works of entertainment. And the necessity of preventing the tedium
arising from _hacknied expression_ is so instant, that those, who are
neither capable of prescribing to themselves this Rule of the _callida
Junctura_, or of following it when prescribed by others, are yet
inclined to ape it by some spurious contrivance; which being slight
in itself will soon become liable to excess, and ridiculous by its
absurdity. I have a remarkable instance in view, with which the reader
will not be displeased that I conclude this long note.

About the middle of the 17th century one of the most common of these
mimic efforts was the endless multiplication of _Epithets_; which soon
made their poetry at once both stiff and nerveless. When frequent and
excessive use had made this expedient ridiculous as well as cheap, they
tried another, it’s very opposite _the rejection of all Epithets_,
and so of languid poetry, made rigid Prose. This too had it’s day. A
dramatic Poet of that time has exposed these opposite follies with much
humour. A character of sense and pleasantry is made to interrogate a
Poetaster in the following manner.

    GOLDSWORTH.

    Master CAPERWIT, before you read, pray tell me,
    Have your verses any ADJECTIVES?

    CAPERWIT.

    Adjectives! Would you have a poem without
    Adjectives? They are the flow’rs, the grace of all our language;
    A well-chosen Epithete doth give new Soule
    To fainting Poesie; and makes everye verse
    A Bribe. With Adjectives we baite our lines,
    When we do fish for Gentlewomen’s loves,
    And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear
    Of amorous Ladies: With the music of
    These ravishing Nouns, we charm the silken tribe,
    And make the Gallant melt with apprehension
    Of the rare word: I will maintain ’t (against
    A bundle of Grammarians) in Poetry
    The Substantive itself cannot subsist
    Without an Adjective.

    GOLDSWORTH.

                          But for all that,
    These words would sound more full, methinks, that are not
    So larded; and, if I might counsel you,
    You should compose a Sonnet, cleane without them.
    A row of stately SUBSTANTIVES would march,
    Like Switzers, and bear all the field before them;
    Carry their weight, shew fair, like DEEDS enroll’d;
    Not WRITS, that are first made, and after fill’d:
    Thence first came up the title of BLANK verse.
    You know, Sir, what _Blank_ signifies? When the Sense
    First fram’d, is tied with Adjectives, like Points,
    And could not hold together, without wedges.
    Hang ’t, ’tis Pedanticke, vulgar Poetry.
    Let children, when they versifye, sticke here
    And there these pidling words, for want of matter;
    POETS write masculine numbers.

    CAPERWIT.

    You have given me a pretty hint: ’Tis NEW.
    I will bestow these verses on my footman;
    They’ll serve a Chambermaid—
          SHIRLEY’S _Chances, or Love in a Maze_.

54. CÆCILIO PLAUTOQUE DABIT ROMANUS, ADEMPTUM VIRGILIO VARIOQUE?]
The question is but reasonable. Yet the answer will not be to the
satisfaction of him that puts it. This humour, we may observe, holds
here in England, as it did formerly at Rome; and will, I suppose, hold
every-where, under the same circumstances. Cæcilius and Plautus were
allowed to _coin_, but not Virgil and Varius. The same indulgence our
authors had at the restoration of letters; but it is denied to our
present writers. The reason is plainly this. While arts are refining
or reviving, the greater part are forced, and _all_ are content to be
_Learners_. When they are grown to their usual height, all affect to be
_Teachers_. With this affectation, a certain envy, as the poet observes,

            ——_cur adquirere pauca,
    Si possum_, invideor—

insinuates itself; which is for restraining the privileges of writers,
to all of whom every reader is now become a Rival. Whereas men, under
the first character of _Learners_, are glad to encourage every thing
that makes for their instruction.

But whatever offence may be taken at this practice, good writers, as
they safely may, should _dare_ to venture upon it. A perfect language
is a chimæra. In every state of it there will frequently be occasion,
sometimes a necessity, to hazard a _new_ word. And let not a great
genius be discouraged, by the fastidious delicacy of his age, from a
sober use of this privilege. Let him, as the poet directs,

    Command _old_ words, that long have slept, to wake,
    Words, that wise BACON, or brave RALEGH spake;
    Or bid the _new_ be English ages hence,
    For USE will father what’s begot by SENSE.

This too was the constant language of ancient criticism. “Audendum
tamen; namque, ut ait Cicero, etiam quæ primò dura visa sunt, usu
molliuntur,” _Quintil._ l. i. c. v.

70. MULTA RENASCENTUR, QUAE JAM CECIDERE.] This _revival_ of _old_
words is one of those _niceties_ in composition, not to be attempted
by any but great masters. It may be done two ways, 1. by restoring
such terms, as are grown entirely obsolete; or, 2. by selecting out
of those, which have still a currency, and are not quite laid aside,
such as are most forcible and expressive. For so I understand a passage
in Cicero, who urges this double use of old words, as an argument,
to his orator, for the diligent study of the old Latin writers. His
words are these: _Loquendi elegantia, quamquam expolitur scientiâ
literarum, tamen augetur legendis oratoribus [veteribus] et poetis:
sunt enim illi veteres, qui ornare nondum poterant ea, quae dicebant,
omnes prope præclare locuti—Neque tamen erit utendum verbis iis, quibus
jam consuetudo nostra non utitur, nisi quando ornandi causâ, parcè,
quod ostendam; sed usitatis ita poterit uti, lectissimis ut utatur
is, qui in veteribus erit scriptis studiosè et multum volutatus._ [De
Orat. l. iii. c. x.] These _choice_ words amongst such as are still
in _use_, I take to be those which are employed by the old writers in
some peculiarly strong and energetic sense, yet so as with advantage
to be copied by the moderns, without appearing barbarous or affected.
[See HOR. lib. ii. ep. ii. v. 115.] And the reason, by the way, of
our finding such words in the old writers of every language, may be
this. When ideas are new to us, they strike us most forcibly; and we
endeavour to express, not our _sense_ only, but our _sensations_,
in the terms we use to explain them. The passion of wonder, which
Philosophy would cure us of, is of singular use in raising the
conception, and strengthening the expression of poets. And such is
always the condition of old writers, when the arts are reviving, or
but beginning to refine. The other use of old terms, _i. e._ when
become _obsolete_, he says, must be made _parcè_, more sparingly. The
contrary would, in oratory, be insufferable affectation. The rule holds
in poetry, but with greater latitude; for, as he observes in another
place, and the reason of the thing speaks, _hæc sunt Poetarum licentiæ
liberiora_. [De Or. iii. 38.] But the elegance of the style, we are
told, is increased both ways. The reason is, according to Quinctilian
(who was perfectly of Cicero’s mind in this matter. See l. x. c. i.)
_Verba à vetustate repetita afferunt orationi majestatem aliquam non
sine delectatione; nam et auctoritatem antiquitatis habent; et, quia
intermissa sunt, gratiam novitati similem parant._ [Lib. i. c. vi.
sub fin.] But this is not all: The riches of a language are actually
increased by retaining its old words; and besides, they have often
a greater real weight and dignity, than those of a more fashionable
cast, which succeed to them. This needs no proof to such as are versed
in the earlier writings in _any_ language. A very capable judge hath
observed it in regard of the most admired _modern_ one: _Nous avons
tellement laissé ce qui étoit au viel françois, que nous avons
laissé quant et quant la plus part de ce qu’il avoit de bon._ [Trait.
préparatif à l’ Apol. pour Herod. l. i. c. xxviii.] Or, if the reader
requires a more decisive testimony, let him take it in the words of
that curious speaker, Fenelon. _Nôtre langue manque d’un grand nombre
de mots et de phrases. Il me semble même qu’on l’a genée et appauvrie
depuis environ cent ans en voulant la purifier. Il est vrai qu’elle
étoit encore un peu informe et trop verbeuse. Mais le vieux language
se fait regretter, quand nous le retrouvons dans_ MAROT, _dans_ AMIOT,
_dans le Cardinal d’_OSSAT, _dans les ouvrages les plus enjoues, et
dans les plus serieux. Il y avoit je ne scai quoi de court, de näif,
de vif et de passioné._ [Reflex. sur la Rhetorique, Amst. 1733. p. 4.]
From these testimonies we learn the extreme value, which these masters
of composition set upon their old writers; and as the reason of the
thing justifies their opinions, we may further see the important use of
some late attempts to restore a better knowledge of our _own_. Which I
observe with pleasure, as the growing prevalency of a very different
humour, first catched, as it should seem, from our commerce with the
French models, and countenanced by the too scrupulous delicacy of
some good writers amongst ourselves, had gone far towards unnerving
the noblest modern language, and effeminating the public taste. This
was not a little forwarded by, what generally makes its appearance at
the same time, a kind of feminine curiosity in the choice of words;
cautiously avoiding and reprobating all such (which were not seldom
the most expressive) as had been prophaned by a too vulgar use, or
had suffered the touch of some other accidental taint. This ran us
into periphrases and general expression; the peculiar bane of every
polished language. Whereas the rhetorician’s judgment here again
should direct us: _Omnia verba (exceptis paucis parum verecundis) sunt
alicubi optima; nam et humilibus interim et vulgaribus est opus, et quæ
cultiore in parte videntur sordida, ubi res poscit, propriè dicuntur_.
Which seems borrowed from Dionysius of Halicarnassus [περ. συνθεσ. §
xii.] οὐδὲν οὕτω ταπεινὸν, ἢ ῥυπαρὸν, ἢ μιαρὸν, ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δυσχέρειαν
ἔχον ἔσεσθαί φημι λόγου μόριον, ᾧ σημαίνεταί τι σῶμα ἢ πρᾶγμα, ὃ
μηδεμίαν ἕξει χῶραν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐν λόγοις. However those two causes,
“The rejection of old words, as barbarous, and of many modern ones, as
unpolite,” had so exhausted the strength and stores of our language,
that, as I observed, it was high time for some master-hand to interpose
and send us for supplies to our old poets; which, there is the highest
authority for saying, no one ever despised, but for a reason, not very
consistent with his credit to avow: _rudem enim esse omnino in nostris
poëtis aut inertissimæ segnitiæ est aut fastidii delicatissimi_. [Cic.
de fin. l. i. c. ii.]

