situations. He has seldom\nplanned his scenes so successfully in this respect as in _Every Man in\nhis Humour_, where the jealous merchant is called off to an important\nbusiness, when his wife is in expectation of a visit of which he is\nsuspicious, and when he is anxious to station his servant as a sentinel,\nwithout however confiding his secret to him, because, above all things he\ndreads the discovery of his own jealousy. This scene is a master-piece,\nand if Jonson had always so composed, we must have been obliged to rank\nhim among the first of comic writers.\n\nMerely lest we should be charged with an omission do we mention _The\nMasques_: allegorical, occasional pieces, chiefly designed for court\nfestivals, and decorated with machinery, masked dresses, dancing, and\nsinging. This secondary species died again nearly with Jonson himself; the\nonly subsequent production in this way of any fame is the _Comus_ of\nMilton. When allegory is confined to mere personification, it must\ninfallibly turn out very frigid in a play; the action itself must be\nallegorical, and in this respect there are many ingenious inventions, but\nthe Spanish poets have almost alone furnished us with successful examples\nof it. The peculiarity of Jonson's _Masques_ most deserving of remark\nseems to me to be the anti-masque, as they are called, which the poet\nhimself sometimes attaches to his own invention, and generally allows to\nprecede the serious act. As the ideal flatteries, for whose sake the gods\nhave been brought down from Olympus, are but too apt to fall into\nmawkishness, this antidote on such occasions is certainly deserving of\ncommendation.\n\nBen Jonson, who in all his pieces took a mechanical view of art, bore a\nfarther resemblance to the master of a handicraft in taking an apprentice.\nHe had a servant of the name of Broome, who formed himself as a theatrical\nwriter from the conversation and instructions of his master, and brought\ncomedies on the stage with applause.\n\nBeaumont and Fletcher are always named together, as if they had been two\ninseparable poets, whose works were all planned and executed in common.\nThis idea, however, is not altogether correct. We know, indeed, but little\nof the circumstances of their lives: this much however is known, that\nBeaumont died very young; and that Fletcher survived his younger friend\nten years, and was so unremittingly active in his career as a dramatic\npoet, that several of his plays were first brought on the stage after his\ndeath, and some which he left unfinished were completed by another hand.\nThe pieces collected under both names amount to upwards of fifty; and of\nthis number it is probable that the half must be considered as the work of\nFletcher alone. Beaumont and Fletcher's works did not make their\nappearance until a short time after the death of the latter; the\npublishers have not given themselves the trouble to distinguish critically\nthe share which belonged to each, and still less to afford us any\ninformation respecting the diversity of their talents. Some of their\ncontemporaries have attributed boldness of imagination to Fletcher, and a\nmature judgment to his friend: the former, according to their opinion, was\nthe inventive genius; the latter, the directing and moderating critic. But\nthis account rests on no foundation. It is now impossible to distinguish\nwith certainty the hand of each; nor would the knowledge repay the labour.\nAll the pieces ascribed to them, whether they proceed from one alone or\nfrom both, are composed in the same spirit and in the same manner. Hence\nit is probable that it was not so much the need of supplying the\ndeficiencies of each other, as the great resemblance of their way of\nthinking, which induced them to continue so long and so inseparably\nunited.\n\nBeaumont and Fletcher began their career in the lifetime of Shakspeare:\nBeaumont even died before him, and Fletcher only survived him nine years.\nFrom some allusions in the way of parody, we may conclude that they\nentertained no very extravagant admiration of their great predecessor;\nfrom whom, nevertheless, they both learned much, and unquestionably\nborrowed many of their thoughts. In the whole form of their plays they\nfollowed his example, regardless of the different principles of Ben Jonson\nand of the imitation of the ancients. Like him they drew from novels and\nromances; they combined pathetic and burlesque scenes in the same play,\nand, by the concatenation of the incidents, endeavoured to excite the\nimpression of the extraordinary and the wonderful. A wish to surpass\nShakspeare in this species is often evident enough; contemporary\neulogists, indeed, have no hesitation in ranking Shakspeare far below\nthem, and assert that the English stage was first brought to perfection by\nBeaumont and Fletcher. And, in reality, Shakspeare's fame was in some\ndegree eclipsed by them in the generation which immediately succeeded, and\nin the time of Charles II. they still enjoyed greater popularity: the\nprogress of time, however, has restored all three to their due places. As\non the stage the highest excellence will wear out by frequent repetition,\nand novelty always possesses a great charm, the dramatic art is,\nconsequently, much influenced by fashion; it is more than other branches\nof literature and the fine arts exposed to the danger of passing rapidly\nfrom a grand and simple style to dazzling and superficial mannerism.\n\nBeaumont and Fletcher were in fact men of the most distinguished talents;\nthey scarcely wanted anything more than a profounder seriousness of mind,\nand that artistic sagacity which everywhere observes a due measure, to\nrank beside the greatest dramatic poets of all nations. They possessed\nextraordinary fecundity and flexibility of mind, and a facility which\nhowever too often degenerated into carelessness. The highest perfection\nthey have hardly ever attained; and I should have little hesitation in\naffirming that they had not even an idea of it: however, on several\noccasions they have approached quite close to it. And why was it denied\nthem to take this last step? Because with them poetry was not an inward\ndevotion of the feeling and imagination, but a means to obtain brilliant\nresults. Their first object was effect, which the great artist can hardly\nfail of attaining if he is determined above all things to satisfy himself.\nThey were not like the most of their predecessors, players, [Footnote: In\nthe privilege granted by James I. to the royal players, a _Laurence\nFletcher_ is named along with Shakspeare as manager of the company. The\npoet's name was John Fletcher. Perhaps the former might be his brother or\nnear relation.] but they lived in the neighbourhood of the theatre, were\nin constant intercourse with it, and possessed a perfect understanding of\ntheatrical matters. They were also thoroughly acquainted with their\ncontemporaries; but they found it more convenient to lower themselves to\nthe taste of the public than to follow the example of Shakspeare, who\nelevated the public to himself. They lived in a vigorous age, which more\nwillingly pardoned extravagancies of every description than feeblenesss\nand frigidity. They therefore never allowed themselves to be restrained by\npoetical or moral considerations; and in this confidence they found their\naccount: they resemble in some measure somnambulists, who with closed eyes\npass safely through the greatest dangers. Even when they undertake what is\nmost depraved they handle it with a certain felicity. In the commencement\nof a degeneracy in the dramatic art, the spectators first lose the\ncapability of judging of a play as a whole; hence Beaumont and Fletcher\nbestow very little attention on harmony of composition and the observance\nof due proportion between all the different parts. They not unfrequently\nlose sight of a happily framed plot, and appear almost to forget it; they\nbring something else forward equally capable of affording pleasure and\nentertainment, but without preparation, and in the particular place where\nit occurs without propriety. They always excite curiosity, frequently\ncompassion--they hurry us along with them; they succeed better, however,\nin exciting than in gratifying our expectation. So long as we are reading\nthem we feel ourselves keenly interested; but they leave very few\nimperishable impressions behind. They are least successful in their tragic\nattempts, because their feeling is not sufficiently drawn from the depths\nof human nature, and because they bestowed too little attention on the\ngeneral consideration of human destinies: they succeed much better in\nComedy, and in those serious and pathetic pictures which occupy a middle\nplace betwixt Comedy and Tragedy. Their characters are often arbitrarily\ndrawn, and, when it suits the momentary wants of the poet, become even\nuntrue to themselves; in external matters they are tolerably in keeping.\nBeaumont and Fletcher employ the whole strength of their talents in\npictures of passion; but they enter little into the secret history of the\nheart; they pass over the first emotions and the gradual heightening of a\nfeeling; they seize it, as it were, in its highest maturity, and then\ndevelope its symptoms with the most overpowering illusion, though with an\nexaggerated strength and fulness. But though its expression does not\nalways possess the strictest truth, nevertheless it still appears natural,\nevery thing has free motion; nothing is laboriously constrained or far-\nfetched, however striking it may sometimes appear. In their dialogue they\nhave completely succeeded in uniting the familiar tone of real\nconversation and the appearance of momentary suggestion with poetical\nelevation. They even run into that popular affectation of the natural\nwhich has ensured such great success to some dramatic poets of our own\ntime; but as the latter sought it in the absence of all elevation of\nfancy, they could not help falling into insipidity. Beaumont and Fletcher\ngenerally couple nature with fancy; they succeed in giving an\nextraordinary appearance to what is common, and thus preserve a certain\nfallacious image of the ideal. The morality of these writers is ambiguous.\nNot that they failed in strong colours to contrast greatness of soul and\ngoodness with baseness and wickedness, or did not usually conclude with\nthe disgrace and punishment of the latter, but an ostentatious generosity\nis often favourably exhibited in lieu of duty and justice. Every thing\ngood and excellent in their pictures arises more from transient ebullition\nthan fixed principle; they seem to place the virtues in the blood; and\nclose beside them impulses of merely a selfish and instinctive nature hold\nup their heads, as if they were of nobler origin. There is an incurable\nvulgar side of human nature which, when he cannot help but show it, the\npoet should never handle without a certain bashfulness; but instead of\nthis Beaumont and Fletcher throw no veil whatever over nature. They\nexpress every thing bluntly in words; they make the spectator the\nunwilling confidant of all that more noble minds endeavour even to hide\nfrom themselves. The indecencies in which these poets indulged themselves\ngo beyond conception. Licentiousness of language is the least evil; many\nscenes, nay, even whole plots, are so contrived that the very idea, not to\nmention the beholding of them, is a gross insult to modesty. Aristophanes\nis a bold mouth-piece of sensuality; but like the Grecian statuaries in\nthe figures of satyrs, &c., he banishes them into the animal kingdom to\nwhich they wholly belong; and judging him by the morality of his times, he\nis much less offensive. But Beaumont and Fletcher hold up to view the\nimpure and nauseous colours of vice in quite a different sphere; their\ncompositions resemble the sheet, in the vision of the Apostle, full of\npure and impure animals. This was the universal tendency of the dramatic\npoets under James and Charles I. They seem as if they purposely wished to\njustify the assertion of the Puritans, that theatres were so many schools\nof seduction and chapels of the Devil.\n\nTo those who merely read for amusement and general cultivation, we can\nonly recommend the works of Beaumont and Fletcher with some limitation\n[Footnote: Hence I cannot approve of the undertaking, which has been\nrecently commenced, of translating them into German. They are not at all\nadapted for our great public, and whoever makes a particular study of\ndramatic poetry will have little difficulty in finding his way to the\noriginals.]. For the practical artist, however, and the critical judge of\ndramatic poetry, an infinite deal may be learned from them; as well from\ntheir merits as their extravagancies. A minute dissection of one of their\nworks, for which we have not here the necessary space, would serve to\nplace this in the clearest light. With regard to representation, these\npieces had, in their day, this advantage, that they did not require such\ngreat actors to fill the principal characters as Shakspeare's plays did.\nIn order to bring them on the stage in our days, it would be necessary to\nre-cast most of them; which might be done with some of them by omitting,\nmoderating, and purging various passages [Footnote: So far as I know only\none play has yet been brought on the German theatre, namely, _Rule a Wife\nand have a Wife_, re-written by Schr\u00f6der under the title of _Stille Wasser\nsind tief_ (Still Waters run deep) which, when well acted, has always been\nuncommonly well received.].\n\n_The Two Noble Kinsmen_ is deserving of more particular mention, as\nit is the joint production of Shakspeare and Fletcher. I see no ground for\ncalling this in question; the piece, it is true, did not make its\nappearance till after the death of both; but what could be the motive with\nthe editor or printer for any deception, as Fletcher's name was at the\ntime in as great, at least, if not greater celebrity than Shakspeare's?\nWere it the sole production of Fletcher, it would, undoubtedly, have to be\nranked as the best of his serious and heroic pieces. However, it would be\nunfair to a writer of talent to take from him a work simply because it\nseems too good for him. Might not Fletcher, who in his thoughts and images\nnot unfrequently shows an affinity to Shakspeare, have for once had the\ngood fortune to approach closer to him than usual? It would still be more\ndangerous to rest on the similarity of separate passages to others in\nShakspeare. This might rather arise from imitation. I rely therefore\nentirely on the historical statement, which, probably, originated in a\ntradition of the players. There are connoisseurs, who, in the pictures of\nRaphael, (which, as is well know, were not always wholly executed by\nhimself,) take upon them to determine what parts were painted by Francesco\nPenni, or Giulio Romano, or some other scholar. I wish them success with\nthe nicety of their discrimination; they are at least secure from\ncontradiction, as we have no certain information on the subject. I would\nonly remind these connoisseurs, that Giulio Romano was himself deceived by\na copy from Raphael of Andrea del Sarto's, and that, too, with regard to a\nfigure which he had himself assisted in painting. The case in point is,\nhowever, a much more complicated problem in criticism. The design of\nRaphael's figures was at least his own, and the execution only was\ndistributed in part among his scholars. But to find out how much of _The\nTwo Noble Kinsmen_ may belong to Shakspeare, we must not only be able\nto tell the difference of hands in the execution, but also to determine\nthe influence of Shakspeare on the plan of the whole. When, however, he\nonce joined another poet in the production of a work, he must also have\naccommodated himself, in a certain degree, to his views, and renounced the\nprerogative of unfolding his inmost peculiarity. Amidst so many grounds\nfor doubting, if I might be allowed to hazard an opinion, I should say,\nthat I think I can perceive the mind of Shakspeare in a certain ideal\npurity, which distinguishes this piece from all others of Fletcher's, and\nin the conscientious fidelity with which the story adheres to that of\nChaucer's _Palamon and Arcite_. In the style Shakspeare's hand is at\nfirst discoverable in a brevity and fulness of thought bordering on\nobscurity; in the colour of the expression, almost all the poets of that\ntime bear a strong resemblance to each other. The first acts are most\ncarefully laboured; afterwards the piece is drawn out to too great a\nlength and in an epic manner; the dramatic law of quickening the action\ntowards the conclusion, is not sufficiently observed. The part of the\njailor's daughter, whose insanity is artlessly conducted in pure\nmonologues, is certainly not Shakspeare's; for, in that case, we must\nsuppose him to have had an intention of arrogantly imitating his own\nOphelia.\n\nMoreover, it was then a very general custom for two or even three poets to\njoin together in the production of one play. Besides the constant example\nof Beaumont and Fletcher, we have many others. The consultations,\nrespecting the plan, were generally held at merry meetings in taverns.\nUpon one of these occasions it happened that one in a poetical\nintoxication calling out, \"I will undertake to kill the king!\" was\nimmediately taken into custody as a traitor, till the misunderstanding was\ncleared up. This mode of composing may answer very well in the lighter\nspecies of the drama, which require to be animated by social wit. With\nregard to theatrical effect, four eyes may, in general, see better than\ntwo, and mutual objections may be of use in finding out the most suitable\nmeans. But the highest poetical inspiration is much more eremitical than\ncommunicative; for it always seeks to express something which sets\nlanguage at defiance, which, therefore, can only be weakened and\ndissipated by detached words, and can only be attained by the common\nimpression of the complete work, whose idea is hovering before it.\n\n_The Knight of the Burning Pestle_, of Beaumont and Fletcher, is an\nincomparable work and singular in its kind. It is a parody of the chivalry\nromances; the thought is borrowed from _Don Quixote_, but the imitation is\nhandled with freedom, and so particularly applied to Spenser's _Fairy\nQueen_, that it may pass for a second invention. But the peculiarly\ningenious novelty of the piece consists in the combination of the irony of\na chimerical abuse of poetry with another irony exactly the contrary, of\nthe incapacity to comprehend any fable, and the dramatic form more\nparticularly. A grocer and his wife come as spectators to the theatre:\nthey are discontented with the piece which has just been announced; they\ndemand a play in honour of the corporation, and Ralph, their apprentice,\nis to act a principal part in it. Their humour is complied with; but still\nthey are not satisfied, make their remarks on every thing, and incessantly\naddress themselves to the players. Ben Jonson had already exhibited\nimaginary spectators, but they were either benevolent expounders or\nawkward censurers of the poet's views: consequently, they always conducted\nhis, the poet's, own cause. But the grocer and his wife represent a whole\ngenus, namely, those unpoetical spectators, who are destitute of a feeling\nfor art. The illusion with them becomes a passive error; the subject\nrepresented has on them all the effect of reality, they accordingly resign\nthemselves to the impression of each moment, and take part for or against\nthe persons of the drama. On the other hand, they show themselves\ninsensible to all genuine illusion, that is, of entering vividly into the\nspirit of the fable: for them Ralph, however heroically and chivalrously\nhe may conduct himself, is always Ralph their apprentice; and in the whim\nof the moment they take upon them to demand scenes which are quite\ninconsistent with the plan of the piece that has been commenced. In short,\nthe views and demands with which poets are often oppressed by a prosaical\npublic are very cleverly and amusingly personified in these caricatures of\nspectators.\n\n_The Faithful Shepherdess_, a pastoral, is highly extolled by some\nEnglish critics, as it is without doubt finished with great care, in\nrhymed, and partly, in lyrical verses. Fletcher wished also to be\nclassical for once, and did violence to his natural talent. Perhaps he had\nthe intention of surpassing Shakspeare's _Midsummer Night's Dream_;\nbut the composition which he has ushered into the world is as heavy as\nthat of the other was easy and a\u00ebrial. The piece is overcharged with\nmythology and rural painting, is untheatrical, and so far from pourtraying\nthe genuine ideality of a pastoral world, it even contains the greatest\nvulgarities. We might rather call it an immodest eulogy of chastity. I am\nwilling to hope that Fletcher was unacquainted with the _Pastor Fido_\nof Guarini, for otherwise his failure would admit of less justification.\n\nWe are in want of space to speak in detail of the remaining works of\nBeaumont and Fletcher, although they might be made the subject of many\ninstructive observations. On the whole, we may say of these writers that\nthey have built a splendid palace, but merely in the suburbs of poetry,\nwhile Shakspeare has his royal residence in the very centre point of the\ncapital.\n\nThe fame of Massinger has been lately revived by an edition of his works.\nSome literary men wish to rank him above Beaumont and Fletcher, as if he\nhad approached more closely to the excellence of Shakspeare. I cannot see\nit. He appears to me to bear the greatest resemblance to Beaumont and\nFletcher in the plan of the pieces, in the tone of manners, and even in\nthe language and negligences of versification. I would not undertake to\ndecide, from internal symptoms, whether a play belonged to Massinger, or\nBeaumont and Fletcher. This applies also to the other contemporaries; for\ninstance, to Shirley, of whose pieces two are stated to have crept into\nthe works ascribed to the two last-named poets. There was (as already\nsaid) at this time in England a school of dramatic art, a school of which\nShakspeare was the invisible and too often unacknowledged head; for Ben\nJonson remained almost without successors. It is a characteristic of what\nis called manner in art to efface the features of personal originality,\nand to make the productions of various artists bear a resemblance to each\nother; and from manner no dramatic poet of this age, who succeeded\nShakspeare, can be pronounced altogether free. When, however, we compare\ntheir works with those of the succeeding age, we perceive between them\nsomething about the same relation as between the paintings of the school\nof Michel Angelo and those of the last half of the seventeenth and the\nfirst half of the eighteenth century. Both are tainted with manner; but\nthe manner of the former bears the trace of a sublime origin in the first\nages; in the latter, all is little, affected, empty, and superficial. I\nrepeat it: in a general history of the dramatic art, the first period of\nthe English theatre is the only one of importance. The plays of the least\nknown writers of that time, (I venture to affirm this, though I am far\nfrom being acquainted with all of them) are more instructive for theory,\nand more remarkable, than the most celebrated of all the succeeding times.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXVIII.\n\nClosing of the Stage by the Puritans--Revival of the Stage under Charles\nthe Second--Depravity of Taste and Morals--Dryden, Otway, and others--\nCharacterization of the Comic Poets from Wycherley and Congreve to the\nmiddle of the eighteenth century--Tragedies of the same Period--Rowe--\nAddison's _Cato_--Later Pieces--Familiar Tragedy: Lillo--Garrick--\nLatest state.\n\n\nIn this condition nearly the theatre remained under the reign of Charles\nI. down to the year 1647, when the invectives of the Puritans (who had\nlong murmured at the theatre, and at last thundered loudly against it,)\nwere changed into laws. To act, or even to be a spectator of plays was\nprohibited under a severe penalty. A civil war followed, and the\nextraordinary circumstance here happened, that the players, (who, in\ngeneral, do not concern themselves much about forms of government, and\nwhose whole care is usually devoted to the peaceable entertainment of\ntheir follow-citizens,) compelled by want, joined that political party the\ninterests of which were intimately connected with their own existence.\nAlmost all of them entered the army of the King, many perished for the\ngood cause, the survivors returned to London and continued to exercise\ntheir art in secret. Out of the ruins of all the former companies of\nactors, one alone was formed, which occasionally, though with very great\ncaution, gave representations at the country seats of the great, in the\nvicinity of London. For among the other singularities to which the\nviolence of those times gave rise, it was considered a proof of attachment\nto the old constitution to be fond of plays, and to reward and harbour\nthose who acted them in private houses.\n\nFortunately the Puritans did not so well understand the importance of a\ncensorship as the Governments of our day, or the yet unprinted dramatic\nproductions of the preceding age could not have issued from the press, by\nwhich means many of them would have been irrecoverably lost. These gloomy\nfanatics were such enemies of all that was beautiful, that they not only\npersecuted every liberal mental entertainment, calculated in any manner to\nadorn life, and more especially the drama, as being a public worship of\nBaal, but they even shut their ears to church music, as a demoniacal\nhowling. If their ascendency had been maintained much longer, England must\ninfallibly have been plunged in an irremediable barbarity. The oppression\nof the drama continued down to the year 1660, when the free exercise of\nall arts returned with Charles II.\n\nThe influence which the government of this monarch had on the manners and\nspirit of the time, and the natural reaction against the principles\npreviously dominant, are sufficiently well known. As the Puritans had\nbrought republican principles and religious zeal into universal odium, so\nthis light-minded monarch seemed expressly born to sport away all respect\nfor the kingly dignity. England was inundated with foreign follies and\nvices in his train. The court set the fashion of the most undisguised\nimmorality, and its example was the more contagious, the more people\nimagined that they could only show their zeal for the new order of things\nby an extravagant way of thinking and living. The fanaticism of the\nrepublicans had been associated with strictness of manners, nothing\ntherefore could be more easy and agreeable than to obtain the character of\nroyalists, by the extravagant indulgence of all lawful and unlawful\npleasures. Nowhere was the age of Louis XIV. imitated with greater\ndepravity. But the prevailing gallantry of the court of France had its\nreserve and a certain delicacy of feeling; they sinned (if I may so speak)\nwith some degree of dignity, and no man ventured to attack what was\nhonourable, however at variance with it his own actions might be. The\nEnglish played a part which was altogether unnatural to them: they gave\nthemselves up heavily to levity; they everywhere confounded the coarsest\nlicentiousness with free mental vivacity, and did not perceive that the\nkind of grace which is still compatible with depravity, disappears with\nthe last veil which it throws off.\n\nWe can easily conceive the turn which, under such auspices, the new\nformation of taste must have taken. There existed no real knowledge of the\nfine arts, which were favoured merely like other foreign fashions and\ninventions of luxury. The age neither felt a true want of poetry, nor had\nany relish for it: in it they merely wished for a light and brilliant\nentertainment. The theatre, which in its former simplicity had attracted\nthe spectators solely by the excellence of the dramatic works and the\nskill of the actors, was now furnished out with all the appliances with\nwhich we are at this day familiar; but what it gained in external\ndecoration, it lost in internal worth.\n\nTo Sir William Davenant, the English theatre, on its revival after the\ninterruption which we have so often mentioned, owes its new institution,\nif this term may be here used. He introduced the Italian system of\ndecoration, the _costume_, as it was then well or ill understood, the\nopera music, and in general the use of the orchestra. For this undertaking\nCharles II. had furnished him with extensive privileges. Davenant was a\nsort of adventurer and wit; in every way worthy of the royal favour; to\nenjoy which, dignity of character was never a necessary requisite. He set\nhimself to work in every way that a rich theatrical repertory may render\nnecessary; he made alterations of old pieces, and also wrote himself\nplays, operas, prologues, &c. But of all his writings nothing has escaped\na merited oblivion.\n\nDryden soon became and long remained the hero of the stage. This man, from\nhis influence in fixing the laws of versification and poetical language,\nespecially in rhyme, has acquired a reputation altogether disproportionate\nto his true merit. We shall not here inquire whether his translations of\nthe Latin poets are not manneristical paraphrases, whether his political\nallegories (now that party interest is dead) can be read without the\ngreatest weariness; but confine ourselves to his plays, which considered\nrelatively to his great reputation, are incredibly bad. Dryden had a gift\nof flowing and easy versification; the knowledge which he possessed was\nconsiderable, but undigested; and all this was coupled with the talent of\ngiving a certain appearance of novelty to what however was borrowed from\nall quarters; his serviceable muse was the resource of an irregular life.\nHe had besides an immeasurable vanity; he frequently disguises it under\nhumble prologues; on other occasions he speaks out boldly and confidently,\navowing his opinion that he has done better than Shakspeare, Fletcher, and\nJonson (whom he places nearly on the same level); all the merit of this he\nis, however, willing to ascribe to the refinement and advances of the age.\nThe age indeed! as if that of Elizabeth compared with the one in which\nDryden lived, were not in every respect \"Hyperion to a Satyr!\" Dryden\nplayed also the part of the critic: he furnished his pieces richly with\nprefaces and treatises on dramatic poetry, in which he chatters most\nconfusedly about the genius of Shakspeare and Fletcher, and about the\nentirely opposite example of Corneille; of the original boldness of the\nBritish stage, and of the rules of Aristotle and Horace.--He imagined that\nhe had invented a new species, namely the Heroic Drama; as if Tragedy had\nnot from its very nature been always heroical! If we are, however, to seek\nfor a heroic drama which is not peculiarly tragic, we shall find it among\nthe Spaniards, who had long possessed it in the greatest perfection. From\nthe uncommon facility of rhyming which Dryden possessed, it cost him\nlittle labour to compose the most of his serious pieces entirely in rhyme.\nWith the English, the rhymed verse of ten syllables supplies the place of\nthe Alexandrine; it has more freedom in its pauses, but on the other hand\nit wants the alternation of male and female rhymes; it proceeds in pairs\nexactly like the French Alexandrine, and in point of syllabic measure it\nis still more uniformly symmetrical. It therefore unavoidably communicates\na great stiffness to the dialogue. The manner of the older English poets\nbefore them, who generally used blank verse, and only occasionally\nintroduced rhymes, was infinitely preferable. But, since then, on the\nother hand, rhyme has come to be too exclusively rejected.\n\nDryden's plans are improbable, even to silliness; the incidents are all\nthrown out without forethought; the most wonderful theatrical strokes fall\nincessantly from the clouds. He cannot be said to have drawn a single\ncharacter; for there is not a spark of nature in his dramatic personages.\nPassions, criminal and magnanimous sentiments, flow with indifferent\nlevity from their lips, without ever having dwelt in the heart: their\nchief delight is in heroical boasting. The tone of expression is by turns\nflat or madly bombastical; not unfrequently both at the same time: in\nshort, this poet resembles a man who walks upon stilts in a morass. His\nwit is displayed in far-fetched sophistries; his imagination in long-spun\nsimilies, awkwardly introduced. All these faults have been ridiculed by\nthe Duke of Buckingham in his comedy of _The Rehearsal_. Dryden was\nmeant under the name of Bayes, though some features are taken from\nDavenant and other contemporary writers. The vehicle of this critical\nsatire might have been more artificial and diversified; the matter,\nhowever is admirable, and the separate parodies are very amusing and\ningenious. The taste for this depraved manner was, however, too prevalent\nto be restrained by the efforts of so witty a critic, who was at the same\ntime a grandee of the kingdom.\n\nOtway and Lee were younger competitors of Dryden in tragedy. Otway lived\nin poverty, and died young; under more favourable circumstances greater\nthings perhaps would have been done by him. His first pieces in rhyme are\nimitations of Dryden's manner; he also imitated the _Berenice_ of Racine.\nTwo of his pieces in blank verse have kept possession of the stage--_The\nOrphan_ and _Venice Preserved_. These tragedies are far from being good;\nbut there is matter in them, especially in the last; and amidst much empty\ndeclamation there are some truly pathetic passages. How little Otway\nunderstood the true rules of composition may be inferred from this, that\nhe has taken the half of the scenes of his _Caius Marius_ verbally, or\nwith disfiguring changes, from the _Romeo and Juliet_ of Shakspeare.\nNothing more incongruous can well he conceived, than such an episode in\nRoman manners, and in a historical drama. This impudent plagiarism is in\nno manner justified by his confessing it.\n\nDryden altered pieces of Shakspeare; for then, and even long afterwards,\nevery person thought himself qualified for this task. He also wrote\ncomedies; but Wycherley and Congreve were the first to acquire a name in\nthis species of composition. The mixed romantic drama was now laid\nentirely aside; all was either tragedy or comedy. The history of each of\nthese species will therefore admit of being separately handled--if,\nindeed, that can be correctly said to have a history where we can perceive\nno progressive development, but mere standing still, or even retrograding,\nand an inconstant fluctuation in all directions. However, the English,\nunder Charles II. and Queen Anne, and down to the middle of the eighteenth\ncentury, had a series of comic writers, who may be all considered as\nbelonging to one common class; for the only considerable diversity among\nthem arises merely from an external circumstance, the varying tone of\nmanners.\n\nI have elsewhere in these Lectures shown that elegance of form is of the\ngreatest importance in Comedy, as from the want of care in this respect it\nis apt to degenerate into a mere prosaical imitation of reality, and\nthereby to forfeit its pretensions to rank as either poetry or art. It is\nexactly, however, in the form, that the English comedies are most\nnegligent. In the first place, they are written entirely in prose. It has\nbeen well remarked by an English critic, that the banishment of verse from\nComedy had even a prejudicial influence on versification in Tragedy. The\nolder dramatists could elevate or lower the tone of their Iambics at\npleasure; from the exclusion of this verse from familiar dialogue, it has\nbecome more pompous and inflexible. Shakspeare's comic scenes, it is true,\nare also written, for the most part, in prose; but in the Mixed Comedy,\nwhich has a serious, wonderful, or pathetic side, the prose, mixed with\nthe elevated language of verse, serves to mark the contrast between vulgar\nand ideal sentiments; it is a positive means of exhibition. Continued\nprose in Comedy is nothing but the natural language, on which the poet has\nfailed to employ his skill to refine and smoothe it down, while apparently\nhe seems the more careful to give an accurate imitation of it: it is that\nprose which Moli\u00e8re's Bourgeois Gentilhomme has been speaking his whole\nlifetime without suspecting it.\n\nMoreover, the English comic poets tie themselves down too little to the\nunity of place. I have on various occasions declared that I consider\nchange of scene even a requisite, whenever a drama is to possess\nhistorical extent or the magic of romance. But in the comedy of common\nlife the case is somewhat altogether different. I am convinced that it\nwould almost always have had a beneficial influence on the conduct of the\naction in the English plays, if their authors had, in this respect,\nsubjected themselves to stricter laws.\n\nThe lively trickery of the Italian masks has always found a more\nunfavourable reception in England than in France. The fool or clown in\nShakspeare's comedies is far more of an ironical humorist than a mimical\nbuffoon. Intrigue in real life is foreign to the Northern nations, both\nfrom the virtues and the defects of their character; they have too much\nopenness of disposition, and too little acuteness and nicety of\nunderstanding. It is remarkable that, with greater violence of passion,\nthe Southern nations possess, nevertheless, in a much higher degree the\ntalent of dissembling. In the North, life is wholly founded on mutual\nconfidence. Hence, in the drama, the spectators, from being less practised\nin intrigue, are less inclined to be delighted with concealment of views\nand their success by bold artifice, and with the presence of mind which,\nin unexpected events of an untoward nature, readily extricates its\npossessor from embarrassment. However, there may be an intrigue in Comedy,\nin the dramatic sense, though none of the persons carry on what is\nproperly called intrigue. Still it is in the entangling and disentangling\ntheir plots that the English comic writers are least deserving of praise.\nTheir plans are defective in unity. From this reproach I have, I conceive,\nsufficiently exculpated Shakspeare; it is rather merited by many of\nFletcher's pieces. When, indeed, the imagination has a share in the\ncomposition, then it is far from being as necessary that all should be\naccurately connected together by cause and effect, as when the whole is\nframed and held together exclusively by the understanding. The existence\nof a double or even triple intrigue in many modern English comedies has\nbeen acknowledged even by English critics themselves. [Footnote: Among\nothers, by the anonymous author of a clever letter to Garrick, prefixed to\nCoxeter's edition of _Massinger's Works_, who says--\"What with their\nplots, and double plots, and counter-plots, and under-plots, the mind is\nas much perplexed to piece out the story as to put together the disjointed\nparts of an ancient drama.\"] The inventions to which they have recourse\nare often everything but probable, without charming us by their happy\nnovelty; they are chiefly deficient, however, in perspicuity and easy\ndevelopment. Most English comedies are much too long. The authors overload\ntheir composition with characters: and we can see no reason why they\nshould not have divided them into several pieces. It is as if we were to\ncompel to travel in the same stage-coach a greater number of persons, all\nstrangers to each other, than there is properly room for; the journey\nbecomes more inconvenient, and the entertainment not a whit more lively.\n\nThe great merit of the English comic poets of this period consists in the\ndelineation of character; yet though many have certainly shown much\ntalent, I cannot ascribe to any a peculiar genius for characterization.