72.—SI VOLET USUS, &c.] _Consuetudo certissima loquendi magistra;
utendumque planè sermone, ut nummo, qui publica forma est._ [Quinctil.
l. i. c. vi.] imitated from Horace. In _Lucian_ too, we find it one of
the charges brought against the Pedant, _Lexiphanes_, that _he clipped
the standard_ COIN _of the Greek language_—σπουδὴν ποιούμενος ὡς δή τι
μέγα ὂν, εἴτι ξενίζοι καὶ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ τῆς φωνῆς παρακόπτοι
(c. 20.)

73. RES GESTAE, etc.] The purport of these lines [from v. 73 to 86] and
their connexion with what follows, hath not been fully seen. They would
express this general proposition, “That the several kinds of poetry
essentially differ from each other, as may be gathered, not solely from
their different subjects, but their different measures; which good
sense, and an attention to the peculiar natures of each, instructed
the great inventors and masters of them to employ.” The use made of
this proposition is to infer, “that therefore the like attention should
be had to the different species of the _same kind_ of poetry [v. 89,
&c.] as in the case of tragedy and comedy (to which the application is
made) whose peculiar differences and correspondencies, as resulting
from the natures of each, should, in agreement to the universal law of
_decorum_, be exactly known and diligently observed by the poet.”

    _Singula quæque locum teneant sortita decentem._
                                                v. 92.

But, there is a further propriety in this enumeration of the several
kinds of poetry, as addressed to the dramatic writer. He is not only to
study, for the purposes here explained, the characteristic differences
of either species of the drama: He must further be knowing in the other
_kinds_ of poetry, so as to be able, as the nature of his work shall
demand, to adopt the genius of each, in its turn, and to transfer
the graces of universal poetry into the drama. Thus, to follow the
division here laid down, there will sometimes be occasion for the pomp
and high _coloring_ of the EPIC narration; sometimes for the plaintive
softness and passionate inconnexion of the ELEGY: and the chorus, if
characterized in the ancient manner, must catch the fiery, inraptured
spirit of the ODE.

    _Descriptas servare vices operumque colores,
    Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque_, POETA _salutor?_

Hence is seen the truth of that remark, which there hath been more
than once occasion to make, “That, however general these prefatory
instructions may appear, they more especially respect the case of the
_drama_.”

90. INDIGNATUR ITEM, etc.—COENA THYESTAE.] _Il met le souper de
Thyeste pour toutes sortes de tragedies_, says M. Dacier; but why this
subject was singled out, as the representative of the rest, is not
explained by him. We may be sure, it was not taken up at random. The
reason was, that the Thyestes of Ennius was peculiarly chargeable with
the fault, here censured: as is plain from a curious passage in the
_Orator_; where Cicero, speaking of the loose numbers of certain poets,
observes this, in particular, of the tragedy of Thyestes, _Similia sunt
quædam apud nostros: velut in Thyeste_,

    _Quemnam te esse dicam? qui tardâ in senectute._

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

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

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

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

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

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

    _Iratusque Chremes_ TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.

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

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

    _Et tragicus plerumque_ DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.

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

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

The capital rule in this matter is,

    _Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    [_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
    Telephus aut Peleus_

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

    _Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit_.

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

    _Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore_.

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

    _Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶς
    Πάσχους’

And

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

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

    Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτω
    Μηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.

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

        _invadam deos,
    Et cuncta quatiam_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    πατρὸς δ’ ἔτισας φόνον δικαίως.
                        Act v.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Νέμει τοι δίκαν θεὸς ὅταν τύχῃ.
                      Act. iv.

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

    Καὶ μὲν ἀμύνων πατρὶ, δυσσεβὴς ἔσῃ;

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

    Τῷ δαὶ πατρῴαν διαμεθῇς τιμωρίαν;

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

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

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

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

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

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

II. The case of Iphigenia, though a greater authority stand in the way,
is still easier. Aristotle’s words are, τοῦ δὲ ἀνωμάλου [παράδειγμα]
ἡ ἐν Αὐλίδι Ἰφιγένεια. Οὐδὲν γὰρ ἔοικεν ἡ ἱκετεύουσα τῇ ὑστέρᾳ, i. e.
“Iphigenia is an instance of the inconsistent character: for there is
no probable conformity betwixt her fears and supplications at first,
and her firmness and resolution afterwards.” But how doth this appear,
independently of the name of this great critic? Iphigenia is drawn
indeed, at first, fearful and suppliant: and surely with the greatest
observance of nature. The account of her destination to the altar was
sudden, and without the least preparation; and, as Lucretius well
observes, in commenting her case, NUBENDI TEMPORE IN IPSO; when her
thoughts were all employed, and, according to the simplicity of those
times, confessed to be so, on her promised nuptials. The cause of such
destination too, as appeared at first, was the private family interest
of Menelaus. All this justifies, or rather demands, the strongest
expression of female fear and weakness. “But she afterwards recants
and voluntarily devotes herself to the altar.” And this, with the
same strict attention to probability. She had now informed herself of
the importance of the case. Her devotement was the demand of Apollo,
and the joint petition of all Greece. The glory of her country, the
dignity and interest of her family, the life of the generous Achilles,
and her own future fame, were, all, nearly concerned in it. All this
considered, together with the high, heroic sentiments of those times,
and the superior merit, as was believed, of voluntary devotement,
Iphigenia’s character must have been very unfit for the distress of
a whole tragedy to turn upon, if she had not, in the end, discovered
the readiest submission to her appointment. But, to shew with what
wonderful propriety the poet knew to sustain his characters, we find
her, after all, and notwithstanding the heroism of the change, in a
strong and passionate apostrophe to her native Mycenæ, confessing some
involuntary apprehensions and regrets, the remains of that instinctive
abhorrence of death, which had before so strongly possessed her.

    Ἔθρεψας Ἑλλάδι μέγα φάος—
    θανοῦσα δ’ οὐκ ἀναίνομαι.

    Once the bright star of Greece—
    But I submit to die.

This, I take to be not only a full vindication of the consistency of
Iphigenia’s character, but as delicate a stroke of nature, as is,
perhaps, to be found in any writer.

After the writing of this note, I was pleased to find, that so sensible
a critic, as P. Brumoi, had been before me in these sentiments
concerning the character of Iphigenia. The reasons he employs, are
nearly the same. Only he confirms them all by shewing, that the
Iphigenia of Racine, which is modelled, not according to the practice
of Euripides, but the Comment of Aristotle, is, in all respects, so
much the worse for it. In justice to this ingenious writer, it should
be owned, that he is almost the only one of his nation, who hath
perfectly seen through the foppery, or, as some affect to esteem it,
the refinement of French manners. This hath enabled him to give us, in
his _Théatre des Grecs_, a masterly and very useful view of the Greek
stage; set forth in all its genuine simplicity, and defended on the
sure principles of nature and common sense.