\nEven in this department the older poets (not only Shakspeare, for that may\neasily be supposed, but even Fletcher and Jonson) are superior to them.\nThe moderns seldom possess the faculty of seizing the most hidden and\ninvoluntary emotions, and giving a comic expression to them; they\ngenerally draw merely the natural or assumed surface of men. Moreover, the\nsame circumstance which in France, after Moli\u00e8re's time, was attended with\nsuch prejudicial effects, came here also into play. The comic muse,\ninstead of becoming familiar with life in the middle and lower ranks (her\nproper sphere), assumed an air of distinction: she squeezed herself into\ncourts, and endeavoured to snatch a resemblance of the _beau monde_.\nIt was now no longer an English national, but a London comedy. The whole\nturns almost exclusively on fashionable love-suits and fashionable\nraillery; the love-affairs are either disgusting or insipid, and the\nraillery is always puerile and destitute of wit. These comic writers may\nhave accurately hit the tone of their time; in this they did their duty;\nbut they have reared a lamentable memorial of their age. In few periods\nhas taste in the fine arts been at such a low ebb as about the close of\nthe seventeenth and during the first half of the eighteenth century. The\npolitical machine kept its course; wars, negotiations, and changes of\nstates, give to this age a certain historical splendour; but the comic\npoets and portrait-painters have revealed to us the secret of its\npitifulness--the former in their copies of the dresses, and the latter in\nthe imitation of the social tone. I am convinced that if we could now\nlisten to the conversation of the _beau monde_ of that day, it would\nappear to us as pettily affected and full of tasteless pretension, as the\nhoops, the towering head-dresses and high-heeled shoes of the women, and\nthe huge perukes, cravats, wide sleeves, and ribbon-knots of the men.\n[Footnote: When I make good or bad taste in dress an infallible criterion\nof social elegance or deformity, this must be limited to the age in which\nthe fashion came up; for it may sometimes be very difficult to overturn a\nwretched fashion even when, in other things, a better taste has long\nprevailed. The dresses of the ancients were more simple, and consequently\nless subject to change of fashion; and the male dress, in particular, was\nalmost unchangeable. However, even from the dresses alone, as we see them\nin the remains of antiquity, we may form a pretty accurate judgment of the\ncharacter of the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Romans. In the female\nportrait-busts of the time of the later Roman emperors, we often find the\nhead-dresses extremely tasteless; nay, even busts with peruques which may\nbe taken off, probably for the purpose of changing them, as the originals\nthemselves did.]\n\nThe last, and not the least defect of the English comedies is their\noffensiveness. I may sum up the whole in one word by saying, that after\nall we know of the licentiousness of manners under Charles II., we are\nstill lost in astonishment at the audacious ribaldry of Wycherley and\nCongreve. Decency is not merely violated in the grossest manner in single\nspeeches, and frequently in the whole plot; but in the character of the\nrake, the fashionable debauchee, a moral scepticism is directly preached\nup, and marriage is the constant subject of their ridicule. Beaumont and\nFletcher portrayed an irregular but vigorous nature: nothing, however, can\nbe more repulsive than rude depravity coupled with claims to higher\nrefinement. Under Queen Anne manners became again more decorous; and this\nmay easily be traced in the comedies: in the series of English comic\npoets, Wycherley, Congreve, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Steele, Cibber, &c., we\nmay perceive something like a gradation from the most unblushing indecency\nto a tolerable degree of modesty. However, the example of the predecessors\nhas had more than a due influence on the successors. From prescriptive\nfame pieces keep possession of the stage such as no man in the present day\ndurst venture to bring out. It is a remarkable phenomenon, the causes of\nwhich are deserving of inquiry, that the English nation, in the last half\nof the eighteenth century, passed all at once from the most opposite way\nof thinking, to an almost over-scrupulous strictness of manners in social\nconversation, in romances and plays, and in the plastic arts.\n\nSome writers have said of Congreve that he had too much wit for a comic\npoet. These people must have rather a strange notion of wit. The truth is,\nthat Congreve and the other writers above mentioned possess in general\nmuch less comic than epigrammatic wit. The latter often degenerates into a\nlaborious straining for wit. Steele's dialogue, for example, puts us too\nmuch in mind of the letters in the _Spectator_. Farquhar's plots seem\nto me to be the most ingenious of all.\n\nThe latest period of English Comedy begins nearly with Colman. Since that\ntime the morals have been irreproachable, and much has been done in the\nway of refined and original characterization; the form, however, has on\nthe whole remained the same, and in that respect I do not think the\nEnglish comedies at all models.\n\nTragedy has been often attempted in England in the eighteenth century, but\na genius of the first rank has never made his appearance. They laid aside\nthe manner of Dryden, however, and that at least was an improvement. Rowe\nwas an honest admirer of Shakspeare, and his modest reverence for this\nsuperior genius was rewarded by a return to nature and truth. The traces\nof imitation are not to be mistaken: the part of Gloster in _Jane Shore_\nis even directly borrowed from _Richard the Third_. Rowe did not possess\nboldness and vigour, but was not without sweetness and feeling; he could\nexcite the softer emotions, and hence in his _Fair Penitent_, _Jane\nShore_, and _Lady Jane Gray_, he has successfully chosen female heroines\nand their weaknesses for his subjects.\n\nAddison possessed an elegant mind, but he was by no means a poet. He\nundertook to purify the English Tragedy, by bringing it into a compliance\nwith the supposed rules of good taste. We might have expected from a judge\nof the ancients, that he would have endeavoured to approach the Greek\nmodels. Whether he had any such intention I know not, but certain it is\nthat he has produced nothing but a tragedy after the French model.\n_Cato_ is a feeble and frigid piece, almost destitute of action,\nwithout one truly overpowering moment. Addison has so narrowed a great and\nheroic picture by his timid manner of treating it, that he could not,\nwithout foreign intermixture, even fill up the frame. Hence, he had\nrecourse to the traditional love intrigues; if we count well, we shall\nfind in this piece no fewer than six persons in love: Cato's two sons,\nMarcia and Lucia, Juba and Sempronius. The good Cato cannot, therefore, as\na provident father of a family, avoid arranging two marriages at the\nclose. With the exception of Sempronius, the villain of the piece, the\nlovers are one and all somewhat silly. Cato, who ought to be the soul of\nthe whole, is hardly ever shown to us in action; nothing remains for him\nbut to admire himself and to die. It might be thought that the stoical\ndetermination of suicide, without struggle and without passion, is not a\nfortunate subject; but correctly speaking, no subjects are unfortunate,\nevery thing depends on correctly apprehending them. Addison has been\ninduced, by a wretched regard to Unity of Place, to leave out Caesar, the\nonly worthy contrast to Cato; and, in this respect even Metastasio has\nmanaged matters better. The language is pure and simple, but without\nvigour; the rhymeless Iambic gives more freedom to the dialogue, and an\nair somewhat less conventional than it has in the French tragedies; but in\nvigorous eloquence, Cato remains far behind them.\n\nAddison took his measures well; he placed all the great and small critics,\nwith Pope at their head, the whole militia of good taste under arms, that\nhe might excite a high expectation of the piece which he had produced with\nso much labour. _Cato_ was universally praised, as a work without an\nequal. And on what foundation do these boundless praises rest? On\nregularity of form? This had been already observed by the French poets for\nnearly a century, and notwithstanding its constraints they had often\nattained a much stronger pathetic effect. Or on the political sentiments?\nBut in a single dialogue between Brutus and Cassius in Shakspeare there is\nmore of a Roman way of thinking and republican energy than in all _Cato_.\n\nI doubt whether this piece could ever have produced a powerful impression,\nbut its reputation has certainly had a prejudicial influence on Tragedy in\nEngland. The example of _Cato_, and the translation of French tragedies,\nwhich became every day more frequent, could not, it is true, render\nuniversal the belief in the infallibility of the rules; but they were held\nin sufficient consideration to disturb the conscience of the dramatic\npoets, who consequently were extremely timid in availing themselves of the\nprerogatives they inherited from Shakspeare. On the other hand, these\nprerogatives were at the same time problems; it requires no ordinary\ndegree of skill to arrange, with simplicity and perspicuity, such great\nmasses as Shakspeare uses to bring together: more of drawing and\nperspective are required for an extensive fresco painting, than for a\nsmall oil picture. In renouncing the intermixture of comic scenes when\nthey no longer understood their ironical aim, they did perfectly right:\nSouthern still attempted them in his _Oroonoko_, but in his hands\nthey exhibit a wretched appearance. With the general knowledge and\nadmiration of the ancients which existed in England, we might have looked\nfor some attempt at a true imitation of the Greek Tragedy; no such\nimitation has, however, made its appearance; in the choice and handling of\ntheir materials they show an undoubted affinity to the French. Some poets\nof celebrity in other departments of poetry, Young, Thomson, Glover, have\nwritten tragedies, but no one of them has displayed any true tragical\ntalent.\n\nThey have now and then had recourse to familiar tragedy to assist the\nbarrenness of imagination; but the moral aim, which must exclusively\nprevail in this species, is a true extinguisher of genuine poetical\ninspiration. They have, therefore, been satisfied with a few attempts. The\n_Merchant of London_, and _The Gamester_, are the only plays in this way\nwhich have attained any great reputation. _George Barnwell_ is remarkable\nfrom having been praised by Diderot and Lessing, as a model for imitation.\nThis error could only have escaped from Lessing in the keenness of his\nhostility to the French conventional tone. For in truth it is necessary to\nkeep Lillo's honest views constantly in mind, to prevent us from finding\n_George Barnwell_ as laughable as it is certainly trivial. Whoever\npossesses so little, or rather, no knowledge of men and of the world,\nought not to set up for a public lecturer on morals. We might draw a very\ndifferent conclusion from this piece, from that which the author had in\nview, namely, that to prevent young people from entertaining a violent\npassion, and being led at last to steal and murder, for the first wretch\nwho spreads her snares for them, (which they of course cannot possibly\navoid,) we ought, at an early period, to make them acquainted with the\ntrue character of courtezans. Besides, I cannot approve of not making the\ngallows visible before the last scene; such a piece ought always to be\nacted with a place of execution in the background. With respect to the\nedification to be drawn from a drama of this kind, I should prefer the\nhistories of malefactors, which in England are usually printed at\nexecutions; they contain, at least, real facts, instead of awkward\nfictions.\n\nGarrick's appearance forms an epoch in the history of the English theatre,\nas he chiefly dedicated his talents to the great characters of Shakspeare,\nand built his own fame on the growing admiration for this poet. Before his\ntime, Shakspeare had only been brought on the stage in mutilated and\ndisfigured alterations. Garrick returned on the whole to the true\noriginals, though he still allowed himself to make some very unfortunate\nchanges. It appears to me that the only excusable alteration of Shakspeare\nis, to leave out a few things not in conformity to the taste of the time.\nGarrick was undoubtedly a great actor. Whether he always conceived the\nparts of Shakspeare in the sense of the poet, I, from the very\ncircumstances stated in the eulogies on his acting, should be inclined to\ndoubt. He excited, however, a noble emulation to represent worthily the\ngreat national poet; this has ever since been the highest aim of actors,\nand even at present the stage can boast of men whose histrionic talents\nare deservedly famous.\n\nBut why has this revival of the admiration of Shakspeare remained\nunproductive for dramatic poetry? Because he has been too much the subject\nof astonishment, as an unapproachable genius who owed everything to nature\nand nothing to art. His success, it is thought, is without example, and\ncan never be repeated; nay, it is even forbidden to venture into the same\nregion. Had he been considered more from an artistic point of view, it\nwould have led to an endeavour to understand the principles which he\nfollowed in his practice, and an attempt to master them. A meteor appears,\ndisappears, and leaves no trace behind; the course of a heavenly body,\nhowever, ought to be delineated by the astronomer, for the sake of\ninvestigating more accurately the laws of general mechanics.\n\nI am not sufficiently acquainted with the latest dramatic productions of\nthe English, to enter into a minute account of them. That the dramatic art\nand the public taste are, however, in a wretched state of decline, may, I\nthink, be safely inferred from the following circumstance. Some years ago,\nseveral German plays found their way to the English stage; plays, which,\nit is true, are with us the favourites of the multitude, but which are not\nconsidered by the intelligent as forming a part of our literature, and in\nwhich distinguished actors are almost ashamed of earning applause. These\npieces have met with extraordinary favour in England; they have, properly\nspeaking, as the Italians say, _fatto furore_, though indeed the critics\ndid not fail to declaim against their immorality, veiled over by\nsentimental hypocrisy. From the poverty of our dramatic literature, the\nadmission of such abominations into Germany may be easily comprehended;\nbut what can be alleged in favour of this depravity of taste in a nation\nlike the English, which possesses such treasures, and which must therefore\ndescend from such an elevation? Certain writers are nothing in themselves;\nthey are merely symptoms of the disease of their age; and were we to judge\nfrom them, there is but too much reason to fear that, in England, an\neffeminate sentimentality in private life is more frequent, than from the\nastonishing political greatness and energy of the nation we should be led\nto suppose.\n\nMay the romantic drama and the grand historical drama, those truly native\nspecies, be again speedily revived, and may Shakspeare find such worthy\nimitators as some of those whom Germany has to produce!\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXIX.\n\nSpanish Theatre--Its three Periods: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon--\nSpirit of the Spanish Poetry in general--Influence of the National History\non it--Form, and various species of the Spanish Drama--Decline since the\nbeginning of the eighteenth century.\n\n\nThe riches of the Spanish stage have become proverbial, and it has been\nmore or less the custom of the Italian, French, and English dramatists, to\ndraw from this source, and generally without acknowledgment. I have often,\nin the preceding Lectures, had occasion to notice this fact; it was\nincompatible, however, with my purpose, to give an enumeration of all that\nhas been so borrowed, for it would have assumed rather a bulky appearance,\nand without great labour it could not have been rendered complete. What\nhas been taken from the most celebrated Spanish poets might be easily\npointed out; but the writers of the second and third rank have been\nequally laid under contribution, and their works are not easily met with\nout of Spain. Ingenious boldness, joined to easy clearness of intrigue, is\nso exclusively peculiar to the Spanish dramatists, that whenever I find\nthese in a work, I consider myself justified in suspecting a Spanish\norigin, even though the circumstance may have been unknown to the author\nhimself, who drew his plagiarism from a nearer source. [Footnote: Thus for\nexample, _The Servant of two Masters_, of Goldoni, a piece highly\ndistinguished above his others for the most amusing intrigue, passes for\nan original. A learned Spaniard has assured me, that he knows it to be a\nSpanish invention. Perhaps Goldoni had here merely an older Italian\nimitation before him.]\n\nFrom the political preponderance of Spain in the sixteenth century, a\nknowledge of its language became widely diffused throughout Europe. Even\nin the first half of the seventeenth century, many traces are to be found\nof an acquaintance with Spanish literature in France, Italy, England, and\nGermany; since that time, however, the study of it had every where fallen\ninto neglect, till of late some zeal for it has been again excited in\nGermany. In France they have no other idea of the Spanish theatre, than\nwhat can be formed from the translations of Linguet. These again have been\nrendered into German, and their number has been increased by others, in no\nrespect better, derived immediately from the originals. The translators\nhave, however, confined themselves almost exclusively to the department of\ncomedies of intrigue, and though all the Spanish plays with the exception\nof a few _Entremeses_, _Saynetes_, and those of a very late period, are\nversified, they have turned the whole into prose, and even considered\nthemselves entitled to praise for having carefully removed every thing\nlike poetical ornament. After such a mode of proceeding nothing but the\nmaterial scaffolding of the original could remain; the beautiful colouring\nmust have disappeared together with the form of execution. That\ntranslators who could show such a total want of judgment as to poetical\nexcellences would not choose the best pieces of the store, may be easily\nsupposed. The species in question, though in the invention of innumerable\nintrigues, of such a kind as the theatrical literature of all other\ncountries can produce but few examples of it, it certainly shows\nastonishing acuteness, is, nevertheless, by no means the most valuable\npart of the Spanish theatre, which displays a much greater brilliancy in\nthe handling of wonderful, mythological, or historical subjects.\n\nThe selection published by De la Huerta in sixteen small volumes, under\nthe title of _Teatro Hespa\u00f1ol_, with introductions giving an account\nof the authors of the pieces and the different species, will not afford,\neven to one conversant with the language, a very extensive acquaintance\nwith the Spanish theatre. His collection is limited almost exclusively to\nthe department of comedies in modern manners, and he has not admitted into\nit any of the pieces of an earlier period, composed by Lope de Vega, or\nhis predecessors. Blankenburg and Bouterwek [Footnote: The former, in his\nannotations on _Sulzers Theorie der sch\u00f6nen K\u00fcnste_, the latter in\nhis _Geschichte der Spanischen Poesie_.] among ourselves have laboured to\nthrow light on the earlier history of the Spanish theatre, before it\nacquired its proper shape and attained literary dignity,--a subject\ninvolved in much obscurity. But even at an after period, an immense number\nof works were written for the stage which never appeared in print, and\nwhich are either now lost or only exist in manuscript; while, on the other\nhand, there is hardly an instance of a piece being printed without having\nfirst been brought on the stage. A correct and complete history of the\nSpanish theatre, therefore, can only be executed in Spain. The notices of\nthe German writers above-mentioned, are however of use, though not free\nfrom errors; their opinions of the poetical merit of the several pieces,\nand the general view which they have taken, appear to me exceedingly\nobjectionable.\n\nThe first advances of Dramatic Art in Spain were made in the last half of\nthe sixteenth century; and with the end of the seventeenth it ceased to\nflourish. In the eighteenth, after the War of the Succession, (which seems\nto have had a very prejudicial influence on the Spanish literature in\ngeneral,) very little can be mentioned which does not display\nextravagance, decay, the retention of old observances without meaning, or\na tame imitation of foreign productions. The Spanish literari of the last\ngeneration frequently boast of their old national poets, the people\nentertain a strong attachment to them, and in Mexico, as well as Madrid,\ntheir pieces are always represented with impassioned applause.\n\nThe various epochs in the formation of the Spanish theatre may be\ndesignated by the names of three of its most famous authors, Cervantes,\nLope de Vega, and Calderon.\n\nThe earliest and most valuable information and opinions on this subject\nare to be found in the writings of Cervantes; chiefly in _Don\nQuixote_ (in the dialogue with the Canon), in the Preface to his later\nplays, and in the _Journey to Parnassus_. He has also in various\nother places thrown out occasional remarks on the subject. He had\nwitnessed in his youth the commencement of the dramatic art in Spain; the\npoetical poverty of which, as well as the meagreness of the theatrical\ndecorations, are very humorously described by him. He was justified in\nlooking upon himself as one of the founders of this art; for before he\ngained immortal fame by his _Don Quixote_ he had diligently laboured\nfor the stage, and from twenty to thirty pieces (so negligently does he\nspeak of them) from his pen had been acted with applause. On this account,\nhowever, he made no very high claims, nor after they had fulfilled their\nmomentary destination did he allow any of them to be printed; and it was\nonly lately that two of these earlier labours were for the first time\npublished. One of these plays, probably Cervantes' first, _The Way of\nLiving in Algiers_ (_El Trato de Argel_), still bears traces of the\ninfancy of the art in the preponderance of narrative, in the general\nmeagreness, and in the want of prominency in the figures and situations.\nThe other, however, _The Destruction of Numantia_, has altogether the\nelevation of the tragical cothurnus; and, from its unconscious and\nunlaboured approximation to antique grandeur and purity, forms a\nremarkable phenomenon in the history of modern poetry. The idea of destiny\nprevails in it throughout; the allegorical figures which enter between the\nacts supply nearly, though in a different way, the place of the chorus in\nthe Greek tragedies; they guide the reflection and propitiate the feeling.\nA great deed of heroism is accomplished; the extremity of suffering is\nendured with constancy; but it is the deed and the suffering of a whole\nnation whose individual members, it may almost be said, appear but as\nexamples of the general fortitude and magnanimity, while the Roman heroes\nseem merely the instruments of fate. There is, if I may so speak, a sort\nof Spartan pathos in this piece: every single and personal consideration\nis swallowed up in the feeling of patriotism; and by allusions to the\nwarlike fame of his nation in modern times, the poet has contrived to\nconnect the ancient history with the interests of his own day.\n\nLope de Vega appeared, and soon became the sole monarch of the stage;\nCervantes was unable to compete with him; yet he was unwilling altogether\nto abandon a claim founded on earlier success; and shortly before his\ndeath, in the year 1615, he printed eight plays and an equal number of\nsmaller interludes, as he had failed in his attempts to get them brought\non the stage. They have generally been considered greatly inferior to his\nother prose and poetical works; their modern editor is even of opinion\nthat they were meant as parodies and satires on the vitiated taste of the\ntime: but to find this hypothesis ridiculous, we have only to read them\nwithout any such prepossession. Had Cervantes entertained such a design,\nhe would certainly have accomplished it in a very different way in one\npiece, and also in a manner both highly amusing and not liable to\nmisconception. No, they were intended as pieces in the manner of Lope:\ncontrary to his own convictions, Cervantes has here endeavoured, by a\ndisplay of greater variety, of wonderful plots, and theatrical effect to\ncomply with the taste of his contemporaries. It would appear from them\nthat he considered a superficial composition as the main requisite for\napplause; his own, at least, is for the most part, extremely loose and\nill-connected, and we have no examples in his prose works of a similar\ndegree of negligence. Hence, as he partly renounced his peculiar\nexcellences, we need not be astonished that he did not succeed in\nsurpassing Lope in his own walk. Two, however, of these pieces, _The\nChristian Slaves in Algiers (Los Ba\u00f1os de Argel_), an alteration of the\npiece before-mentioned, and _The Labyrinth of Love_, are, in their\nwhole plot, deserving of great praise, while all of them contain so many\nbeautiful and ingenious traits, that when we consider them by themselves,\nand without comparing them with the _Destruction of Numantia_, we\nfeel disposed to look on the opinion entertained pretty generally by the\nSpanish critics as a mere prejudice. But on the other hand, when we\ncompare them with Lope's pieces, or bear in mind the higher excellences to\nwhich Calderon had accustomed the public, this opinion will appear to\nadmit of conditional justification. We may, on the whole, allow that the\nmind of this poet was most inclined to the epic, (taking the word in its\nmore extensive signification, for the narrative form of composition); and\nthat the light and gentle manner in which he delights to move the mind is\nnot well suited to the making the most of every moment, and to the rapid\ncompression which are required on the theatre. But when we, on the other\nhand, view the energetical pathos in _The Destruction of Numantia_,\nwe are constrained almost to consider it as merely accidental that\nCervantes did not devote himself wholly to this species of writing, and\nfind room in it for the complete development of his inventive mind.\n\nThe sentence pronounced by Cervantes on the dramas of his later\ncontemporaries is one of the neglected voices which, from time to time, in\nSpain have been raised, insisting on the imitation of the ancient\nclassics, while the national taste had decidedly declared in favour of the\nromantic drama in its boldest form. On this subject Cervantes, from causes\nwhich we may easily comprehend, was not altogether impartial. Lope de Vega\nhad followed him as a dramatic writer, and by his greater fertility and\nthe effective brilliancy of his pieces, had driven him from the stage; a\ncircumstance which ought certainly to be taken into account in explaining\nthe discontent of Cervantes in his advanced age with the direction of the\npublic taste and the constitution of the theatre. It would appear, too,\nthat in his poetical mind there was a certain prosaical corner in which\nthere still lurked a disposition to reject the wonderful, and the bold\nplay of fancy, as contrary to probability and nature. On the authority of\nthe ancients he recommended a stricter separation of the several kinds of\nthe drama; whereas the romantic art endeavours, in its productions, as he\nhimself had done in his romances and novels, to blend all the elements of\npoetry; and he censured with great severity, as real offences against\npropriety, the rapid changes of time and place. It is remarkable that Lope\nhimself was unacquainted with his own rights, and confessed that he wrote\nhis pieces, contrary to the rules with which he was well acquainted,\nmerely for the sake of pleasing the multitude. That this object entered\nprominently into his consideration is certainly true; still he remains one\nof the most extraordinary of all the popular and favourite theatrical\nwriters that ever lived, and well deserves to be called in all seriousness\nby his rival and adversary, Cervantes, a wonder of nature.\n\nThe pieces of Lope de Vega, numerous beyond all belief, have partly never\nbeen printed; while of those that have, a complete collection is seldom to\nbe found, except in Spain. Many pieces are probably falsely ascribed to\nhim; an abuse of which Calderon also complains. I know not whether Lope\nhimself ever gave a list of the pieces actually composed by him; indeed he\ncould hardly at last have remembered the whole of them. However, by\nreading a few, we shall advance pretty far towards an acquaintance with\nthis poet; nor need we be much afraid lest we should have failed to peruse\nthe most excellent, as in his separate productions he does not surprise us\nby any elevated flight nor by laying open the whole unfathomable depths of\nhis mind. This prolific writer, at one time too much idolized, at another\ntoo much depreciated, appears here undoubtedly in the most advantageous\nlight, as the theatre was the best school for the correction of his three\ngreat errors, want of connexion, diffuseness, and an unnecessary parade of\nlearning. In some of his pieces, especially the historical ones, founded\non old romances or traditional tales, for instance, _King Wamba_, _The\nYouthful Tricks of Bernardo del Carpio_, _The Battlements of Toro,_ &c.,\nthere prevails a certain rudeness of painting, which, however, is not\naltogether without character, and seems to have been purposely chosen to\nsuit the subjects: in others, which portray the manners of his own time,\nas for instance, _The Lively Fair One of Tol\u00e9do_, _The Fair deformed,_ we\nmay observe a highly cultivated social tone. All of them contain, besides\ntruly interesting situations, a number of inimitable jokes; and there are,\nperhaps, very few of them which would not, if skilfully treated and\nadapted to our stages, produce a great effect in the present day. Their\nchief defects are, a profusion of injudicious invention, and negligence in\nthe execution. They resemble the groups which an ingenious sketcher\nscrawls on paper without any preparation, and without even taking the\nnecessary time; in which, notwithstanding this hasty negligence every line\nis full of life and significance. Besides the want of careful finish, the\nworks of Lope are deficient in depth, and also in those more delicate\nallusions which constitute the peculiar mysteries of the art.\n\nIf the Spanish theatre had not advanced farther, if it had possessed only\nthe works of Lope and the more eminent of his contemporaries, as Guillen\nde Castro, Montalban, Molina, Matos-Fragoso, &c., we should have to praise\nit, rather for grandeur of design and for promising subjects than for\nmatured perfection. But Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca now made his\nappearance, a writer as prolific and diligent as Lope, and a poet of a\nvery different kind,--a poet if ever any man deserved that name. The\n\"wonder of nature,\" the enthusiastic popularity, and the sovereignty of\nthe stage were renewed in a much higher degree. The years of Calderon\n[Footnote: Born in 1601.] keep nearly equal pace with those of the\nseventeeth century; he was consequently sixteen when Cervantes, and\nthirty-five when Lope died, whom he survived nearly half a century.\nAccording to his biographer's account, Calderon wrote more than a hundred\nand twenty plays, more than a hundred spiritual allegorical acts\n(_Autos_), a hundred merry interludes or _Saynetes_ [Footnote: This\naccount is perhaps somewhat rhetorical. The most complete, and in every\nrespect the best edition of the plays, that of Apontes, contains only\na hundred and eight pieces. At the request of a great Lord, Calderon,\nshortly before his death, gave a list of his genuine works. He names a\nhundred and eleven plays; but among them there are considerably more than\nthree which are not to be found in the collection of Apontes. Some of them\nmay, indeed, be concealed under other titles, as, for instance, the piece,\nwhich Calderon himself calls, _El Tuzani de la Alpujarra_, is named\nin the collection, _Amar despues de la Muerte_. Others are unquestionably\nomitted, for instance, a _Don Quixote_, which I should be particularly\ndesirous of seeing. We may infer from many circumstances that Calderon had\na great respect for Cervantes. The collection of the _Autos sacramentales_\ncontains only seventy-two, and of these several are not mentioned by\nCalderon. And yet he lays the greatest stress on these; wholly devoted to\nreligion, he had become in his age more indifferent towards the temporal\nplays of his muse, although he did not reject them, and still continued to\nadd to the number. It might well be with him as with an excessively\nwealthy man, who, in a general computation, is apt to forget many of the\nitems of his capital. I have never yet been able to see any of the\n_Saynetes_ of Calderon; I cannot even find an account whether or not they\nhave been ever collected and printed.] besides a number of poems which\nwere not dramatical. As from his fourteenth to his eighty-first year, that\nin which he died, he continued to produce dramatic works, they spread over\na great space, and we may therefore suppose that he did not write with the\nsame haste as Lope; he had sufficient leisure to consider his plans\nmaturely, which, without doubt, he has done. In the execution, he could\nnot fail from his extensive practice to acquire great readiness.\n\nIn this almost incalculable exuberance of production, we find nothing\nthrown out at random; all is finished in masterly perfection, agreeably to\nestablished and consistent principles, and with the most profound artistic\nviews. This cannot be denied even by those who would confound the pure and\nhigh style of the romantic drama with mannerism, and consider these bold\nflights of poetry, on the extreme boundaries of the conceivable, as\naberrations in art. For Calderon has every where converted that into\nmatter what passed with his predecessors for form;--nothing less than the\nnoblest and most exquisite excellence could satisfy him. And this is why\nhe repeats himself in many expressions, images, comparisons, nay, even in\nmany plays of situation; for he was too rich to be under the necessity of\nborrowing from himself, much less from others. The effect on the stage is\nwith Calderon the first and last thing; but this consideration, which is\ngenerally felt by others as a restraint, is with him a positive end. I\nknow of no dramatist equally skilled in converting effect into poetry, who\nis at once so sensibly vigorous and so ethereal.\n\nHis dramas divide themselves into four principal classes: compositions on\nsacred subjects taken from scripture and legends; historical;\nmythological, or founded upon other fictitious materials; and finally,\npictures of social life in modern manners.\n\nThe pieces founded on the history of his own country are historical only\nin the more limited acceptation. The earlier periods of Spanish history\nhave often been felt and portrayed by Calderon with the greatest truth;\nbut, in general, he had too decided, I might almost say, too burning a\npredilection for his own nation, to enter into the peculiarities of\nanother; at best he could have portrayed what verges towards the sun, the\nSouth and the East; but classical antiquity, as well as the North of\nEurope, were altogether foreign to his conception. Materials of this\ndescription he has therefore taken in a perfectly fanciful sense:\ngenerally the Greek mythology became in his hands a delightful tale, and\nthe Roman history a majestic hyperbole.\n\nHis sacred compositions must, however, in some degree, be ranked as\nhistorical; for although surrounded with rich fiction, as is always the\ncase in Calderon, they nevertheless in general express the character of\nBiblical or legendary story with great fidelity. They are distinguished,\nhowever, from the other historical pieces by the frequent prominency of a\nsignificant allegory, and by the religious enthusiasm with which the poet,\nin the spiritual acts designed for the celebration of the festival of\nCorpus Christi, the _Autos_ exhibits the universe as it were, under\nan allegorical representation in the purple flames of love. In this last\nclass he was most admired by his contemporaries, and here also he himself\nset the highest value on his labours. But without having read, at least,\none of them in a truly poetical translation, my auditors could not form\nthe slightest idea of them; while the due consideration of these\n_Autos_ would demand a difficult investigation into the admissibility\nof allegory into dramatical composition. I shall therefore confine myself\nto those of his dramas which are no allegorical. The characterization of\nthese I shall be very far from exhausting; I can merely exhibit a few of\ntheir more general features.\n\nOf the great multitude of ingenious and acute writers, who were then\ntempted by the dazzling splendour of the theatrical career to write for\nthe stage, the greater part were mere imitators of Calderon; a few only\ndeserve to be named along with him, as Don Agustin Moreto, Don Franzisco\nde Roxas, Don Antonio de Solis, the acute and eloquent historian of the\nconquest of Mexico, &c. The dramatic literature of the Spaniards can even\nboast of a royal poet, Philip IV., the great patron and admirer [Footnote:\nThis monarch seems, in reality, to have had a relish for the peculiar\nexcellence of his favourite poet, whom he considered as the brightest\nornament of his court. He was so prepossessed in favour of the national\ndrama, that he forbade the introduction into Spain of the Italian opera,\nwhich was then in general favour at the different European courts: an\nexample which deserves to be held up to the German Princes, who have\nhitherto, from indifference towards every thing national, and partiality\nfor every thing foreign, done all in their power to discourage the German\npoets.] of Calderon, to whom several anonymous pieces, with the epigraph\n_de un ingenio de esta corte_, are ascribed. All the writers of that\nday wrote in a kindred spirit; they formed a true school of art. Many of\nthem have peculiar excellences, but Calderon in boldness, fulness, and\nprofundity, soars beyond them all; in him the romantic drama of the\nSpaniards attained the summit of perfection.\n\nWe shall endeavour to give a feeble idea of the spirit and form of these\ncompositions, which differ so widely from every other European production.\nFor this purpose, however, we must enter in some measure into the\ncharacter of the Spanish poetry in general, and those historical\ncircumstances by which it has been determined.