128. DIFFICILE EST PROPRIE COMMUNIA DICERE: Lambin’s Comment is
_Communia hoc loco appellat Horatius argumenta fabularum à nullo
adhuc tractata: et ita, quæ cuivis exposita sunt et in medio
quodammodo posita, quasi vacua et à nemine occupata_. And that this
is the true meaning of _communia_ is evidently fixed by the words
_ignota indictaque_, which are explanatory of it: so that the sense,
given it in the commentary, is unquestionably the right one. Yet,
notwithstanding the clearness of the case, a late critic hath this
strange passage: _Difficile quidem esse proprie communia dicere, hoc
est, materiam vulgarem, notam, et è medio petitam ita immutare atque
exornare, ut nova et scriptori propria videatur, ultro concedimus; et
maximi proculdubio ponderis ista est observatio. Sed omnibus utrinque
collatis, et tum difficilis, tum venusti, tam judicii quam ingenii
ratione habita, major videtur esse gloria fabulam formare penitus
novam, quam veterem, utcunque mutatam, de novo exhibere._ [Poet. Præl.
v. ii. p. 164.] Where having first, put a wrong construction on the
word _communia_, he imploys it to introduce an impertinent criticism.
For where does the poet prefer the glory of refitting _old_ subjects,
to that of inventing new ones? The contrary is implied in what he urges
about the superior difficulty of the latter; from which he dissuades
his countrymen, only in respect of their abilities and inexperience in
these matters; and in order to cultivate in them, which is the main
view of the Epistle, a spirit of correctness, by sending them to the
old subjects, treated by the Greek writers.

131. PUBLICA MATERIES PRIVATI JURIS ERIT, &c.] _Publica materies_
is just the reverse of what the poet had before stiled _communia_;
the latter meaning such subjects or characters, as, though by their
nature left in common to all, had yet, in fact, not been _occupied_
by any writer—the former those, which had already been made _public_
by _occupation_. In order to acquire a property in subjects of this
sort, the poet directs us to observe the three following cautions: 1.
_Not to follow the trite, obvious round of the original work_, i. e.
not servilely and scrupulously to adhere to its plan or method. 2.
_Not to be translators, instead of imitators_, i. e. if it shall be
thought fit to imitate more expressly any part of the original, to do
it with freedom and spirit, and without a slavish attachment to the
mode of expression. 3. _Not to adopt any particular incident, that may
occur in the proposed model, which either decency or the nature of the
work would reject._ M. Dacier illustrates these rules, which have been
conceived to contain no small difficulty, from the Iliad; to which the
poet himself refers, and probably not without an eye to particular
instances of the errors, here condemned, in the Latin tragedies. For
want of these, it may be of use to fetch an illustration from some
examples in our own. And we need not look far for them. Almost every
modern play affords an instance of one or other of these faults. The
single one of Catiline by B. Jonson is, itself, a specimen of them all.
This tragedy, which hath otherwise great merit, and on which its author
appears to have placed no small value, is, in fact, the Catilinarian
war of Sallust, put into poetical dialogue, and so offends against the
_first_ rule of the poet, _in following too servilely the plain beaten
round of the Chronicle_. 2. Next, the speeches of Cicero and Catiline,
of Cato and Cæsar are, all of them, direct and literal translations
of the historian and orator, in violation of the _second_ rule, which
forbids _a too close attachment to the mode, or form of expression_.
3. There are several transgressions of that rule, which injoins _a
strict regard to the nature and genius of the work_. One is obvious
and striking. In the history, which had, for its subject, the whole
Catilinarian war, the fates of the conspirators were distinctly to be
recorded, and the preceding debates, concerning the manner of their
punishment, afforded an occasion, too inviting to be overlooked by an
historian, and above all a republican historian, of embellishing his
narration by set harangues. Hence the long speeches of Cæsar and Cato
in the senate have great propriety, and are justly esteemed among the
leading beauties of that work. But the case was totally different in
the drama; which, taking for its subject the single fate of Catiline,
had no concern with the other conspirators, whose fates at most should
only have been hinted at, not debated with all the circumstance and
pomp of rhetoric on the stage. Nothing can be more flat and disgusting,
than this calm, impertinent pleading; especially in the very heat
and winding up of the plot. But the poet was misled by the beauty it
appeared to have in the original composition, without attending to the
peculiar laws of the drama, and the _indecorum_ it must needs have in
so very different a work.

136. NEC SIC INCIPIES, UT SCRIPTOR CYCLICUS OLIM:] All this [to v. 153]
is a continuation of the poet’s advice, given above,

    _Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus
    Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus_.

For, having first shewn in what respects a close observance of the epic
form would be vicious in tragedy, he now prescribes how far it may be
usefully admitted. And this is, 1. [from 136 to 146] in the simplicity
and modesty of the exordium; and, 2. [to v. 153] in the artificial
method and contexture of the piece. 1. The reason of the former rule is
founded on the impropriety of raising a greater expectation, at setting
out, than can afterwards be answered by the sequel of the poem. But,
because the epic writers themselves, from whom this conduct was to be
drawn, had sometimes transgressed this rule, and as the example of such
an error would be likely to infect, and, in all probability, actually
did infect, the tragic poets of that time, he takes occasion, 1. to
criticize an absurd instance of it; and, 2. to oppose to it the wiser
practice of Homer.

2. The like conduct he observes under the second article. For, being
to recommend to the tragic writer such an artificial disposition
of his subject, as _hastens rapidly to the event_, and rejects, as
impertinent, all particulars in the round of the story, which would
unnecessarily obstruct his course to it—a plan essentially necessary
to the legitimate epic—he first glances at the injudicious violation
of this method in a certain poem on _the return of_ Diomed, and then
illustrates and lays open the superior art and beauty of the Iliad. And
all this, as appears, for the sole purpose of explaining and enforcing
the precept about forming the plots of tragedies from epic poems.
Whence we see, how properly the examples of the errors, here condemned,
are taken, not from the _drama_, as the less attentive reader might
expect, but solely from the epos; for, _this_ being made the object
of imitation to the dramatic poet, as the tenor of the place shews,
it became necessary to guard against the influence of bad models.
Which I observe for the sake of those, who, from not apprehending the
connection of this and such like passages in the epistle, hastily
conclude it to be a confused medley of precepts concerning the art of
poetry, in general; and not a regular well-conducted piece, uniformly
tending to lay open the state, and to remedy the defects, of the Roman
stage.

148. SEMPER AD EVENTUM FESTINAT; &c.] The disposition, here recommended
to the poet, might be shewn _universally_ right from the clearest
principles. But the propriety and beauty of it will, perhaps, be best
apprehended by such, as are unused to the more abstract criticism,
from attending to a _particular_ instance. Let us conceive an objector
then to put the following query: “Supposing the author of the Æneis
to have related, in the natural order, the destruction of Troy, would
not the subject have been, to all intents and purposes, as much _one_,
as it is under its present form; in which that event is told, in the
second book, by way of episode?” I answer by no means. The reason
is taken from _the nature of the work_, and from _the state and
expectations of the reader_.

1. The _nature of an epic or narrative poem_ is this, that it lays the
author under an obligation of shewing any event, which he formally
undertakes in his own person, at full length, and with all its material
circumstances. Every figure must be drawn in full proportion, and
exhibited in strong, glowing colours. Now had the subject of the second
book of the Æneis been related, in this extent, it must not only have
taken up one, but many books. By this faithful and animated _drawing_,
and the time it would necessarily have to _play_ upon the imagination,
the event had grown into such importance, that the remainder could only
have passed for a kind of Appendix to it.

2. The same conclusion is drawn from considering _the state of the
reader_. For, hurried away by an instinctive impatience, he pursues the
proposed event with eagerness and rapidity. So circumstantial a detail,
as was supposed, of an intermediate action not necessarily connected
with it, breaks the course of his expectations, and throws forward the
point of view to an immoderate distance. In the mean time the action,
thus interposed and presented to his thoughts, acquires by degrees, and
at length ingrosses his whole attention. It becomes the important theme
of the piece; or, at least, what follows sets out with the disadvantage
of appearing to him, as a new and distinct subject.