\n\nThe beginnings of the Spanish poetry are extremely simple: its two\nfundamental forms were the romaunt and the song, and in these original\nnational melodies we everywhere fancy we hear the accompaniment of the\nguitar. The romaunt, which is half Arabian in its origin, was at first a\nsimple heroic tale; afterwards it became a very artificial species,\nadapted to various uses, but in which the picturesque ingredient always\npredominated even to the most brilliant luxuriance of colouring. The song\nagain, almost destitute of imagery, expressed tender feelings in ingenious\nturns; it extends its sportiveness to the very limits where the self-\nmeditation, which endeavours to transfuse an inexpressible disposition of\nmind into thought, wings again the thought to dreamlike intimations. The\nforms of the song were diversified by the introduction into poetry of what\nin music is effected by variation. The rich properties of the Spanish\nlanguage however could not fully develop themselves in these species of\npoetry, which were rather tender and infantine than elevated. Hence\ntowards the beginning of the sixteenth century they adapted the more\ncomprehensive forms of Italian poetry, _Ottave Terzine_, _Canzoni_,\n_Sonetti_; and the Castilian language, the proudest daughter of the Latin,\nwas then first enabled to display her whole power in dignity, beautiful\nboldness, and splendour of imagery. The Spanish with its guttural sounds,\nand frequent termination with consonants, is less soft than the Italian;\nbut its tones are, if possible, more fuller and deeper, and fill the ear\nwith a pure metallic resonance. It had not altogether lost the rough\nstrength and heartiness of the Gothic, when Oriental intermixtures gave it\na wonderful degree of sublimity, and elevated its poetry, intoxicated as\nit were with aromatic fragrances, far above all the scrupulous moderation\nof the sober West.\n\nThe stream of poetical inspiration, swelled by every proud consciousness,\nincreased with the growing fame in arms of this once so free and heroic\nnation. The Spaniards played a glorious part in the events of the middle\nages, a part but too much forgotten by the envious ingratitude of modern\ntimes. They were then the forlorn out-posts of Europe; they lay on their\nPyrenean peninsula as in a camp, exposed without foreign assistance to the\nincessant eruptions of the Arabians, but always ready for renewed\nconflicts. The founding of their Christian kingdom, through centuries of\nconflicts, from the time when the descendants of the Goths driven before\nthe Moors into the mountains of the North first left their protecting\nshelter for the war of freedom and independence, down to the complete\nexpulsion of the Arabian invaders, was one long adventure of chivalry;\nnay, the preservation of Christianity itself in the face of so powerful a\nfoe seems the wondrous work of more than mortal guidance. Accustomed to\nfight at the same time for liberty and religion, the Spaniard clung to his\nfaith with a fiery zeal, as an acquisition purchased by the costly\nexpenditure of noble blood. These consolations of a holy worship were to\nhim the rewards of heroic exertion; in every church he saw as it were a\ntrophy of his forefathers' bravery. Ready to shed the last drop of his\nblood in the cause of his God and his King; tenderly sensitive of his\nhonour; proud, yet humble in the presence of all that is sacred and holy;\nserious, temperate, and modest was the old Castilian: and yet forsooth\nsome are found to scoff at a noble and a loyal race because even at the\nplough they were lothe to lay aside the beloved sword, the instrument of\ntheir high vocation of patriotism and liberty.\n\nThis love of war, and spirit of enterprise, which so many circumstances\nhad thus served to keep alive among their subjects, the monarchs of Spain\nmade use of, at the close of the fifteenth and throughout the sixteenth\ncentury, in an attempt to obtain universal monarchy; and while the arms of\nthe Spaniard were thus employed to effect the subjugation of other\nnations, he was himself deprived of his own political freedom. The\nfaithless and tyrannical policy of Philip II. has unmeritedly drawn down\non the whole nation the hatred of foreigners. In Italy, Macchiavelism was\nnot confined to the Princes and Republican leaders; it was the universal\ncharacter; all ranks were infected with the same love of artifice and\nfraud. But in Spain it must be laid to the charge of the Government alone,\nand even the religious persecutions in that country seldom or never\nproceeded from the outbreakings of a universal popular fury. The Spaniard\nnever presumed to question the conduct of his spiritual and worldly\nsuperiors, and carried on their wars of aggression and ambition with the\nsame fidelity and bravery which he had formerly displayed in his own wars\nof self-defence and patriotism. Personal glory, and a mistaken religious\nzeal, blinded him with respect to the justice of his cause. Enterprises\nbefore unexampled, were eagerly undertaken, and successfully achieved; a\nnewly discovered world beyond the ocean was conquered by a handful of bold\nadventurers; individual instances of cruelty and avarice may have stained\nthe splendour of resolute heroism, but the mass of the nation was\nuninfected by its contagion. Nowhere did the spirit of chivalry so long\noutlive its political existence as in Spain. Long after the internal\nprosperity, as well as the foreign influence of the nation, had fatally\ndeclined under the ruinous errors of the Second Philip, this spirit\npropagated itself even to the most flourishing period of their literature,\nand plainly imprinted upon it an indelible stamp. Here, in all their\ndazzling features, but associated with far higher mental culture, the\nmiddle ages were, as it were, renewed--those times when princes and nobles\nloved to indite the lays of love and bravery, and when, with hearts\ndevoted equally to their lady-love and the Holy Sepulchre, knights\njoyfully exposed themselves to the dangers and hardships of pilgrimage to\nthe Land of Promise, and when even a lion-hearted king touched the lute to\ntender sounds of amorous lamentation. The poets of Spain were not, as in\nmost other countries of Europe, courtiers or scholars, or engaged in some\npeaceful art or other; of noble birth for the most part, they also led a\nwarlike life. The union of the sword and the pen, and the exercise of arms\nand the nobler mental arts, was their watch-word. Garcilaso, one of the\nfounders of Spanish poetry under Charles V., was a descendant of the Yncas\nof Peru, and in Africa, still accompanied by his agreeable muse, fell\nbefore the walls of Tunis: Camo\u00ebns, the Portuguese, sailed as a soldier to\nthe remotest Indies, in the track of the glorious Adventurer whose\ndiscoveries he celebrated: Don Alonso de Ercilla composed his\n_Araucana_ in the midst of warfare with revolted savages, in a tent\nat the foot of the Cordilleras, or in wildernesses yet untrodden by men,\nor in a storm-tossed vessel on the restless ocean; Cervantes purchased,\nwith the loss of an arm, and a long slavery in Algiers, the honour of\nhaving fought, as a common soldier, in the battle of Lepanto, under the\nillustrious John of Austria; Lope de Vega, among other adventures,\nsurvived the misfortunes of the Invincible Armada; Calderon served several\ncampaigns in Flanders and in Italy, and discharged the warlike duties of a\nknight of Santiago until he entered holy orders, and thus gave external\nevidence that religion was the ruling motive of his life.\n\nIf a feeling of religion, a loyal heroism, honour, and love, be the\nfoundation of romantic poetry, it could not fail to attain to its highest\ndevelopment in Spain, where its birth and growth were cherished by the\nmost friendly auspices. The fancy of the Spaniards, like their active\npowers, was bold and venturesome; no mental adventure seemed too hazardous\nfor it to essay. The popular predilection for surpassing marvels had\nalready shown itself in its chivalrous romaunts. And so they wished also\nto see the wonderful on the stage; when, therefore, their poets, standing\non the lofty eminence of a highly polished state of art and society, gave\nit the requisite form, breathed into it a musical soul, and refined its\nbeautiful hues and fragrance from all corporeal grossness, there arose,\nfrom the very contrast of the matter and the form, an irresistible\nfascination. Amid the harmony of the most varied metre, the elegance of\nfanciful allusions, and that splendour of imagery and simile which no\nother language than their own could hope to furnish, combined with\ninventions ever new, and almost always pre-eminently ingenious, the\nspectators perceived in imagination a faint refulgence of the former\ngreatness of their nation which had measured the whole world with its\nvictories. The most distant zones were called upon to contribute, for the\ngratification of the mother country, the treasures of fancy as well as of\nnature, and on the dominions of this poetry, as on that of Charles V., the\nsun may truly be said never to set.\n\nEven those plays of Calderon which, cast in modern manners, descend the\nmost to the tone of common life, still fascinate us by a sort of fanciful\nmagic, and cannot be considered in the same light with the ordinary run of\ncomedies. Of those of Shakspeare, we have seen that they are always\ncomposed of two dissimilar elements: the comic, which, in so far as comic\nimitation requires the observance of local conditions, is true to English\nmanners; and the romantic, which, as the native soil was not sufficiently\npoetical for it, is invariably transplanted to a foreign scene. In Spain,\non the other hand, the national costume of that day still admitted of an\nideal exhibition. This would not indeed have been possible, had Calderon\nintroduced us into the interior of domestic life, where want and habit\ngenerally reduce all things to every-day narrowness. His comedies, like\nthose of the ancients, end with marriages; but how different is all that\nprecedes! With them the most immoral means are set in motion for the\ngratification of sensual passions and selfish views, human beings with\ntheir mental powers stand opposed to each other as mere physical beings,\nendeavouring to spy out and to expose their mutual weaknesses. Calderon,\nit is true, also represents to us his principal characters of both sexes\ncarried away by the first ebullitions of youth, and in its unwavering\npursuit of the honours and pleasures of life; but the aim after which they\nstrive, and in the prosecution of which every thing else kicks the beam,\nis never in their minds confounded with any other good. Honour, love, and\njealousy, are uniformly the motives out of which, by their dangerous but\nnoble conflict, the plot arises, and is not purposely complicated by\nknavish trickery and deception. Honour is always an ideal principle; for\nit rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher morality which\nconsecrates principles without regard to consequences. It may sink down to\na mere conventional observance of social opinions or prejudices, to a mere\ninstrument of vanity, but even when so disfigured we may still recognize\nin it some faint feature of a sublime idea. I know no apter symbol of\ntender sensibility of honour as portrayed by Calderon, than the fable of\nthe ermine, which is said to prize so highly the whiteness of its fur,\nthat rather than stain it in flight, it at once yields itself up to the\nhunters and death. This sense of honour is equally powerful in the female\ncharacters; it rules over love, which is only allowed a place beside it,\nbut not above it. According to the sentiments of Calderon's dramas, the\nhonour of woman consists in loving only one man of pure and spotless\nhonour, and loving him with perfect purity, free from all ambiguous homage\nwhich encroaches too closely on the severe dignity of woman. Love requires\ninviolable secrecy till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared.\nThis secrecy secures it from the poisonous intermixture of vanity, which\nmight plume itself with pretensions or boasts of a confessed preference;\nit gives it the appearance of a vow, which from its mystery is the more\nsacredly observed. This morality does not, it is true, condemn cunning and\ndissimulation if employed in the cause of love, and in so far as the\nrights of honour may be said to be infringed; but nevertheless the most\ndelicate consideration is observed in the conflict with other duties,--\nwith the obligations, for instance, of friendship. Moreover, a power of\njealousy, always alive and often breaking out into fearful violence,--not,\nlike that of the East, a jealousy of possession,--but one watchful of the\nslightest emotions of the heart and its most imperceptible demonstrations\nserves to ennoble love, as this feeling, whenever it is not absolutely\nexclusive, ceases to be itself. The perplexity to which the mental\nconflict of all these motives gives rise, frequently ends in nothing, and\nin such cases the catastrophe is truly comic; sometimes, however, it takes\na tragic turn, and then honour becomes a hostile destiny for all who\ncannot satisfy its requisitions without sacrificing either their happiness\nor their innocence.\n\nThese are the dramas of a higher kind, which by foreigners are called\nPieces of Intrigue, but by Spaniards, from the dress in which they are\nacted, Comedies of Cloak and Sword (_Comedias de Capa y Espada_).\nThey have commonly no other burlesque part than that of the merry valet,\nknown by the name of the _Gracioso_. This valet serves chiefly to parody\nthe ideal motives from which his master acts, and this he frequently does\nwith much wit and grace. Seldom is he with his artifices employed as an\nefficient lever in establishing the intrigue, in which we rather admire\nthe wit of accident than of contrivance. Other pieces are called _Comedias\nde figuron_; all the figures, with one exception, are usually the same as\nthose in the former class, and this one is always drawn in caricature, and\noccupies a prominent place in the composition. To many of Calderon's\ndramas we cannot refuse the name of pieces of character, although we\ncannot look for very delicate characterization from the poets of a nation\nin which vehemence of passion and exaltation of fancy neither leave\nsufficient leisure nor sufficient coolness for prying observation.\n\nAnother class of his pieces is called by Calderon himself festal dramas\n(_fiestas_). They were destined for representation at court on solemn\noccasions; and though they require the theatrical pomp of frequent change\nof decoration and visible wonders, and though music also is often\nintroduced into them, still we may call them poetical operas, that is,\ndramas which, by the mere splendour of poetry, perform what in the opera\ncan only be attained by the machinery, the music, and the dancing. Here\nthe poet gives himself wholly up to the boldest flights of fancy, and his\ncreations hardly seem to touch the earth.\n\nThe mind of Calderon, however, is most distinctly expressed in the pieces\non religious subjects. Love he paints merely in its most general features;\nhe but speaks her technical poetical language. Religion is his peculiar\nlove, the heart of his heart. For religion alone he excites the most\noverpowering emotions, which penetrate into the inmost recesses of the\nsoul. He did not wish, it would seem, to do the same for mere worldly\nevents. However turbid they may be in themselves to him, such is the\nreligious medium through which he views them, they are all cleared up and\nperfectly bright. Blessed man! he had escaped from the wild labyrinths of\ndoubt into the stronghold of belief; from thence, with undisturbed\ntranquillity of soul, he beheld and portrayed the storms of the world; to\nhim human life was no longer a dark riddle. Even his tears reflect the\nimage of heaven, like dew-drops on a flower in the sun. His poetry,\nwhatever its apparent object, is a never-ending hymn of joy on the majesty\nof the creation; he celebrates the productions of nature and human art\nwith an astonishment always joyful and always new, as if he saw them for\nthe first time in an unworn festal splendour. It is the first awaking of\nAdam, and an eloquence withal, a skill of expression, and a thorough\ninsight into the most mysterious affinities of nature, such as high mental\nculture and mature contemplation can alone bestow. When he compares the\nmost remote objects, the greatest and the smallest, stars and flowers, the\nsense of all his metaphors is the mutual attraction subsisting between\ncreated things by virtue of their common origin, and this delightful\nharmony and unity of the world again is merely a refulgence of the eternal\nall-embracing love.\n\nCalderon was still flourishing at the time when other countries of Europe\nbegan to manifest a strong inclination for that mannerism of taste in the\narts, and those prosaic views in literature, which in the eighteenth\ncentury obtained such universal dominion. He is consequently to be\nconsidered as the last summit of romantic poetry. All its magnificence is\nlavished in his writings, as in fireworks the most brilliant and rarest\ncombinations of colours, the most dazzling of fiery showers and circles\nare usually reserved for the last explosion.\n\nThe Spanish theatre continued for nearly a century after Calderon to be\ncultivated in the same spirit. All, however, that was produced in that\nperiod is but an echo of previous productions, and nothing new and truly\npeculiar appeared such as deserves to be named after Calderon. After him a\ngreat barrenness is perceptible. Now and then attempts were made to\nproduce regular tragedies, that is to say, after the French model. Even\nthe declamatory drama of Diderot found imitators. I remember reading a\nSpanish play, which had for its object the abolition of the torture. The\nexhilaration to be expected from such a work may be easily conceived. A\nfew Spaniards, apostates from the old national taste, extol highly the\nprosaical and moral dramas of Moratin; but we see no reason for seeking in\nSpain what we have as good, or, more correctly speaking, equally bad at\nhome. The theatrical audience has for the most part preserved itself\ntolerably exempt from all such foreign influences; a few years ago when a\n_bel esprit_ undertook to reduce a justly admired piece of Moreto (_El\nPareceido en la Corte_,) to a conformity with the three unities, the pit\nat Madrid were thrown into such a commotion that the players could only\nappease them by announcing the piece for the next day in its genuine\nshape.\n\nWhen in any country external circumstances, such, for instance, as the\ninfluence of the clergy, the oppression of the censorship, and even the\njealous vigilance of the people in the maintenance of their old national\ncustoms, oppose the introduction of what in neighbouring states passes for\na progress in mental culture, it frequently happens that clever\ndescription of heads will feel an undue longing for the forbidden fruit,\nand first begin to admire some artistic depravity, when it has elsewhere\nceased to be fashionable. In particular ages certain mental maladies are\nso universally epidemic that a nation can never be secure from infection\ntill it has been innoculated with it. With respect, however, to the fatal\nenlightenment of the last generation, the Spaniards it would appear have\ncome off with the chicken-pox, while in the features of other nations the\ndisfiguring variolous scars are but too visible. Living nearly in an\ninsular situation, Spaniards have slept through the eighteenth century,\nand how in the main could they have applied their time better? Should the\nSpanish poetry ever again awake in old Europe, or in the New World, it\nwould certainly have a step to make, from instinct to consciousness. What\nthe Spaniards have hitherto loved from innate inclination, they must learn\nto reverence on clear principles, and, undismayed at the criticism to\nwhich it has in the mean time been exposed, proceed to fresh creations in\nthe spirit of their greatest poets.\n\n\n\n\nLECTURE XXX.\n\nOrigin of the German Theatre--Hans Sachs--Gryphius--The age of Gottsched--\nWretched Imitation of the French--Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller--Review of\ntheir Works--Their influence on Chivalrous Dramas, Affecting Dramas, and\nFamily Pictures--Prospect for Futurity.\n\n\nIn its cultivated state, the German theatre is much younger than any of\nthose of which we hare already spoken, and we are not therefore to wonder\nif the store of our literature in valuable original works, in this\ndepartment, is also much more scanty.