But now being related by way of episode, that is, as a succinct,
summary narration, not made by the poet himself, but coming from the
mouth of a person, necessarily ingaged in the progress of the action,
it serves for a short time to interrupt, and, by that interruption to
sharpen, the eager expectation of the reader. It holds the attention,
for a while, from the main point of view; yet not long enough to
destroy that impatient curiosity, which looks forward to it. And thus
it contributes to the same end, as a piece of miniature, properly
introduced into a large picture. It amuses the eye with something
relative to the painter’s design, yet not so, as to with-hold its
principal observation from falling on the greater subject. The parallel
will not hold very exactly, because the painter is, of necessity,
confined to the same _instant_ of time; but it may serve for an
illustration of my meaning. Suppose the painter to take, for his
subject, that part of Æneas’s story, where, with his _penates_, his
_father_, and his _son_, he is preparing to set sail for Italy. To
draw _Troy in flames_, as a constituent part of this picture, would be
manifestly absurd. It would be painting two subjects, instead of one.
And perhaps _Troja incensa_ might seize the attention before

    _Ascanium Anchisenque patrem Teucrosque penates_.

But a distant perspective of _burning Troy_ might be thrown into a
corner of the piece, that is, episodically, with good advantage; where,
instead of distracting the attention, and breaking the unity of the
subject, it would concenter, as it were, with the great design, and
have an effect in augmenting the distress of it.

153. TU, QUID EGO ET POPULUS, &c.] The connexion is this. “But though
the strict observance of these rules will enable the poet to conduct
his _plot_ to the best advantage, yet this is not _all_ which is
required to a _perfect_ tragedy. If he would seize the attention,
and secure the applause, of the audience, something further must be
attempted. He must (to return to the point, from which I digressed, v.
127) be particularly studious to express the _manners_. Besides the
peculiarities of _office_, _temper_, _condition_, _country_, &c. before
considered, all which require to be drawn with the utmost fidelity, a
singular attention must be had to the characteristic differences of
_age_.”

    _Ætatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores._

The reason of this conduct is given in the commentary. It further
serves to adorn this part of the epistle [which is wholly preceptive
from v. 89 to 202] with those beautiful pourtraitures of human life,
in its several successive stages, which nature and Aristotle had
instructed him so well to paint.

157. MOBILIBUSQUE DECOR NATURIS DANDUS ET ANNIS.] MOBILIBUS] _non
levibus aut inconstantibus, sed quæ variatis ætatibus immutantur_.
Lambin. NATURIS] By this word is not meant, simply, that instinctive
_natural_ biass, implanted in every man, to this or that character,
but, in general, _nature_, as it appears diversified in the different
periods of life. The sense will be: A certain _decorum_ or propriety
must be observed in painting the natures or dispositions of men varying
with their years.

There is then no occasion for changing the text, with Dr. Bentley, into

    _Mobilibusque decor, maturis dandus et annis_.

179. AUT AGITUR RES IN SCENIS, AUT ACTA REFERTUR: &c.] The connexion
is this. The _misapplication_, just now mentioned, destroys the
_credibility_. This puts the poet in mind of another misconduct, which
hath the same effect, viz. _intus digna geri promere in scenam_.
But, before he makes this observation, it was proper to premise a
_concession_ to prevent mistakes, viz.

    _Segnius irritant animos_, &c.

182. NON TAMEN INTUS DIGNA GERI PROMES IN SCENAM:] I know not a more
striking example of the transgression of this rule, than in Seneca’s
Hippolytus; where Theseus is made to weep over the mangled members
of his son, which he attempts to put together on the stage. This,
which has so horrid an appearance in the _action_, might have been so
contrived, as to have an infinite beauty in the _narration_; as may be
seen from a similar instance in Xenophon’s Cyropædia, where Panthea is
represented putting together the torn limbs of Abradates.

185. NE PUEROS CORAM POPULO, &c.] Seneca, whom we before [v. 123]
saw so sollicitous to keep up to one rule of Horace, here makes no
scruple to transgress another. For, in violation of the very letter
of this precept, and of all the laws of decency and common sense, he
represents Medea butchering her children in the face of the people;
and, as if this too faintly painted the fury of her character, he
further aggravates the cruelty of the execution, with all the horrors
of a lingering act. This, seemingly inconsistent, conduct of the poet
was, in truth, owing to one and the same cause, namely, “The endeavour
to sustain Medea’s character.” For, wanting true taste to discern the
exact boundaries, which nature had prescribed to the human character,
or true genius to support him in a due preservation of it, he, as all
bad writers use, for fear of doing too little, unfortunately does too
much; and so, as Shakespear well expresses it, _o’ersteps the modesty
of nature_, inflating her _sentiments_ with extravagant passion, and
blackening her _acts_ with circumstances of unnatural horror. Though
some of these faults I suspect he only copied. For, to say nothing of
_that_ of Ennius, Ovid’s Medea was, at this time, very famous, and
as, I think, may be collected from the judgment passed upon it by
Quinctilian, had some of the vices, here charged upon Seneca. _Ovidii
Medea_, says he, _videtur mihi ostendere, quantum vir ille præstare
potuerit, si ingenio suo temperare, quàm indulgere, maluisset_. It
is not possible indeed to say exactly, wherein this _intemperance_
consisted; but it is not unlikely, that, amongst other things, it might
shew itself in the sorceries and incantations; a subject, intirely
suited to the wildness of Ovid’s genius; and which, as appears from
his relation of this story in the metamorphosis, he knew not how to
treat without running into some excess and luxuriance in that part. But
whether this were the cause, or no, the very treating a subject, which
had gone through such hands, as Euripides, Ennius, and Ovid, was enough
to expose a writer of better judgment, than Seneca, to some hazard.
For, in attempting to outdo originals, founded on the plan of simple
nature, a writer is in the utmost danger of running into affectation
and bombast. And indeed, without this temptation, our writers have
generally found means to incur these excesses; the very best of them
being too apt to fill their plots with unnatural incidents, and to
heighten their characters into caracatures. Though it may be doubted,
whether this hath been owing so much to their own ill taste, as to
a vicious compliance with that of the public; for, as one says, who
well knew the expediency of this craft, and practised accordingly, _to
write unnatural things is the most probable way of pleasing them who
understand not nature_. [Dryd. Pref. to Mock Astrol.]

193. ACTORIS PARTES CHORUS, &c.] See also _Aristotle_ [περ. ποιητ.
κ. ιηʹ.] The judgment of two such critics, and the practice of wise
antiquity concurring to establish this precept concerning the Chorus,
it should thenceforth, one would think, have become a fundamental rule
and maxim of the stage. And so indeed it appeared to some few writers.
The most admired of the French tragic poets ventured to introduce it
into two of his latter plays, and with such success, that, as one
observes, _It should, in all reason, have disabused his countrymen
on this head: l’essai heureux de M. Racine, qui les [chœurs] a fait
revivre dans_ ATHALIE _et dans_ ESTHER, _devroit, ce semble, nous
avoir detrompez sur cet article_. [P. Brumoi, vol. i. p. 105.] And,
before him, our _Milton_, who, with his other great talents, possessed
a supreme knowledge of antiquity, was so struck with its use and
beauty, as to attempt to bring it into our language. His _Sampson
Agonistes_ was, as might be expected, a master-piece. But even his
credit hath not been sufficient to restore the Chorus. Hear a late
Professor of the art declaring, _De choro nihil disserui, quia non
est essentialis dramati, atque à neotericis penitus_, ET, ME JUDICE,
MERITO, REPUDIATUR. [Præl. Poet. vol. ii. p. 188.] Whence it hath come
to pass, that the chorus hath been thus neglected, is not now the
inquiry. But that this critic, and all such are greatly out in their
judgments when they presume to censure it in the ancients, must appear
(if we look no further) from the double use, insisted on by the poet.
For, 1. A _chorus_ interposing, and bearing a part in the progress
of the action, gives the representation that _probability_[14], and
striking resemblance of real life, which every man of sense perceives
and _feels_ the want of upon our stage; a want, which nothing but such
an expedient as the chorus can possibly relieve. And, 2. The importance
of its other office [v. 196] to the _utility_ of the representation,
is so great, that, in a moral view, nothing can compensate for this
deficiency. For it is necessary to the truth and decorum of characters,
that the _manners_, bad as well as good, be drawn in strong, vivid
colours, and to that end that immoral sentiments, forcibly expressed
and speciously maintained, be sometimes _imputed_ to the speakers.
Hence the sound philosophy of the chorus will be constantly wanting
to rectify the wrong conclusions of the audience, and prevent the ill
impressions that might otherwise be made upon it. Nor let any one
say, that the audience is well able to do this for itself: Euripides
did not find even an Athenian theatre so quick-sighted. The story is
well known [Sen. Ep. 115.] that when this painter of the _manners_ was
obliged, by the rules of his art, and the character to be sustained,
to put a run of bold sentiments in the mouth of one of his persons,
the people instantly took fire, charging the poet with the _imputed_
villany, as though it had been his _own_. Now if such an audience could
so easily misinterpret an attention to the truth of character into the
real doctrine of the poet, and this too, when a chorus was at hand
to correct and disabuse their judgments, what must be the case, when
the _whole_ is left to the sagacity and penetration of the people?
The wiser sort, ’tis true, have little need of this information. Yet
the reflexions of sober sense on the course and occurrences of the
representation, clothed in the noblest dress of poetry, and inforced
by the joint powers of _harmony_ and _action_ (which is the true
character of the chorus) might make it, even to such, a not unpleasant
or unprofitable entertainment. But these _two_ are a small part of the
_uses_ of the chorus: which in every light is seen so important to the
truth, decorum, and dignity of the tragic scene, that the _modern_
stage, which hath not thought proper to adopt it, is even, with the
advantage of, sometimes, the justest moral painting and sublimest
imagery, but a very faint shadow of the _old_; as must needs appear
to those, who have looked into the ancient models, or, divesting
themselves of modern prejudices, are disposed to consult the dictates
of plain sense. For the use of such I once designed to have drawn into
one view the several important benefits, arising to the drama from
the observance of this rule, but have the pleasure to find myself
prevented by a sensible dissertation of a good French writer, which the
reader will find _in the_ VIII _Tom. of the history of the Academy of
Inscriptions and Belles Lettres_.—Or, it may be sufficient to refer
the English Reader to the late tragedies of ELFRIDA and CARACTACUS;
which do honour to modern poetry, and are a better apology, than any I
could make, for the ancient chorus.