\n\nLittle more than half a century ago, German literature was in point of\ntalent at the very lowest ebb; at that time, however, greater exertions\nfirst began to be made, and the Germans have since advanced with gigantic\nstrides. And if Dramatic Art has not been cultivated with the same\nsuccess, and I may add with the same zeal, as other branches, the cause\nmust perhaps be attributed to a number of unfavourable circumstances\nrather than to any want of talents.\n\nThe rude beginnings of the stage are with us as old as with other\ncountries [Footnote: The first mention of the mysteries or religious\nrepresentations in Germany, with which I am acquainted, is to be found in\nthe _Eulenspiegel_. In the 13th History, we may see this merry, but\nsomewhat disgusting trick, of the celebrated buffoon: \"How Eulenspiegel\nmade a play in the Easter fair, in which the priest and his maid-servant\nfought with the boors.\" Eulenspiegel is stated to have lived towards the\nmiddle of the fourteenth century, but the book cannot be placed farther\nback than the beginning of the fifteenth.]. The oldest drama which we have\nin manuscript is the production of one Hans Rosenpluet, a native of\nNuremberg, about the middle of the fifteenth century. He was followed by\ntwo fruitful writers born in the same imperial city, Hans Sachs and Ayrer.\nAmong the works of Hans Sachs we find, besides merry carnival plays, a\ngreat multitude of tragedies, comedies, histories both spiritual and\ntemporal, where the prologue and epilogue are always spoken by the herald.\nThe latter, it appears, were all acted without any theatrical apparatus,\nnot by players, but by respectable citizens, as an allowable relaxation\nfor the mind. The carnival plays are somewhat coarse, but not unfrequently\nextremely droll, as the jokes in general are; they often run out into the\nwildest farce, and, inspired by mirth and drollery, leave far behind the\nnarrow bounds of the world of reality. In all these plays the composition\nis respectable, and without round-about goes at once to the point: all the\ncharacters, from God the Father downwards, state at once in the clearest\nterms what they have at heart, and the reasons which have caused them to\nmake their appearance; they resemble those figures in old pictures who\nhave written labels placed in their mouths, to aid the defective\nexpression of the attitudes. In form they approach most nearly to what was\nelsewhere called Moralities; allegorical personages are frequent in them.\nThese sketches of a dramatic art yet in its infancy, are feebly but not\nfalsely drawn; and if only we had continued to proceed in the same path,\nwe should have produced something better and more characteristic than the\nfruits of the seventeenth century.\n\nIn the first half of this century, poetry left the sphere of common life,\nto which it had so long been confined, and fell into the hands of the\nlearned. Opiz, who may be considered as the founder of its modern form,\ntranslated several tragedies from the ancients into verse, and composed\npastoral operas after the manner of the Italians; but I know not whether\nhe wrote anything expressly for the stage. He was followed by Andreas\nGryphius, who may be styled our first dramatic writer. He possessed a\ncertain extent of erudition in his particular department, as is proved by\nseveral of his imitations and translations; a piece from the French, one\nfrom the Italian, a tragedy from the Flemish of Vondel; lastly, a farce\ncalled _Peter Squenz_, an extension of the burlesque tragedy of _Pyramus\nand Thisbe_, in _The Midsummer Night's Dream_ of Shakspeare. The latter\nwas then almost unknown beyond his own island; the learned Morhof, who\nwrote in the last half of the seventeenth century, confesses that he had\nnever seen Shakspeare's works, though he was very well acquainted with Ben\nJonson. Even about the middle of the last century, a writer of repute in\nhis days, and not without merit, has in one of his treatises instituted a\ncomparison between Shakspeare and Andreas Gryphius, the whole resemblance\nconsisting in this, that Gryphius, like Shakspeare, was also fond of\ncalling up the spirits of the departed. He seems rather to have had\nVondel, the Fleming, before his eyes, a writer still highly celebrated by\nhis countrymen, and universally called by them, the great Vondel, while\nGryphius himself has been consigned to oblivion. Unfortunately the metre\nin Gryphius's plays is the Alexandrine; the form, however, is not so\nconfined as that of the French at an after period; the scene sometimes\nchanges, and the interludes, partly musical, partly allegorical, bear some\nresemblance to the English masques. In other respects, Gryphius possessed\nlittle theatrical skill, and I do not even know if his pieces were ever\nactually brought out on the stage. The tragedies of Lohenstein, who in his\nday may be styled the Marino of our literature, in their structure\nresemble those of Gryphius; but, not to mention their other faults, they\nare of such an immeasurable length as to set all ideas of representation\nat defiance.\n\nThe pitiful condition of the theatre in Germany at the end of the\nseventeenth and during the first third part of the eighteenth century,\nwherever there was any other stage than that of puppet-shows and\nmountebanks, corresponded exactly to that of the other branches of our\nliterature. We have a standard for this wretchedness, in the fact that\nGottsched actually once passed for the restorer of our literature;\nGottsched, whose writings resemble the watery beverage, which was then\nusually recommended to convalescent patients, from an idea that they could\nbear nothing stronger, which, however, did but still more enfeeble their\nstomachs. Gottsched, among his other labours, composed a great deal for\nthe theatre; connected with a certain Madam Neuber, who was at the head of\na company of players in Leipsic, he discarded Punch (Hanswurst), whom they\nburied solemnly with great triumph. I can easily conceive that the\nextemporaneous part of _Punch_, of which we may even yet form some\nnotion from the puppet-shows, was not always very skilfully filled up, and\nthat many platitudes were occasionally uttered by him; but still, on the\nwhole, Punch had certainly more sense in his little finger than Gottsched\nin his whole body. Punch, as an allegorical personage, is immortal; and\nhowever strong the belief in his death may be, in some grave office-bearer\nor other he still pops up unexpectedly upon us almost every day.\n\nGottsched and his school now inundated the German theatre, which, under\nthe influence of these insipid and diffuse translations from the French,\nwas hereafter to become regular. Heads of a better description began to\nlabour for the stage; but, instead of bringing forth really original\nworks, they contented themselves with producing wretched imitations; and\nthe reputation of the French theatre was so great, that from it was\nborrowed the most contemptible mannerism no less than the fruits of a\nbetter taste. Thus, for example, Gellert still composed pastoral plays\nafter bad French models, in which shepherds and shepherdesses, with rose-\nred and apple-green ribands, uttered all manner of insipid compliments to\none another.\n\nBesides the versions of French comedies, others, translated from the\nDanish of Holberg, were acted with great applause. This writer has\ncertainly great merit. His pictures of manners possess great local truth;\nhis exhibitions of depravity, folly, and stupidity, are searching and\ncomplete; in strength of comic motives and situations he is not defective;\nonly he does not show much invention in his intrigues. The execution runs\nout too much into breadth. The Danes speak in the highest terms of the\ndelicacy of his jokes in their own language; but to our present taste the\nvulgarity of his tone is revolting, though in the low sphere in which he\nmoves, and amidst incessant storms of cudgellings, it may be natural\nenough. Attempts have lately been made to revive his works, but seldom\nwith any great success. As his principal merit consists in his\ncharacterization, which certainly borders somewhat on caricature, he\nrequires good comic actors to represent him with advantage.\n\nA few plays of that time, in the manners of our own country, by Gellert\nand Elias Schlegel, are not without merit; only they have this error, that\nin drawing folly and stupidity the same wearisomeness has crept into their\npicture which is inseparable from them in real life.\n\nIn tragedies, properly so called, after French models, the first who were\nin any degree successful were Elias Schlegel, and afterwards Cronegk and\nWeisse. I know not whether their labours, if translated into good French\nverse, would then appear as frigid as they now do in German. It is\ninsufferable to us to read verses of an ell long, in which the style\nseldom rises above watery prose; for a true poetic language was not formed\nin German until a subsequent period. The Alexandrine, which in no language\ncan be a good metre, is doubly stiff and heavy in ours. Long after our\npoetry had again begun to take a higher flight, Gotter, in his translation\nof French tragedies, made the last attempt to ennoble the Alexandrine and\nprocure its re-admission into Tragedy, and, it appears to me, proved by\nhis example that we must for ever renounce the idea. It serves admirably,\nhowever, for a parody of the stilted style of false tragical emphasis; its\nuse, too, is much to be recommended in some kinds of Comedy, especially in\nsmall afterpieces. Those earlier tragedies, after the French model,\nnotwithstanding the uncommon applause they met with in their day, show how\nlittle hope there is of any progress of art in the way of slavish\nimitation. Even a form, narrow in itself, when it has been established\nunder the influence of a national way of thinking, has still some\nsignificance; but when it is blindly taken on trust in other countries, it\nbecomes altogether a Spanish mantle.\n\nThus bad translations of French comedies, with pieces from Holberg, and\nafterwards from Goldoni, and with a few imitations of a public nature, and\nwithout any peculiar spirit, constituted the whole repertory of our stage,\ntill at last Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, successively appeared and\nredeemed the German theatre from its long-continued mediocrity.\n\nLessing, indeed, in his early dramatic labours, did homage to the spirit\nof his age. His youthful comedies are rather insignificant; they do not\nalready announce the great mind who was afterwards to form an epoch in so\nmany departments of literature. He sketched several tragedies after the\nFrench rules, and executed several scenes in Alexandrines, but has\nsucceeded with none: it would appear that he had not the requisite\nfacility for so difficult a metre. Even his _Miss Sara Sampson_ is a\nfamiliar tragedy in the lachrymose and creeping style, in which we\nevidently see that he had _George Barnwell_ before his eyes as a\nmodel. In the year 1767, his connexion with a company of actors in\nHamburgh, and the editorship of a periodical paper dedicated to theatrical\ncriticism, gave him an opportunity of considering more closely into the\nnature and requisitions of theatrical composition. In this paper he\ndisplayed much wit and acuteness; his bold, nay, (considering the opinions\nthen prevalent,) his hazardous attacks were especially successful in\noverthrowing the usurpation of French taste in Tragedy. With such success\nwere his labours attended, that, shortly after the publication of his\n_Dramaturgie_, translations of French tragedies, and German tragedies\nmodelled after them, disappeared altogether from the stage. He was the\nfirst who spoke with warmth of Shakspeare, and paved the way for his\nreception in Germany. But his lingering faith in Aristotle, with the\ninfluence which Diderot's writings had had on him, produced a strange\ncompound in his theory of the dramatic art. He did not understand the\nrights of poetical imitation, and demanded not only in dialogue, but\neverywhere else also, a naked copy of nature, just as if this were in\ngeneral allowable, or even possible in the fine arts. His attack on the\nAlexandrine was just, but, on the other hand, he wished to, and was only\ntoo successful in abolishing all versification: for it is to this that we\nmust impute the incredible deficiency of our actors in getting by heart\nand delivering verse. Even yet they cannot habituate themselves to it. He\nwas thus also indirectly the cause of the insipid affectation of nature of\nour Dramatic writers, which a general use of versification would, in some\ndegree, have restrained.\n\nLessing, by his own confession, was no poet, and the few dramas which he\nproduced in his riper years were the slow result of great labour. _Minna\nvan Barnhelm_ is a true comedy of the refined class; in point of form\nit holds a middle place between the French and English style; the spirit\nof the invention, however, and the social tone portrayed in it, are\npeculiarly German. Every thing is even locally determined; and the\nallusions to the memorable events of the Seven Years War contributed not a\nlittle to the extraordinary success which this comedy obtained at the\ntime. In the serious part the expression of feeling is not free from\naffectation, and the difficulties of the two lovers are carried even to a\npainful height. The comic secondary figures are drawn with much drollery\nand humour, and bear a genuine German stamp.\n\n_Emilia Galotti_ was still more admired than _Minna von Barnhelm_, but\nhardly, I think, with justice. Its plan, perhaps, has been better\nconsidered, and worked out with still greater diligence; but _Minna von\nBarnhelm_ answers better to the genuine idea of Comedy than _Emilia\nGalotti_ to that of Tragedy. Lessing's theory of the Dramatic Art would,\nit is easily conceived, have much less of prejudicial influence on a demi-\nprosaic species than upon one which must inevitably sink when it does not\ntake the highest flight. He was now too well acquainted with the world to\nfall again into the drawling, lachrymose, and sermonizing tone which\nprevails in his _Miss Sara Sampson_ throughout. On the other hand, his\nsound sense, notwithstanding all his admiration of Diderot, preserved him\nfrom his declamatory and emphatical style, which owes its chief effect to\nbreaks and marks of interrogation. But as in the dialogue he resolutely\nrejected all poetical elevation, he did not escape this fault without\nfalling into another. He introduced into Tragedy the cool and close\nobservation of Comedy; in _Emilia Galotti_ the passions are rather acutely\nand wittily characterized than eloquently expressed. Under a belief that\nthe drama is most powerful when it exhibits faithful copies of what we\nknow, and comes nearest home to ourselves, he has disguised, under\nfictitious names, modern European circumstances, and the manners of the\nday, an event imperishably recorded in the history of the world, a famous\ndeed of the rough old Roman virtue--the murder of Virginia by her father.\nVirginia is converted into a Countess Galotti, Virginius into Count\nOdoardo, an Italian prince takes the place of Appius Claudius, and a\nchamberlain that of the unblushing minister of his lusts, &c. It is not\nproperly a familiar tragedy, but a court tragedy in the conversational\ntone, to which in some parts the sword of state and the hat under the arm\nas essentially belong as to many French tragedies. Lessing wished to\ntransplant into the renownless circle of the principality of Massa Carara\nthe violent injustice of the Decemvir's inevitable tyranny; but as by\ntaking a few steps we can extricate ourselves from so petty a territory,\nso, after a slight consideration, we can easily escape from the assumption\nso laboriously planned by the poet; on which, however, the necessity of\nthe catastrophe wholly rests. The visible care with which he has assigned\na motive for every thing, invites to a closer examination, in which we are\nlittle likely to be interrupted by any of the magical illusions of\nimagination: and in such examination the want of internal connectedness\ncannot escape detection, however much of thought and reflection the\noutward structure of a drama may display.\n\nIt is singular enough, that of all the dramatical works of Lessing, the\nlast, _Nathan der Weise_, which he wrote when his zeal for the improvement\nof the German theatre had nearly cooled, and, as he says, merely with a\nview to laugh at theologists, should be the most conformable to the\ngenuine rules of art. A remarkable tale of Boccacio is wrought up with a\nnumber of inventions, which, however wonderful, are yet not improbable, if\nthe circumstances of the times are considered; the fictitious persons are\ngrouped round a real and famous character, the great Saladin, who is drawn\nwith historical truth; the crusades in the background, the scene at\nJerusalem, the meeting of persons of various nations and religions on this\nOriental soil,--all this gives to the work a romantic air, and with the\nthoughts, foreign to the age in question, which for the sake of his\nphilosophical views the poet has interspersed, forms a contrast somewhat\nhazardous indeed, but yet exceedingly attractive. The form is freer and\nmore comprehensive than in Lessing's other pieces; it is very nearly that\nof a drama of Shakspeare. He has also returned here to the use of\nversification, which he had formerly rejected; not indeed of the\nAlexandrine, for the discarding of which from the serious drama we are\nin every respect indebted to him, but the rhymeless Iambic. The verses in\n_Nathan_ are indeed often harsh and carelessly laboured, but truly\ndialogical; and the advantageous influence of versification becomes at\nonce apparent upon comparing the tone of the present piece with the prose\nof the others. Had not the development of the truths which Lessing had\nparticularly at heart demanded so much of repose, had there been more of\nrapid motion in the action, the piece would certainly have pleased also on\nthe stage. That Lessing, with all his independence of mind, was still in\nhis dramatical principles influenced in some measure by the general\ninclination and tastes of his age, I infer from this, that the imitators\nof _Nathan_ were very few as compared with those of _Emilia Galotti_.\nAmong the striking imitations of the latter style, I will merely mention\nthe _Julius van Tarent_.\n\n_Engel_ must be regarded as a disciple of Lessing. His small after-\npieces in the manner of Lessing are perfectly insignificant; but his\ntreatise on imitation (_Mimik_) shows the point to which the theory\nof his master leads. This book contains many useful observations on the\nfirst elements of the language of gesture: the grand error of the author\nis, that he considered it a complete system of mimicry or imitation,\nthough it only treats of the expression of the passions, and does not\ncontain a syllable on the subject of exhibition of character. Moreover, in\nhis histrionic art he has not given a place to the ideas of tragic comic;\nand it may easily be supposed that he rejects ideality of every kind\n[Footnote: Among other strange things Engel says, that as the language of\nEuripides, the latest, and in his opinion the most perfect of the Greek\ntragedians has less elevation than that of his predecessors, it is\nprobable that, had the Greeks carried Tragedy to further perfection, they\nwould have proceeded a step farther: the next step forward would have been\nto discard verse altogether. So totally ignorant was Engel of the spirit\nof Grecian art. This approach to the tone of common life, which certainly\nmay be traced in Euripides, is the very indication of the decline and\nimpending fall of Tragedy: but even in Comedy the Greeks never could bring\nthemselves to make use of prose.], and merely requires a bare copy of\nnature.