193. OFFICIUMQUE VIRILE] Heinsius takes _virile_ adverbially for
_viriliter_. But this is thought harsh. What hinders, but that it may
be taken _adjectively_? And then, agreeably to his interpretation,
_officium virile_ will mean a strenuous, diligent office, such as
becomes a person interested in the progress of the action. The precept
is leveled against the practice of those poets, who, though they allot
the part of a _persona dramatis_ to the _chorus_, yet for the most part
make it so idle and insignificant an one, as is of little consequence
in the representation: by which means the advantage of _probability_,
intended to be drawn from this use of the _chorus_, is, in great
measure, lost.

194. NEU QUID MEDIOS INTERCINAT ACTUS, QUOD NON PROPOSITO CONDUCAT
ET HAEREAT APTE.] How necessary this advice might be to the writers
of the Augustan age cannot certainly appear; but, if the practice of
Seneca may give room for any suspicion, it should seem to have been
much wanted; in whom I scarcely believe there is one single instance
of the chorus being employed in a manner, consonant to its true end
and character. To support this general censure, which may seem to bear
hard on the poet, let us examine, in this view, one of the best of his
plays, I mean, the Hippolytus; whose chorus, throughout, bears a very
idle and uninteresting part—hath no share in the action—and sings
impertinently.

At the end of the _first_ act, when Phædra had avowed her passion
for Hippolytus, instead of declaiming against her horrid purpose,
enlarging on the danger and impiety of giving way to unnatural lusts,
or something of this nature, which was surely the office of the chorus,
it expatiates wantonly, and with a poetic luxuriance, on the sovereign,
wide-extended powers of love.

In the close of the _second_ act, instead of applauding the virtuous
obstinacy of Hippolytus, and execrating the mad attempt of Phædra, it
coolly sings the danger of beauty.

The _third_ act contains the false accusation of Hippolytus, and the
too easy deception of Theseus. What had the chorus to do here, but
to warn against a too great credulity, and to commiserate the case
of the deluded father? Yet it declaims, in general, on the unequal
distribution of _good_ and _ill_.

After the _fourth_ act, the chorus should naturally have bewailed the
fate of Hippolytus, and reverenced the mysterious conduct of Providence
in suffering the cruel destiny of the innocent. This, or something like
it, would have been to the purpose. But, as if the poet had never heard
of this rule of _coherence_, he harangues, in defiance of common sense,
on the instability of an high fortune, and the security of a low.

It will further justify this censure of _Seneca_, and be some amusement
to the critical reader, to observe, how the several blunders, here
charged upon him, arose from an injudicious imitation of _Euripides_.

I. There are two places in the Greek Hippolytus, which Seneca seems to
have had in view in his first chorus. We will consider them both.

1. When the unhappy Phædra at length suffers the fatal secret of her
passion to be extorted from her, she falls, as was natural, into all
the horrors of self-detestation, and determines not to survive the
confession of so black a crime. In this conjuncture, the _nutrix_, who
is not drawn, as in modern tragedy, an unmeaning confidante, the mere
depositary of the poet’s secrets, but has real manners assigned to
her, endeavours, with the highest beauty of character, to divert these
horrid intentions, and mitigate in some sort the guilt of her passion,
by representing to her the resistless and all-subduing force of love.
“Venus, says this virtuous _monitrix_, is not to be withstood, when she
rushes upon us with all her power. Nor is any part of creation vacant
from her influence. She pervades the air, and glides through the deeps.
We, the inhabitants of the earth, are all subject to her dominion.
Nay, ask of the ancient bards, and they will tell you, that the Gods
themselves are under her controul.” And so goes on, enumerating
particular examples, from all which she infers at last the necessity of
Phædra’s yielding to her fate. Again,

2. Towards the close of the Greek play, when, upon receiving the
tragical story of his son’s sufferings, Theseus began to feel his
resentments give way to the workings of paternal affection, and, on
that account, though he was willing to conceal the true motive, even
from himself, had given orders for the dying Hippolytus to be brought
before him, the chorus very properly flings out into that fine address
to Venus,

    Σὺ τὰν θεῶν ἄκαμπτον φρένα, &c.

the substance of which is, “That Venus, with her swift-winged boy, who
traverses the earth and ocean, subdues the stubborn hearts of Gods
and men: inspiring into all, on whom her influence rests, whether
inhabitants of the land or deep, and more especially the race of man, a
soft and sympathizing tenderness; demonstrating hereby, that she alone
extends her all-controuling dominion over universal nature.” This
song, as thus connected with the occasion, is apparently very proper,
and, when reduced from the pomp of lyric eloquence to plain prose, is
only an address of congratulation to the powers of love; confessing and
celebrating their influence, in thus softening the rigors of a father’s
hate, and awakening in his breast the soft touches of returning pity
and affection.

Now these two places, taken together, are plainly the ground-work of
that song,

    _Diva, non miti generata ponto_, &c.

but how improperly applied, has appeared, in respect of the latter
of them, from what has been observed concerning the _occasion_; and
must be acknowledged of the other, from the different _character_ of
the person to whom it is given; and also from hence, that the chorus
in the Greek poet expressly condemns the impiety of such suggestions
in the nurse, and admonishes Phædra not to lend an ear to them. The
chorus, when it comes to sing in him, is far otherwise employed; not in
celebrating the triumphs, but deprecating the pernicious fury of this
passion, and in lamenting the fatal miscarriages of Hymeneal love.

II. The second song, on the graces of the prince’s person, and the
danger of beauty, which follows on the abrupt departure of Hippolytus,
rejecting, with a virtuous disdain, the mad attempts of Phædra and her
confidante, is so glaringly improper, as not to admit an excuse from
any example. And yet, I am afraid, the single authority, it has to
lean on, is a very short hint, slightly dropped by the chorus in the
Greek poet on a very different occasion. It is in the entrance of that
scene, where the mangled body of Hippolytus is brought upon the stage;
on the sight of which the chorus very naturally breaks out,

    Καὶ μὲν ὁ τάλας ὅδε δὴ στείχει
    Σάρκας νεαρὰς
    Ξανθόν τε κάρα διαλυμανθείς.

and yet, as the reader of just taste perceives, nothing beyond a single
reflexion could have been endured even here.