\n\nThe nearer I draw to the present times the more I wish to be general in my\nobservations, and to avoid entering into a minute criticism of works of\nliving writers with part of whom I have been, or still am, in relations of\npersonal friendship or hostility. Of the dramatic career, however, of\nGoethe and Schiller, two writers of whom our nation is justly proud, and\nwhose intimate society has frequently enabled me to correct and enlarge my\nown ideas of art, I may speak with the frankness that is worthy of their\ngreat and disinterested labours. The errors which, under the influence of\nerroneous principles, they at first gave rise to, are either already, or\nsoon will be, sunk in oblivion, even because from their very mistakes they\ncontrived to advance towards greater purity and perfectness; their works\nwill live, and in them, to say the least, we have the foundation of a\ndramatic school at once essentially German, and governed by genuine\nprinciples of art.\n\nScarcely had Goethe, in his _Werther_, published as it were a declaration\nof the rights of feeling in opposition to the tyranny of social relations,\nwhen, by the example which he set in _G\u00f6tz von Berlichingen_, he protested\nagainst the arbitrary rules which had hitherto fettered dramatic poetry.\nIn this play we see not an imitation of Shakspeare, but the inspiration\nexcited in a kindred mind by a creative genius. In the dialogue, he put in\npractice Lessing's principles of nature, only with greater boldness; for\nin it he rejected not only versification and all embellishments, but also\ndisregarded the laws of written language to a degree of licence which had\nnever been ventured upon before. He avoided all poetical circumlocutions;\nthe picture was to be the very thing itself; and thus he sounded in our\nears the tone of a remote age in a degree illusory enough for those at\nleast who had never learned from historical monuments the very language in\nwhich our ancestors themselves spoke. Most movingly has he expressed the\nold German cordiality: the situations which are sketched with a few rapid\nstrokes are irresistibly powerful; the whole conveys a great historical\nmeaning, for it represents the conflict between a departing and a coming\nage; between a century of rude but vigorous independence, and one of\npolitical tameness. In this composition the poet never seems to have had\nan eye to its representation on the stage; rather does he appear, in his\nyouthful arrogance, to have scorned it for its insufficiency.\n\nIt seems, in general, to have been the grand object of Goethe to express\nhis genius in his works, and to give new poetical animation to his age; as\nto form, he was indifferent about it, though, for the most part, he\npreferred the dramatic. At the same time he was a warm friend of the\ntheatre, and sometimes condescended even to comply with its demands as\nsettled by custom and the existing taste; as, for instance, in his\n_Clavigo_, a familiar tragedy in Lessing's manner. Besides other defects\nof this piece, the fifth act does not correspond with the rest. In the\nfour first acts Goethe adhered pretty closely to the story of\nBeaumarchais, but he invented the catastrophe; and when we observe that it\nstrongly reminds the reader of Ophelia's burial, and the meeting of Hamlet\nand Laertes at her grave, we have said enough to convey an idea how strong\na contrast it forms to the tone and colouring of the rest. In _Stella_\nGoethe has taken nearly the same liberty with the story of Count von\nGleichen which Lessing did with that of _Virginia_, but his labours were\nstill more unsuccessful; the trait of the times of the Crusades on which\nhe founded his play is affecting, true-hearted, and even edifying; but\n_Stella_ can only flatter the sentimentality of superficial feeling.\n\nAt a later period he endeavoured to effect a reconciliation between his\nown views of art and the common dramatic forms, even the very lowest, in\nall of which almost he has made at least a single attempt. In _Iphigenia_,\nhe attempted to express the spirit of Ancient Tragedy, according to his\nconceptions of it, with regard especially to repose, perspicuity, and\nideality. With the same simplicity, flexibility, and noble elegance, he\ncomposed his _Tasso_, in which he has availed himself of an historical\nanecdote to embody in a general significance the contrast between a court\nand a poet's life. _Egmont_ again is a romantic and historical drama, the\nstyle of which steers a middle course between his first manner in _G\u00f6tz_,\nand the form of Shakspeare. _Erwin und Elmire_ and _Claudine von\nVillabella_, if I may say so, are ideal operettes, which breathe so\nlightly and airily that, with the accompaniments of music and acting, they\nwould be in danger of becoming heavy and prosaic; in these pieces the\nnoble and sustained style of the dialogue in _Tasso_ is diversified with\nthe most tender songs. _Jery und B\u00e4tely_ is a charming natural picture of\nSwiss manners, and in the spirit and form of the best French operettes;\n_Scherz List und Bache_ again is a true _opera buffa_, full of Italian\n_Lazzi_. _Die Mitschuldigen_ is a comedy of common life in rhyme, and\nafter the French rules. Goethe carried his condescension so far that he\neven wrote a continuation of an after-piece of Florian's; and his taste\nwas so impartial that he even translated several of Voltaire's tragedies\nfor the German stage. Goethe's words and rhythm no doubt have always\ngolden resonance, but still we cannot praise these pieces as successful\ntranslations; and indeed it would be matter of regret if that had\nsucceeded which ought never to have been attempted. To banish these\nunprofitable productions from the German soil, it is not necessary to call\nin the aid of Lessing's _Dramaturgie_; Goethe's own masterly parody\non French Tragedy in some scenes of _Esther_, will do this much more\namusingly and effectually.\n\n_Der Triumph der Empfindsamkeit_ (The Triumph of Sensibility) is a\nhighly ingenious satire of Goethe's own imitators, and inclines to the\narbitrary comic, and the fancifully symbolical of Aristophanes, but a\nmodest Aristophanes in good company and at court. At a much earlier period\nGoethe had, in some of his merry tales and carnival plays, completely\nappropriated the manner of our honest Hans Sachs.\n\nIn all these transformations we distinctly recognize the same free and\npowerful poetical spirit, to which we may safely apply the Homeric lines\non Proteus:\n\n  All' aetoi protista leon genet' aeugeneios--\n  Pineto d' aegron aedor, kai dendreon uphipertaelon.\n                _Odyss. lib._ iv\n\n  A lion now, he curls a surgy mane;\n  Here from our strict embrace a stream he glides,\n  And last, sublime his stately growth he rears,\n  A tree, and well-dissembled foliage wears.--POPE.\n[Footnote: I have here quoted the translation of Pope, though nothing can\nwell be more vapid and more unlike the original, which is literally,\n\"First, he  became a lion with a huge mane--and then flowing water; and a\ntree with lofty foliage.\"--It would not, perhaps, be advisable to recur to\nour earliest mode of classical translation, line for line, and nearly word\nfor word; but when German Literature shall be better known in England, it\nwill be seen from the masterly versions of Voss and Schlegel, that without\ndiluting by idle epithets one line into three, as in the above example, it\nis still possible to combine fidelity with spirit. The German translation\nquoted by Mr. Schlegel runs,\n  Erstlich ward er ein Leu mit f\u00fcrchterlich rollender M\u00e4hne,\n  Floss dann als Wasser dahin, und rauscht' als Baum in den Wolken.\n                          --TRANS.]\n\nTo the youthful epoch belongs his _Faust_, a work which was early\nplanned, though not published till a late period, and which even in its\nlatest shape is still a fragment, and from its very nature perhaps must\nalways remain so. It is hard to say whether we are here more lost in\nastonishment at the heights which the poet frequently reaches, or seized\nwith giddiness at the depths which he lays open to our sight. But this is\nnot the place to express the whole of our admiration of this labyrinthine\nand boundless work, the peculiar creation of Goethe; we hare merely to\nconsider it in a dramatic point of view. The marvellous popular story of\nFaustus is a subject peculiarly adapted for the stage; and the Marionette\nplay, from which Goethe, after Lessing [Footnote: Lessing has borrowed the\nonly scene of his sketch which he has published, (Faustus summoning the\nevil spirits in order to select the nimblest for his servant,) from the\nold piece which bears the showy title: _Infelix Prudentia, or Doctor\nJoannes Faustus_. In England Marlow had long ago written a _Faustus_, but\nunfortunately it is not printed in Dodsley's Collection.], took the first\nidea of a drama, satisfies our expectation even in the meagre scenes and\nsorry words of ignorant puppet-showmen. Goethe's work, which in some\npoints adheres closely to the tradition, but leaves it entirely in others,\npurposely runs out in all directions beyond the dimensions of the theatre.\nIn many scenes the action stands quite still, and they consist wholly of\nlong soliloquies, or conversations, delineating Faustus' internal\nconditions and dispositions, and the development of his reflections on the\ninsufficiency of human knowledge, and the unsatisfactory lot of human\nnature; other scenes, though in themselves extremely ingenious and\nsignificant, nevertheless, in regard to the progress of the action,\npossess an accidental appearance; many again, while they are in the\nconception theatrically effective, are but slightly sketched,--rhapsodical\nfragments without beginning or end, in which the poet opens for a moment a\nsurprising prospect, and then immediately drops the curtain again: whereas\nin the truly dramatic poem, intended to carry the spectators along with\nit, the separate parts must be fashioned after the figure of the whole, so\nthat we may say, each scene may have its exposition, its intrigue, and\nwinding up. Some scenes, full of the highest energy and overpowering\npathos, for example, the murder of Valentine, and Margaret and Faustus in\nthe dungeon, prove that the poet was a complete master of stage effect,\nand that he merely sacrificed it for the sake of more comprehensive views.\nHe makes frequent demands on the imagination of his readers; nay, he\ncompels them, by way of background for his flying groups, to supply\nimmense moveable pictures, and such as no theatrical art is capable of\nbringing before the eye. To represent the _Faustus_ of Goethe, we must\npossess Faustus' magic staff, and his formulas of conjuration. And yet\nwith all this unsuitableness for outward representation, very much may be\nlearned from this wonderful work, with regard both to plan and execution.\nIn a prologue, which was probably composed at a later period, the poet\nexplains how, if true to his genius, he could not accommodate himself to\nthe demands of a mixed multitude of spectators, and writes in some measure\na farewell letter to the theatre.\n\nAll must allow that Goethe possesses dramatic talent in a very high\ndegree, but not indeed much theatrical talent. He is much more anxious to\neffect his object by tender development than by rapid external motion;\neven the mild grace of his harmonious mind prevented him from aiming at\nstrong demagogic effect. _Iphigenia in Taurus_ possesses, it is true,\nmore affinity to the Greek spirit than perhaps any other work of the\nmoderns composed before Goethe's; but is not so much an ancient tragedy as\na reflected image of one, a musical echo: the violent catastrophes of the\nlatter appear here in the distance only as recollections, and all is\nsoftly dissolved within the mind. The deepest and most moving pathos is to\nbe found in _Egmont_, but in the conclusion this tragedy also is\nremoved from the external world into the domain of an ideal soul-music.\n\nThat with this direction of his poetical career to the purest expression\nof his inspired imagining, without regard to any other object, and with\nthe universality of his artistic studies, Goethe should not have had that\ndecided influence on the shape of our theatre which, if he had chosen to\ndedicate himself exclusively and immediately to it, he might have\nexercised, is easily conceivable.\n\nIn the mean time, shortly after Goethe's first appearance, the attempt had\nbeen made to bring Shakspeare on our stage. The effort was a great and\nextraordinary one. Actors still alive acquired their first laurels in this\nwholly novel kind of exhibition, and Schr\u00f6der, perhaps, in some of the\nmost celebrated tragic and comic parts, attained to the same perfection\nfor which Garrick had been idolized. As a whole, however, no one piece\nappeared in a very perfect shape; most of them were in heavy prose\ntranslations, and frequently mere extracts, with disfiguring alterations,\nwere exhibited. The separate characters and situations had been hit to a\ncertain degree of success, but the sense of his composition was often\nmissed.\n\nIn this state of things Schiller made his appearance, a man endowed with\nall the qualifications necessary to produce at once a strong effect on the\nmultitude, and on nobler minds. He composed his earliest works while very\nyoung, and unacquainted with that world which he attempted to paint; and\nalthough a genius independent and boldly daring, he was nevertheless\ninfluenced in various ways by the models which he saw in the already\nmentioned pieces of Lessing, by the earlier labours of Goethe, and in\nShakspeare, so far as he could understand him without an acquaintance with\nthe original.\n\nIn this way were produced the works of his youth:--_Die Ra\u00fcber_, _Cabale\nund Liebe_, and _Fiesco_. The first, wild and horrible as it was, produced\nso powerful an effect as even to turn the heads of youthful enthusiasts.\nThe defective imitation here of Shakspeare is not to be mistaken: Francis\nMoor is a prosaical Richard III., ennobled by none of the properties which\nin the latter mingle admiration with aversion. _Cabale und Liebe_ can\nhardly affect us by its extravagant sentimentality, but it tortures us by\nthe most painful impressions. _Fiesco_ is in design the most perverted, in\neffect the feeblest.\n\nSo noble a mind could not long persevere in such mistaken courses, though\nthey gained him applauses which might have rendered the continuance of his\nblindness excusable. He had in his own case experienced the dangers of an\nundisciplined spirit and an ungovernable defiance of all constraining\nauthority, and therefore, with incredible diligence and a sort of passion,\nhe gave himself up to artistic discipline. The work which marks this new\nepoch is _Don Carlos_. In parts we observe a greater depth in the\ndelineation of character; yet the old and tumid extravagance is not\naltogether lost, but merely clothed with choicer forms. In the situations\nthere is much of pathetic power, the plot is complicated even to\nepigrammatic subtlety; but of such value in the eyes of the poet were his\ndearly purchased reflections on human nature and social institutions,\nthat, instead of expressing them by the progress of the action, he\nexhibited them with circumstantial fulness, and made his characters\nphilosophize more or less on themselves and others, and by that means\nswelled his work to a size quite incompatible with theatrical limits.\n\nHistorical and philosophical studies seemed now, to the ultimate profit of\nhis art, to have seduced the poet for a time from his poetical career, to\nwhich he returned with a riper mind, enriched with varied knowledge, and\ntruly enlightened at last with respect to his own aims and means. He now\napplied himself exclusively to Historical Tragedy, and endeavoured, by\ndivesting himself of his personality, to rise to a truly objective\nrepresentation. In _Wallenstein_ he has adhered so conscientiously to\nhistorical truth, that he could not wholly master his materials, an event\nof no great historical extent is spun out into two plays, with prologue in\nsome degree didactical. In form he has closely followed Shakspeare; only\nthat he might not make too large a demand on the imagination of the\nspectators, he has endeavoured to confine the changes of place and time\nwithin narrower limits. He also tied himself down to a more sustained\nobservance of tragical dignity, and has brought forward no persons of mean\ncondition, or at least did not allow them to speak in their natural tone,\nand banished into the prelude the mere people, here represented by the\narmy, though Shakspeare introduced them with such vividness and truth into\nthe very midst of the great public events. The loves of Thekla and Max\nPiccolomini form, it is true, properly an episode, and bear the stamp of\nan age very different from that depicted in the rest of the work; but it\naffords an opportunity for the most affecting scenes, and is conceived\nwith equal tenderness and dignity.\n\n_Maria Stuart_ is planned and executed with more artistic skill, and\nalso with greater depth and breadth. All is wisely weighed; we may censure\nparticular parts as offensive: the quarrel for instance, between the two\nQueens, the wild fury of Mortimer's passion, &c.; but it is hardly\npossible to take any thing away without involving the whole in confusion.\nThe piece cannot fail of effect; the last moments of Mary are truly worthy\nof a queen; religious impressions are employed with becoming earnestness;\nonly from the care, perhaps superfluous, to exercise, after Mary's death,\npoetical justice on Elizabeth, the spectator is dismissed rather cooled\nand indifferent.\n\nWith such a wonderful subject as the _Maid of Orleans_, Schiller\nthought himself entitled to take greater liberties. The plot is looser;\nthe scene with Montgomery, an epic intermixture, is at variance with the\ngeneral tone; in the singular and inconceivable appearance of the black\nknight, the object of the poet is ambiguous; in the character of Talbot,\nand many other parts, Schiller has entered into an unsuccessful\ncompetition with Shakspeare; and I know not but the colouring employed,\nwhich is not so brilliant as might be imagined, is an equivalent for the\nseverer pathos which has been sacrificed to it. The history of the _Maid\nof Orleans_, even to its details, is generally known; her high mission\nwas believed by herself and generally by her contemporaries, and produced\nthe most extraordinary effects. The marvel might, therefore, have been\nrepresented by the poet, even though the sceptical spirit of his\ncontemporaries should have deterred him from giving it out for real; and\nthe real ignominious martyrdom of this betrayed and abandoned heroine\nwould have agitated us more deeply than the gaudy and rose-coloured one\nwhich, in contradiction to history, Schiller has invented for her.\nShakspeare's picture, though partial from national prejudice, still\npossesses much more historical truth and profundity. However, the German\npiece will ever remain as a generous attempt to vindicate the honour of a\nname deformed by impudent ridicule; and its dazzling effect, strengthened\nby the rich ornateness of the language, deservedly gained for it on the\nstage the most eminent success.\n\nLeast of all am I disposed to approve of the principles which Schiller\nfollowed in _The Bride of Messina_, and which he openly avows in his\npreface. The examination of them, however, would lead me too far into the\nprovince of theory. It was intended to be a tragedy, at once ancient in\nits form, but romantic in substance. A story altogether fictitious is kept\nin a costume so indefinite and so devoid of all intrinsic probability,\nthat the picture is neither truly ideal nor truly natural, neither\nmythological nor historical. The romantic poetry seeks indeed to blend\ntogether the most remote objects, but it cannot admit of combining\nincompatible things; the way of thinking of the people represented cannot\nbe at once Pagan and Christian. I will not complain of him for borrowing\nopenly as he has done; the whole is principally composed of two\ningredients, the story of Eteocles and Polynices, who, notwithstanding the\nmediation of their mother Jocaste, contend for the sole possession of the\nthrone, and of the brothers, in the _Zwillingen van Klinger_, and in\n_Julius von Tarent_, impelled to fratricide by rivalry in love. In\nthe introduction of the choruses also, though they possess much lyrical\nsublimity and many beauties, the spirit of the ancients has been totally\nmistaken; as each of the hostile brothers has a chorus attached to his,\nthe one contending against the other, they both cease to be a true chorus;\nthat is, the voice of human sympathy and contemplation elevated above all\npersonal considerations.