III. The next song of the chorus may seem directly copied from
Euripides. Yet the two occasions will be found extremely different.
In Seneca, Theseus, under the conviction of his son’s guilt, inveighs
bitterly against him, and at last supplicates the power of Neptune to
avenge his crimes. The chorus, as anticipating the effects of this
imprecation, arraigns the justice of the Gods. In the Greek poet, the
father, under the like circumstances, invokes the same avenging power,
and, as some immediate relief to his rage, pronounces the sentence
of banishment, and urges the instant execution of it, against him.
Hippolytus, unable to contend any longer with his father’s fury, breaks
out into that most tender complaint (than which nothing was ever more
affecting in tragedy)

    Ἄρηρεν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὦ τάλας ἐγώ. &c.

containing his last adieu to his country, companions, and friends. The
chorus, touched with the pathos of this apostrophe, and commiserating
his sad reverse of fortune, enters with him into the same excess
of lamentation, and, as the first expression of it, lets fall this
natural sentiment, “That though from coolly contemplating the divine
superintendency of human affairs, there results abundant confidence
and security against the ills of life, yet when we look abroad into
the lives and fortunes of men, that confidence is apt to fail us,
and we find ourselves discouraged and confounded by the promiscuous
and undistinguishing appointments of _good_ and _ill_.” This is the
thought, which Seneca hath imitated, and, as his manner is, outraged in
his chorus of the third act:

    _O magna parens, Natura, Deûm_, &c.

But the great difference lies here. That, whereas in _Euripides_ this
sentiment is proper and agreeable to the state and circumstances of
the chorus, which is ever attentive to the progress of the action, and
is most affected by what immediately presents itself to observation;
in _Seneca_ it is quite foreign and impertinent; the attention of
the chorus naturally turning, not on the distresses of Hippolytus,
which had not yet commenced, but on the rashness and unhappy delusion
of Theseus, as being that, which had made the whole subject of the
preceding scene. But the consequence of that delusion, it will be said,
was obvious. It may be so. But the chorus, as any sensible spectator,
is most agitated by such reflexions, as occur to the mind from those
scenes of the drama, which are actually passing before it, and not from
those which have not yet taken place.

IV. What was remarked of the _second_ song of the chorus will be
applicable to the _fourth_, which is absurdly founded on a single
reflexion in the Greek poet, but just touched in a couple of lines,
though much more naturally introduced. Theseus, plunged in the deepest
affliction by the immature death of Phædra, and not enduring the sight
of the supposed guilty author of it, commands him into banishment,
“Lest, as he goes on, his former triumphs and successes against the
disturbers of mankind, should in consequence of the impunity of such
unprecedented crimes, henceforth do him no honour.” The chorus, struck
with the distressful situation of the old king, and recollecting with
him the sum of his former glories, is made to exclaim,

    Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως εἴποιμ’ ἂν εὐτυχεῖν τινα
    Θνητῶν· τὰ γὰρ δὴ πρῶτ’ ἀνέστραπται πάλιν.

i. e. _there is henceforth no such thing, as human happiness, when the
first examples of it are thus sadly reversed_. Which casual remark
Seneca seizes and extends through a whole chorus; where it visibly
serves to no other end, but to usurp a place, destined for far more
natural and affecting sentiments.

If I have been rather long upon this head, it is because I conceive
this critique on the Hippolytus will let the reader, at once, into
the true character of _Seneca_; which, he now sees, is that of a mere
_declamatory moralist_. So little deserving is he of the reputation of
a just dramatic poet.

196. ILLE BONIS FAVEATQUE, &c.] _The chorus_, says the poet, _is to
take the side of the good and virtuous_, i. e. is always to sustain a
moral character. But this will need some explanation and restriction.
To conceive aright of its office, we must suppose the _chorus_ to
be a number of persons, by some probable cause assembled together,
as witnesses and spectators of the great action of the drama. Such
persons, as they cannot be wholly uninterested in what passes before
them, will very naturally bear some share in the representation. This
will principally consist in declaring their sentiments, and indulging
their reflexions freely on the several events and distresses as they
shall arise. Thus we see the _moral_, attributed to the chorus, will be
no other than the dictates of plain sense; such as must be obvious to
every thinking observer of the action, who is under the influence of
no peculiar partialities from _affection_ or _interest_. Though even
these may be supposed in cases, where the character, towards which they
_draw_, is represented as virtuous.

A chorus, thus constituted, must always, it is evident, take the
part of virtue; because this is the natural and almost necessary
determination of mankind, in all ages and nations, when acting freely
and unconstrained. But then it is to be observed,

1. That this moral character, or approbation of virtue, must also
be considerably influenced by the common and established notions of
_right_ and _wrong_; which, though in essential points, for the most
part, uniformly the same under all circumstances, yet will, in some
particular instances, be much distorted by the corrupt principles and
practices of different countries and times. Hence the _moral_ of the
stage will not be always strictly philosophical; as reflecting to us
the image not of the sage’s speculation, but, of the obvious sense of
common, untutor’d minds. The reader will find this observation applied
to the case of the _chorus_ in the Medea, in note on v. 200, and it
might further, perhaps, be extended to the vindication of some others,
to which the ignorant temerity of modern criticism hath taken occasion
to object. But,

2. The _moral character_ of the chorus will not only depend very
much on the several mistaken notions and usages, which may happen,
under different circumstances, to corrupt and defile _morality_; but
allowance is also to be made for the _false policies_, which may
prevail in different countries; and especially if they constitute any
part of the subject, which the drama would represent. If the _chorus_
be made up of free citizens, whether of a republic, or the milder
and more equal royalties, they can be under little or no temptation
to suppress or disguise their real sentiments on the several events,
presented to their observation; but will be at liberty to pursue their
natural inclination of speaking the truth. But should this venerable
assembly, instead of sustaining the dignity of free subjects, be, in
fact, a company of slaves, devoted by long use to the service and
interests of a master, or awed, by the dread of tyrannical power,
into an implicit compliance with his will, the baleful effect, which
this very different situation must have on their moral character,
is evident. Their opinions of persons and things will cease to be
oracular; and the interposition of the _chorus_ will be more likely
to injure the cause of virtue, than to assist and promote it. Nor can
any objection be made, on this account, to the conduct of the poet;
who keeps to nature and probability in drawing the chorus with this
imperfectly moral character; and is only answerable for his ill choice
of a subject, in which such a pernicious representation is required.
An instance will explane my meaning more perfectly. The chorus in
the _Antigone_, contrary to the rule of Horace, takes the side of
the _wicked_. It consists of a number of old Thebans, assembled by
the order of Creon to assist, or rather to be present, at a kind of
mock council; in which he meant to issue his cruel interdict of the
rites of sepulture to the body of Polynices; a matter of the highest
consequence in those days, and upon which the whole distress of the
play turns. This veteran troop of vassals enter at once into the
horrid views of the tyrant, and obsequiously go along with him in
the projects of his cruelty; calmly, and without the appearance of
any virtuous emotion, consenting to them all. The consequence is that
the interludes of the chorus are, for the most part, impertinent, or
something worse; cautiously avoiding such useful reflexions, as the
nature of the case must suggest, or indulging, by their flatteries,
the impotent tyranny of their prince. And yet no blame can be fairly
charged upon the great poet, who hath surely represented, in the most
striking colours, the pernicious character, which a chorus, under such
circumstances, would naturally sustain. The fault must therefore fall,
where the poet manifestly intended to throw it, on the accursed spirit
of despotism; which extinguishes, or over-rules, the suggestions of
common sense; kills the very seeds of virtue, and perverts the most
sacred and important offices, such as is that of the chorus, into the
means and instruments of vice. The glory, which he designed, by this
representation, to reflect upon the government and policy of his own
state, is too glaring to be overlooked. And he hath artfully contrived
to counter-act any ill impressions on the minds of the people, from the
prostituted authority of the chorus, by charging them, in the persons
of Hæmon and Antigone, with their real motives and views. In all
indifferent things, in which the passions or interests of their master
were not concerned, even this chorus would of course preserve a moral
character. But we are to look for it no further. This is the utmost
verge and boundary of a slave’s virtue. An important truth, which,
among many greater and more momentous instructions, furnishes this to
the dramatic poet, “That, if he would apply the chorus to the uses of a
sound and useful moral, he must take his subjects, not from the annals
of despotic tyranny, but from the great events, which occur in the
records of free and equal commonwealths.”

200. ILLE TEGAT COMMISSA] This important advice is not always easy to
be followed. Much indeed will depend on the choice of the subject,
and the artful constitution of the fable. Yet, with all his care, the
ablest writer will sometimes find himself embarrassed by the chorus.
I would here be understood to speak chiefly of the moderns. For the
ancients, though it has not been attended to, had some peculiar
advantages over us in this respect, resulting from the principles and
practices of those times. For, as it hath been observed of the ancient
epic muse, that she borrowed much of her state and dignity from the
false _theology_ of the pagan world, so, I think, it may be justly
said of the ancient tragic, that she has derived great advantages
of probability from its mistaken _moral_. If there be truth in this
reflexion, it will help to justify some of the ancient choirs, that
have been most objected to by the moderns. To give an instance or two,
and leave the curious reader to extend the observation at his leisure.

I. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, the chorus, which is let into
Phædra’s design of killing herself, suffers this rash attempt to take
effect, rather than divulge the intrusted secret. This, to a modern
reader, seems strange; and we are ready to arraign the poet of having
allotted a very unfit and unbecoming part to his _chorus_, which,
in order to observe a _critical_, is thus made to violate a _moral_
precept, or at least to sacrifice the more essential part of its
character to a punctilio of honour. But the case was quite otherwise.
This suicide of Phædra, which, on our stricter moral plan, is repugnant
to the plain rules of duty, was, in the circumstances supposed, fully
justified on the pagan system. Phædra had confessed the secret of her
criminal passion. By the forward zeal of her confident, her disgrace
is made known to Hippolytus; and thereby, as she conceives, rendered
notorious to the public. In this distress she had only one way to
vindicate her honour, and that was at the expence of her life. Rather
than bear the insupportable load of public infamy, she kills herself.
That this was a justifiable cause of self-murder in the eye of the
chorus is clear from the reason, there assigned, of her conduct,
manifestly in approbation of it. “Phædra, says the chorus, oppressed
and borne down by her afflictions, has recourse to this expedient of
suicide,

      τάν τ’ εὔδοξον ἀνθαιρουμένα
    Φάμαν, ἀπαλλάσσουσά
    Τ’ ἀλγεινὸν φρενῶν ἔρωτα.

for the sake of her good fame, and in order to free herself from
the tortures of a cruel passion.” And how agreeable this was to the
pagan system, in general, let the reader collect from the following
testimonies in Cicero: _Si omnia fugiendæ turpitudinis adipiscendæque
honestatis causâ faciemus, non modo stimulos doloris, sed etiam
fulmina fortunæ contemnamus licebit: præsertim cum paratum sit illud
ex hesternâ disputatione perfugium. Ut enim, si, cui naviganti
prædones insequantur, Deus quis dixerit, Ejice te navi; præsto est,
qui excipiat_, &c. _omnem omittas timorem; sic, urgentibus asperis
et odiosis doloribus, si tanti non sint ut ferendi sint, quo sit
confugiendum vides._ [Tusc. Disp. l. ii. 26.] And, again, in the close
of the V^{th} disputation, _Mihi quidem in vita servanda videtur illa
lex, quæ in Græcorum conviviis obtinet: Aut bibat, inquit, aut abeat.
Et recte. Aut enim fruatur aliquis pariter cum aliis voluptate potandi;
aut, ne sobrius in violentiam vinolentorum incidat, ante discedat: sic_
INJURIAS FORTUNÆ, QUAS FERRE NEQUEAS, DEFUGIENDO RELINQUAS.

II. Another example may, I think, be fetched from the _Medea_. Scarcely
any thing has been more the subject of modern censure, than the
part, which the chorus is made to act in this tragedy. _Whence comes
it_, says M. Dacier, _that the chorus, which consists of Corinthian
women, is faithful to a stranger against their sovereign[15]?_ This
good Frenchman, it seems, thought it a kind of treason, even on the
stage, and where a moral character was to be sustained, to take part
against a tyrant. But he will further say, that the moral character
of the chorus was forfeited in thus concealing, and, in effect,
abetting the impious cruelties of Medea. _The laws of nature and of
God were transgressed in rendering this service to her._ All which is
very true, supposing the reader to judge of this matter by the purer
christian moral. But how will he prove this to be the case on the
received notions and practices of paganism? It appears, this critic
did not apprehend, what a moderate attention to ancient history and
manners might have taught him, that the violation of conjugal fidelity
was a crime of that high nature, as to deserve in the public opinion,
and to excuse, the severest vengeance of retaliation. This the laws
expresly allowed to the injuries of the husband. And, it is probable,
the wife might incline to think the reason of the case extended also
to her. What is certain is, that we find some of the deepest scenes
of horror, which ancient history furnishes, or ancient fiction could
paint, wrought up from the occasion of this neglect of conjugal
faith. And it is well observed by one, in speaking of the difference
between the ancient and modern stage, that what is now held the fit
subject of comic mirth and ridicule in christian theatres, was never
employed but to stir up the utmost horror and commiseration, on the
heathen. “We do not find, says this agreeable writer, any comedy in
so polite an author, as Terence, raised upon the violations of the
marriage-bed. The falsehood of the wife or husband has given occasion
to noble tragedies; but a Scipio and Lælius would have looked upon
incest or murder, to have been as proper subjects for comedy.” This
is strictly and precisely the truth. And, therefore, as the crimes of
incest or murder were believed deserving of the highest punishment
by the Pagans, and every good man was ready to interest himself in
seeing it inflicted[16]; so, in the case of the open violation of the
marriage-compact, the fiercest acts of revenge were justified in the
public opinion, and passed only for acts of strict justice. And for
this, if we wanted further authority, we have the express word of the
chorus. The Corinthian women do not barely consent to secrecy, in
virtue of an extorted oath or promise (though more might have been said
for this, than every reader is aware of) but in consequence of their
entire and full approbation of her intentions. For thus, in answer to
Medea’s petition to them, without the least reserve or hesitation, they
are made to reply,

    Δράσω τάδ’· ἐνδίκως γὰρ ἐκτίσῃ πόσιν
    Μήδεια.

_I will do it; for this revenge on a husband is just._ We see then the
chorus, in keeping the secret of Medea’s murders, was employed in its
great office of countenancing and supporting _salubrem justitiam_,
_wholesome justice_. And, therefore, the scholiast, with M. Dacier’s
leave, gave a fit and proper account of the matter (so far was it from
being _impious_ and _ridiculous_) in saying, _that the Corinthian women
being free_, i. e. not devoted to the service of Creon, by the special
duties of any personal attachment, _take the side of justice, as the
chorus is wont to do on other occasions_. The circumstance of their
_freedom_ is properly mentioned. For this distinguishes their case
from that of the _nutrix_, who upon receiving the account of Jason’s
cruelties, cries out,

    Ὄλοιτο μὲν μὴ, δεσπότης γάρ ἐστ’ ἐμὸς,
    Ἀτὰρ κακός γ’ ὢν εἰς φίλους ἁλίσκεται.

And that the chorus enter’d into Medea’s designs against her husband,
the tyrant Creon, and her rival, on reasons of justice and equity only,
and not (as is hastily believed by some, who have not enough attended
to the decorum of the ancient tragedy) for the sake of forwarding the
poet’s plot, may be certainly shewn. For when, in the fury of her
resentments, and as the full completion of her revenge, the mother
comes to propose the murder of her innocent children, the chorus starts
with horror at the thought, dissuades her from it in the most earnest
and affecting manner[17], and seems to have concealed the dreadful
secret only from the persuasion, that it was too horrid and unnatural
to be perpetrated. The reader will collect this with pleasure, by
turning to the fine song, which follows. It may be further observed,
that Medea herself, in opening this last purpose of her rage to the
chorus, exacts fidelity of them only, _as they wished well to an
injured queen, and were women_;

    Εἴπερ φρονεῖς εὖ δεσπόταις, γυνή τ’ ἔφυς.

which is beautifully contrived by the poet, to discriminate the two
cases, and to intimate to us, that reasons of justice were now no
longer to be pleaded.

In sum, though these acts of severe avenging justice might not be
according to the express letter of the laws, or the more refined
conclusions of the PORCH or ACADEMY; yet there is no doubt, that they
were, in the general account, esteemed fit and reasonable. And, it
is to be observed, in order to pass a right judgment on the ancient
chorus, that, though in virtue of their office, they were obliged
universally to sustain a moral character; yet this moral was rather
political and popular, than strictly legal or philosophic. Which is
also founded on good reason. The scope and end of the ancient theatre
being to serve the interests of virtue and society, on the principles
and sentiments, already spread and admitted amongst the people, and not
to correct old errors, and instruct them in philosophic truth.