\n\nSchiller's last work, _Wilhelm Tell_, is, in my opinion, also his best.\nHere he has returned to the poetry of history; the manner in which\nhe has handled his subject, is true, cordial, and when we consider\nSchiller's ignorance of Swiss nature and manners, wonderful in point of\nlocal truth. It is true he had here a noble source to draw from in the\nspeaking pictures of the immortal John M\u00fcller. This soul-kindling picture\nof old German manners, piety, and true heroism, might have merited, as a\nsolemn celebration of Swiss freedom, five hundred years after its\nfoundation, to have been exhibited, in view of Tell's chapel on the banks\nof the lake of Lucerne, in the open air, and with the Alps for a\nbackground.\n\nSchiller was carried off by an untimely death in the fulness of mental\nmaturity; up to the last moment his health, which had long been\nundermined, was made to yield to his powerful will, and completely\nexhausted in the pursuit of most praiseworthy objects. How much might he\nnot have still performed had he lived to dedicate himself exclusively to\nthe theatre, and with every work attained a higher mastery in his art! He\nwas, in the genuine sense of the word, a virtuous artist; with parity of\nmind he worshipped the true and the beautiful, and to his indefatigable,\nefforts to attain them his own existence was the sacrifice; he was,\nmoreover, far removed from that petty self-love and jealousy but too\ncommon even among artists of excellence.\n\nGreat original minds in Germany have always been followed by a host of\nimitators, and hence both Goethe and Schiller have been the occasion,\nwithout any fault of theirs, of a number of defective and degenerate\nproductions being brought on our stage.\n\n_G\u00f6tz van Berlichingen_ was followed by quite a flood of chivalrous\nplays, in which there was nothing historical but the names and other\nexternal circumstances, nothing chivalrous but the helmets, bucklers, and\nswords, and nothing of old German honesty but the supposed rudeness: the\nsentiments were as modern as they were vulgar. From chivalry-pieces they\nbecame true cavalry-pieces, which certainly deserved to be acted by horses\nrather than by men. To all those who in some measure appeal to the\nimagination by superficial allusions to former times, may be applied what\nI said of one of the most admired of them:\n\n  Mit Harsth\u00f6rnern, und Burgen, uud Harnischen, pranget Johanna;\n  Traun! mir gefiele das St\u00fcck, w\u00e4ren nicht Worte dabey.\n[Footnote:\n  With trumpets, and donjons, and helmets, Johanna parades it.\n  It would certainly please were but the words all away.--ED.]\n\nThe next place in the public favour has been held by the _Family Picture_\nand the _Affecting Drama_, two secondary species. From the charge of\nencouraging these both by precept and example Lessing, Goethe, and\nSchiller (the two last by their earliest compositions _Stella_, _Glavigo_,\n_Die Geschwister_, _Cabale und Liebe_), cannot be acquitted. I will name\nno one, but merely suppose that two writers of some talent and theatrical\nknowledge had dedicated themselves to these species, that they had both\nmistaken the essence of dramatic poetry, and laid down to themselves a\npretended moral aim; but that the one saw morality under the narrow guise\nof economy, and the other in that of sensibility: what sort of fruits\nwould thus be put forth, and how would the applause of the multitude\nfinally decide between these two competitors?\n\nThe family picture is intended to portray the every-day course of the\nmiddle ranks of society. The extraordinary events which are produced by\nintrigue are consequently banished from it: to cover this want of motion,\nthe writer has recourse to a characterization wholly individual, and\ncapable of receiving vividness from a practised player, but attaches\nitself to external peculiarities just as a bad portrait-painter endeavours\nto attain a resemblance by noticing every pit of small-pox and wart, and\npeculiar dress and cravat-tie: the motives and situations are sometimes\nhumorous and droll, but never truly diverting, as the serious and\nprosaical aim which is always kept in view completely prevents this. The\nrapid determinations of Comedy generally end before the family life\nbegins, by which all is fixed in every-day habits. To make economy\npoetical is impossible: the dramatic family painter will be able to say as\nlittle of a fortunate and tranquil domestic establishment, as the\nhistorian can of a state in possession of external and internal\ntranquillity. He is therefore driven to interest us by painting with\npainful accuracy the torments and the penury of domestic life--chagrins\nexperienced in the honest exercise of duty, in the education of children,\ninterminable dissensions between husband and wife, the bad conduct of\nservants, and, above all things, the cares of earning a daily subsistence.\nThe spectators understand these pictures but too well, for every man knows\nwhere the shoe pinches; it may be very salutary for them to have, in\npresence of the stage, to run over weekly in thought the relation between\ntheir expenditure and income; but surely they will hardly derive from it\nelevation of mind or recreation, for they do but find again on the stage\nthe very same thing which they have at home from morning to night.\n\nThe sentimental poet, again, contrives to lighten their heart. His general\ndoctrine amounts properly to this, that what is called a good heart atones\nfor all errors and extravagances, and that, with respect to virtue, we are\nnot to insist so strictly on principles. Do but allow, he seems to say to\nhis spectators, free scope to your natural impulses; see how well it\nbecomes my _na\u00efve_ girls, when they voluntarily and without reserve\nconfess every thing. If he only knows how to corrupt by means of\neffeminate emotions--rather sensual than moral, but at the close\ncontrives, by the introduction of some generous benefactor, who showers\nout his liberality with open hands, to make all things pretty even, he\nthen marvellously delights the vitiated hearts of his audience: they feel\nas if they had themselves done noble actions, without, however, putting\ntheir hands in their own pockets--all is drawn from the purse of the\ngenerous poet. In the long run, therefore, the affecting species can\nhardly fail to gain a victory over the economical; and this has actually\nbeen the case in Germany. But what in these dramas is painted to us not\nonly as natural and allowable, but even as moral and dignified, is strange\nbeyond all thought, and the seduction, consequently, is much more\ndangerous than that of the licentious Comedy, for this very reason, that\nit does not disgust us by external indecency, but steals into unguarded\nminds, and selects the most sacred names for a disguise.\n\nThe poetical as well as moral decline of taste in our time has been\nattended with this consequence, that the most popular writers for the\nstage, regardless of the opinion of good judges, and of true repute, seek\nonly for momentary applause; while others, who have both higher aims, keep\nboth the former in view, cannot prevail on themselves to comply with the\ndemands of the multitude, and when they do compose dramatically, have no\nregard to the stage. Hence they are defective in the theatrical part of\nart, which can only be attained in perfection by practice and experience.\n\nThe repertory of our stage, therefore, exhibits, in its miserable wealth,\na motley assemblage of chivalrous pieces, family pictures, and sentimental\ndramas, which are occasionally, though seldom, varied by works in a\ngrander and higher style by Shakspeare and Schiller. In this state of\nthings, translations and imitations of foreign novelties, and especially\nof the French after-pieces and operettes, are indispensable. From the\nworthlessness of the separate works, nothing but the fleeting charm of\nnovelty is sought for in theatrical entertainment, to the great injury of\nthe histrionic art, as a number of insignificant parts must be got by\nheart in the most hurried manner, to be immediately forgotten [Footnote:\nTo this must be added, by way of rendering the vulgarity of our theatre\nalmost incurable, the radically depraved disposition of every thing having\nany reference to the theatre. The companies of actors ought to be under\nthe management of intelligent judges and persons practised in the dramatic\nart, and not themselves players. Engel presided for a time over the Berlin\ntheatre, and eye-witnesses universally assert that he succeeded in giving\nit a great elevation. What Goethe has effected in the management of the\ntheatre of Weimar, in a small town, and with small means, is known to all\ngood theatrical judges in Germany. Rare talents he can neither create nor\nreward, but he accustoms the actors to order and discipline, to which they\nare generally altogether disinclined, and thereby gives to his\nrepresentations a unity and harmony which we do not witness on larger\ntheatres, where every individual plays as his own fancy prompts him. The\nlittle correctness with which their parts are got by heart, and the\nimperfection of their oral delivery, I have elsewhere censured. I have\nheard verses mutilated by a celebrated player in a manner which would at\nParis be considered unpardonable in a beginner. It is a fact, that in a\ncertain theatre, when they were under the melancholy necessity of\nrepresenting a piece in verse they wrote out the parts as prose, that the\nplayers might not be disturbed in their darling but stupid affectation of\nnature, by observation of the quantity. How many \"periwig-pated fellows\"\n(as Shakspeare called such people), must we suffer, who imagine they are\naffording the public an enjoyment, when they straddle along the boards\nwith their awkward persons, considering the words which the poet has given\nthem to repeat merely as a necessary evil. Our players are less anxious to\nplease than the French. By the creation of standing national theatres as\nthey are called, by which in several capitals people suppose that they\nhave accomplished wonders, and are likely to improve the histrionic art,\nthey have on the contrary put a complete end to all competition. They\nbestow on the players exclusive privileges--they secure their salaries for\nlife; having now nothing to dread from more accomplished rivals, and being\nindependent of the fluctuating favour of the spectators, the only concern\nof the actors is to enjoy their places, like so many benefices, in the\nmost convenient manner. Hence the national theatres have become true\nhospitals for languor and laziness. The question of Hamlet with respect to\nthe players--\"Do they grow rusty?\" will never become obsolete; it must,\nalas! be always answered in the affirmative. The actor, from the ambiguous\nposition in which he lives (which, in the nature of things, cannot well be\naltered), must possess a certain extravagant enthusiasm for his art, if he\nis to gain any extraordinary repute. He cannot be too passionately alive\nto noisy applause, reputation, and every brilliant reward which may crown\nhis efforts to please. The present moment is his kingdom, time is his most\ndangerous enemy, as there is nothing durable in his exhibition. Whenever\nhe is filled with the tradesman-like anxiety of securing a moderate\nmaintenance for himself, his wife, and children, there is an end of all\nimprovement. We do not mean to say that the old age of deserving artists\nought not to be provided for. But to those players who from age, illness,\nor other accidents, have lost their qualifications for acting, we ought to\ngive pensions to induce them to leave off instead of continuing to play.\nIn general, we ought not to put it into the heads of the players that they\nare such important and indispensable personages. Nothing is more rare than\na truly great player; but nothing is more common than the qualifications\nfor filling characters in the manner we generally see them filled; of this\nwe may be convinced in every amateur theatre among tolerably educated\npeople. Finally, the relation which subsists with us between the managers\nof theatres and writers, is also as detrimental as possible. In France and\nEngland, the author of a piece has a certain share of the profits of each\nrepresentation; this procures for him a permanent income, whenever any of\nhis pieces are so successful as to keep their place on the theatre. Again,\nif the piece is unsuccessful, he receives nothing. In Germany, the\nmanagers of theatres pay a certain sum beforehand, and at their own risk,\nfor the manuscripts which they receive. They may thus be very considerable\nlosers; and on the other hand, if the piece is extraordinarily successful,\nthe author is not suitably rewarded.\n\nThe Author is under a mistake with respect to the reward which falls to\nthe share of the dramatic writer in England. He has not a part of the\nprofits of each representation. If the play runs three nights, it brings\nhim in as much as if it were to run three thousand nights.--TRANS.] The\nlabours of the poets who do not write immediately for the theatre take\nevery variety of direction: in this, as in other departments, may be\nobserved the ferment of ideas that has brought on our literature in\nforeign countries the reproach of a chaotic anarchy, in which, however,\nthe striving after a higher aim as yet unreached is sufficiently visible.\n\nThe more profound study of Aesthetics has among the Germans, by nature a\nspeculative rather than a practical people, led to this consequence, that\nworks of art, and tragedies more especially, have been executed on\nabstract theories, more or less misunderstood. It was natural that these\ntragedies should produce no effect on the theatre; nay, they are, in\ngeneral, unsuited for representation, and wholly devoid of any inner\nprinciple of life.\n\nOthers again, with true feeling for it, have, as it were, appropriated the\nvery spirit of the ancient tragedians, and sought for the most suitable\nmeans of accommodating the simple and pure forms of ancient art to the\npresent constitution of our stage.\n\nMen truly distinguished for their talents have attached themselves to the\nromantic drama, but in it they have generally adopted a latitude which is\nnot really allowable, except in a romance, wholly disregarding the\ncompression which the dramatic form necessarily requires. Or they have\nseized only the musically fanciful and picturesquely sportive side of the\nSpanish dramas, without their thorough keeping, their energetical power,\nand their theatrical effect.\n\nWhat path shall we now enter? Shall we endeavour to accustom ourselves\nagain to the French form of Tragedy, which has been so long banished?\nRepeated experience of it has proved that, however modified in the\ntranslation and representation, for even in the hands of a Goethe or a\nSchiller some modification is indispensable, it can never be very\nsuccessful. The genuine imitation of Greek Tragedy has far more affinity\nto our national ways of thinking; but it is beyond the comprehension of\nthe multitude, and, like the contemplation of ancient statues, can never\nbe more than an acquired artistic enjoyment for a few highly cultivated\nminds.\n\nIn Comedy, Lessing has already pointed out the difficulty of introducing\nnational manners which are not provincial, inasmuch as with us the tone of\nsocial life is not modelled after a common central standard. If we wish\npure comedies, I would strongly recommend the use of rhyme; with the more\nartificial form they might, perhaps, gradually assume also a peculiarity\nof substance.\n\nTo me, however, it appears that this is not the most urgent want: let us\nfirst bring to perfection the serious and higher species, in a manner\nworthy of the German character. Now here, it appears to me, that our taste\ninclines altogether to the romantic. What most attracts the multitude in\nour half-sentimental, half-humorous dramas, which one moment transport us\nto Peru, and the next to Kamschatka, and soon after into the times of\nchivalry, while the sentiments are all modern and lachrymose, is\ninvariably a certain sprinkling of the romantic, which we recognize even\nin the most insipid magical operas. The true significance of this species\nwas lost with us before it was properly found; the fancy has passed with\nthe inventors of such chimeras, and the views of the plays are sometimes\nwiser than those of their authors. In a hundred play-bills the name\n\"romantic\" is profaned, by being lavished on rude and monstrous abortions;\nlet us therefore be permitted to elevate it, by criticism and history,\nagain to its true import. We have lately endeavoured in many ways to\nrevive the remains of our old national poetry. These may afford the poet a\nfoundation for the wonderful festival-play; but the most dignified species\nof the romantic is the historical.\n\nIn this field the most glorious laurels may yet be reaped by dramatic\npoets who are willing to emulate Goethe and Schiller. Only let our\nhistorical drama be in reality and thoroughly national; let it not attach\nitself to the life and adventures of single knights and petty princes, who\nexercised no influence on the fortunes of the whole nation. Let it, at the\nsame time, be truly historical, drawn from a profound knowledge, and\ntransporting us back to the great olden time. In this mirror let the poet\nenable us to see, while we take deep shame to ourselves for what we are,\nwhat the Germans were in former times, and what they must again be. Let\nhim impress it strongly on our hearts, that, if we do not consider the\nlessons of history better than we have hitherto done, we Germans--we,\nformerly the greatest and most illustrious nation of Europe, whose freely-\nelected prince was willingly acknowledged the head of all Christendom--are\nin danger of disappearing altogether from the list of independent nations.\nThe higher ranks, by their predilection for foreign manners, by their\nfondness for exotic literature, which, transplanted from its natural\nclimate into hot-houses, can only yield a miserable fruit, have long\nalienated themselves from the body of the people; still longer, even for\nthree centuries, at least, has internal dissension wasted our noblest\nenergies in civil wars, whose ruinous consequences are now first beginning\nto disclose themselves. May all who have an opportunity of influencing the\npublic mind exert themselves to extinguish at last the old\nmisunderstandings, and to rally, as round a consecrated banner, all the\nwell-disposed objects of reverence, which, unfortunately, have been too\nlong deserted, but by faithful attachment to which our forefathers\nacquired so much happiness and renown, and to let them feel their\nindestructible unity as Germans! What a glorious picture is furnished by\nour history, from the most remote times, the wars with the Romans, down to\nthe establishment of the German Empire! Then the chivalrous and brilliant\nera of the House of Hohenstaufen! and lastly, of greater political\nimportance, and more nearly concerning ourselves, the House of Hapsburg,\nwith its many princes and heroes. What a field for a poet, who, like\nShakspeare, could discern the poetical aspect of the great events of the\nworld! But, alas, so little interest do we Germans take in events truly\nimportant to our nation, that its greatest achievements still lack even a\nfitting historical record.","title":"Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":211258}