202. TIBIA NON, UT NUNC, ORICHALCO, &c.] [from v. 202 to v. 220.] This
is one of those many passages in the epistle, about which the critics
have said a great deal, without explaining any thing. In support of
what I mean to offer, as the true interpretation, I observe,

That the poet’s intention certainly was, not to censure the _false_
refinements of their stage-music; but, in a short digressive history
(such as the didactic form will sometimes require) to describe
the rise and progress of the _true_. This I collect, 1. From _the
expression itself_; which cannot, without violence, be understood in
any other way. For, as to the words _licentia_ and _præceps_, which
have occasioned much of the difficulty, the _first_ means a _freer
use_, not a _licentiousness_, properly so called; and the _other_ only
expresses a vehemence and rapidity of language, naturally productive of
a quicker elocution, such as must of course attend the more numerous
harmony of the lyre:—not, as M. Dacier translates it, _une eloquence
temeraire et outrée_, an extravagant straining and affectation of
style. 2. From _the reason of the thing_; which makes it incredible,
that the music of the theatre should then be most complete, when the
times were barbarous, and entertainments of this kind little encouraged
or understood. 3. From _the character of that music itself_; for the
rudeness of which, Horace, in effect, apologizes in defending it only
on the score of the imperfect state of the stage, and the simplicity of
its judges. But what shall we say then to those lines,

    _Indoctus quid enim saperet liberque laborum,
    Rusticus urbano confusus, turpis honesto?_

which seem to imply a censure on these Improvements, as unworthy the
approbation of _wise_ men; contrary to what I have just now supposed to
be the scope of this whole passage.

On the strictest attention, I believe we are to understand them as a
_Sneer_, in passing, on what grave and philosophic men have observed
of these refinements, which they constantly treat, as _Corruptions_.
See note on v. 218. But the mixed auditories of these days, says the
poet with his usual _badinage_, were not so _wise_. ’Tis, as if he had
said, “What I mention here as an improvement in dramatic music is, in
the ideas and language of some grave men, an abuse and perversion of
it to immoral purposes. It may be so: but consider, for what sorts of
people these theatrical entertainments were designed: for the _ignorant
clown and citizen, the plebeian and gentleman_, huddled together into
one confused mass, and crowding to the theatre, on a holyday, for some
relief from their ordinary toils and occupations. And alas, what do
these men know, or consider of this austere _wisdom_?

But the cast of the whole passage is, besides, such as favours the
supposition of an intended Irony. Hence the _Tibia non, ut nunc,
orichalco vincta_, &c. delivered in the usual tone of declaimers
against modern manners. Hence the epithets, _frugi castusque
verecundusque_, to denote the quality of those who assisted, of old, at
these _virtuous_ entertainments. And hence the enormity of that state
of things, when the people were afterwards permitted to regale on holy
days, _impune_. This intention too accounts for the terms _licentia_,
_luxuries_, _facundia_, _præceps_, and others, which being of ambiguous
interpretation, the poet purposely chose, to mimic, and humour, as
it were, the objectors in their favourite language on this occasion.
Till at last, impatient to continue the raillery any further, he
concludes at once with an air of solemnity very proper to confound the
impertinence of such criticism.

    Utiliumque sagax rerum, et divina futuri
    Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis.

All this the reader sees is agreeable to the poet’s _prescription_
elsewhere,

    —Sermone opus est tristi, sæpe _jocoso_.

and indeed to his own _practice_ on an hundred occasions. So that on
the whole there is little doubt of his intention in the lines,

    Indoctus quid enim _saperet_, &c.

At least, in this view the poet, I am apt to think, will be found
intelligible and even elegant. Whereas, on any other supposition of his
numerous commentators, I cannot see that the verses before us (as they
here stand) have either propriety or common sense.”

The interpretation then of this whole passage, from v. 202 to 220,
will stand thus. “The Tibia, says the poet, was at first _low_ and
_simple_. The _first_, as best agreeing to the _state of the stage_,
which required only a soft music to go along with, and assist the
chorus; there being no large and crowded theatres to _fill_ in those
days. And the _latter_, as suiting best to the _state of the times_;
whose simplicity and frugal manners exacted the severest temperance, as
in every thing else, so, in their dramatic ornaments and decorations.
But, when conquest had enlarged the territory, and widened the walls
of Rome; and, in consequence thereof, a social spirit had dispelled
that severity of manners, by the introduction of frequent festival
solemnities; then, as was natural to expect, a freer and more varied
harmony took place. Nor let it be objected that this _freer harmony_
was itself an abuse, a corruption of the severe and _moral_ music
of ancient times. Alas! we were not as yet so _wise_, to see the
inconveniencies of this improvement. And how should we, considering
the nature and end of these theatrical entertainments, and the sort of
men of which our theatres were made up? But, leaving the Philosopher
to speculate at his ease, on this matter, thus, in _fact_, it was,
“that the _Tibicen_, the musician, who played to the declamation in
the acts, instead of the rude and simpler strain of the old times,
gave a richness and variety of tone; and, instead of the old inactive
posture, added the grace of motion to his art. Just in the same
manner, continues he, it happened to the _Lyre_, i. e. _the music in
the chorus_, which originally, as that of the _Tibia_, was severe
and simple; but, by degrees, acquired a quicker and more expressive
modulation, such as corresponded to the more elevated and passionate
turn of the poet’s style, and the diviner enthusiasm of his sentiment.”
All that is further wanting to support and justify this interpretation,
will be found in the notes on particular passages.

203. TENUIS SIMPLEXQUE, &c.] It may here be observed of the manner,
in which the poet hath chosen to deliver this whole part [from v. 202
to 295] that, besides its other uses, it tends directly to convey
to his readers, and impress upon them in the strongest manner, the
principal instruction, he has in view, and with which the epistle more
expresly concludes, _viz. The uses and importance of a spirit of
critical application_. For, in speaking of the _stage music_, of the
_satyrs_, and the _Greek tragedy_ (all which come naturally in his
way, and are very artfully connected) he chuses to deduce the account
of each from its ruder and less polished original; tracing it through
its several successive stages, and marking out to us the gradual
polish and refinement, which it acquired from increasing diligence and
correctness. The _Tibia_ at first was _simple_ and _rude_—The _satyrs
naked_ and _barbarous_—and the _Greek tragedy itself deformed and
shapeless_ in the cart of Thespis. Care and attention reformed each. It
follows,

    _Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetæ, &c._

_i. e._ our poets have not been wanting in their attempts to excel in
these several particulars. What is necessary to their success is, _limæ
labor et mora_. If the reader bear this in mind, it will help him to
see the order and scope of this part more distinctly.

204. ASPIRARE ET ADESSE CHORIS, &c.] _Chorus_ here means the whole
dramatic performance, which was originally nothing else.

206. UTPOTE PARVUS, ET FRUGI CASTUSQUE VERECUNDUSQUE, &c.] M. _Dacier_
finds here _four_ causes _of the little regard the ancients had
for plays_ [he should have said, of their being satisfied with the
_Tibia_, all rude and simple as is here described] _la premiere, que
le peuple Romain étoit encore alors en petit nombre: la seconde, qu’il
étoit sage: la troisiéme, qu’il étoit chaste, c’est à dire pieux: et
la quatriéme, qu’il étoit modeste_. But the three last epithets are
synonymous, all of them expressing what, though he took three guesses
for it, he had the ill fortune to miss at last, _that plainness and
simplicity_ of character, _that frugal reserve and moderation in
the use of any thing_, which so essentially belongs to rude minds,
uninstructed in the arts of life. His _four_ causes are, in fact, then
but two; which have been fully considered in note on v. 202.

211. ACCESSIT NUMERISQUE MODISQUE LICENTIA MAJOR.] M. _Dacier_ takes
_licentia major_ in a bad sense, as implying _lasciveté_, _a culpable
and licentious refinement_. But the _licence_, here spoken of, with
regard to _numbers_ and _sounds_, like that in another place, which
respects _words_ [l. 51.] is one of those, which is allowed, when
_sumpta pudenter_. The comparative _major_, which is a _palliative_,
shews this; and is further justified by a like passage in _Cicero_,
_De Oratore_ [l. iii. c. 48.] where speaking of this very licence
in poetry, he observes, that out of the Heroic and Iambic measure,
which were at first strictly observed, there arose by degrees the
Anapæst, _procerior quidam numerus, et ille licentior et divitior
Dithyrambus_; evidently not condemning this change, but opposing it
to the rigorous and confined measure of the elder poets. But the
expression itself occurs in the piece entitled _Orator_, in which,
comparing the freedoms of the poetical and oratorial style, _in ea_ [i.
e. _poetica_] says he, _licentiam statuo majorem esse, quam in nobis,
faciendorum jungendorumque verborum_. The poet says, this _licence_
extended _numeris modisque_, the former of which words will express
that _licence of metre_, spoken of by _Cicero_, and which is further
explained v. 256, _&c._ where an account is given of the improvement of
the Iambic verse.