Volume 1 / Part 3 — NOTES ON THE ART OF POETRY.

The text of this epistle is given from Dr. Bentley’s edition, except in some few places, of which the reader is advertized in the notes. These, that they might not break in too much on the thread of the Commentary, are here printed by themselves. For the rest, let me apologize with a great critic: Nobis viri docti ignoscent, si hæc fusius: præsertim si cogitent, veri critici esse, non literulam alibi ejicere, alibi innocentem syllabam et quæ nunquàm male merita de patria fuerit, per jocum et ludum trucidare et configere; verùm recte de autoribus et rebus judicare, quod et solidæ et absolutæ eruditionis est. Heinsius.

1. Humano capiti, &c.] It is seen, in the comment, with what elegance this first part [to v. 89] is made preparatory to the main subject, agreeably to the genius of the Epistle. But elegance, in good hands, always implies propriety; as is the case here. For the critic’s rules must be taken either, 1. from the general standing laws of composition; or, 2. from the peculiar ones, appropriated to the kind. Now the direction to be fetched from the former of these sources will of course precede, as well on account of its superior dignity, as that the mind itself delights to descend from universals to the consideration of particulars. Agreeably to this rule of nature, the poet, having to correct, in the Roman drama, these three points, 1. a misconduct in the disposition; 2. an abuse of language; and 3. a disregard of the peculiar characters and colorings of its different species, hath chosen to do this on principles of universal nature; which, while they include the case of the drama, at the same time extend to poetic composition at large. These prefatory, universal observations being delivered, he then proceeds, with advantage, to the second source of his art, viz. the consideration of the laws and rules peculiar to the kind.

9.—Pictoribus atque poetis—Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas.] The modern painter and poet will observe that this aphorism comes from the mouth of an objector.

14. Inceptis gravibus, &c.] These preparatory observations concerning the laws of poetic composition at large have been thought to glance more particularly at the epic poetry: Which was not improper: For, 1. The drama, which he was about to criticize, had its rise and origin from the epos. Thus we are told by the great critic, that Homer was the first who invented dramatic imitations, μόνος—ὅτι μιμήσεις δραματικὰς ἐποίησε. And to the same purpose Plato: ἔοικε μὲν τῶν καλῶν ἁπάντων τούτων τῶν τραγικῶν πρῶτος διδάσκαλος καὶ ἡγεμὼν γενέσθαι [Ὅμηρος.] De Rep. l. x. Hence, as our noble critic observes, “There was no more left for tragedy to do after him, than to erect a stage, and draw his dialogues and characters into scenes; turning in the same manner upon one principal action or event, with regard to place and time, which was suitable to a real spectacle.” [Characterist. vol. i. p. 198.] 2. The several censures, here pointed at the epic, would bear still more directly against the tragic poem; it being more glaringly inconsistent with the genius of the drama to admit of foreign and digressive ornaments, than of the extended, episodical epopœia. For both these reasons it was altogether pertinent to the poet’s purpose, in a criticism on the drama, to expose the vicious practice of the epic models. Though, to preserve the unity of his piece, and for the reason before given in note on v. 1. he hath artfully done this under the cover of general criticism.

19. Sed nunc non erat his locus.] If one was to apply this observation to our dramatic writings, I know of none which would afford pleasanter instances of the absurdity, here exposed, than the famous Orphan of Otway. Which, notwithstanding its real beauties, could hardly have taken so prodigiously, as it hath done, on our stage, if there were not somewhere a defect of good taste as well as of good morals.

23. Denique sit quidvis: simplex duntaxat et unum.] Is not it strange that he, who delivered this rule in form, and, by his manner of delivering it, appears to have laid the greatest stress upon it, should be thought capable of paying no attention to it himself, in the conduct of this epistle?

25-28. Brevis esse laboro, Obscurus fio: sectantem lenia nervi Deficiunt animique: professus grandia turget: Serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procellae.] If these characters were to be exemplified in our own poets, of reputation, the first, I suppose, might be justly applied to Donne; the second, to Parnell; the third, to Thomson; and the fourth, to Addison. As to the two following lines;

they are applicable to so many of our poets, that, to keep the rest in countenance, I will but just mention Shakespear himself; who, to enrich his scene with that variety, which his exuberant genius so largely supplied, hath deformed his best plays with these prodigious incongruities.

29. Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam, &c.] Though I agree with M. Dacier that prodigialiter is here used in a good sense, yet the word is so happily chosen by our curious speaker as to carry the mind to that fictitious monster, under which he had before allusively shadowed out the idea of absurd and inconsistent composition, in v. 1. The application, however, differs in this, that, whereas the monster, there painted, was intended to expose the extravagance of putting together incongruous parts, without any reference to a whole, this prodigy is designed to characterize a whole, but deformed by the ill-judged position of its parts. The former is like a monster, whose several members, as of right belonging to different animals, could, by no disposition, be made to constitute one consistent animal. The other, like a landskip, which hath no objects absolutely irrelative, or irreducible to a whole, but which a wrong position of the parts only renders prodigious. Send the boar to the woods; and the dolphin to the waves; and the painter might shew them both on the same canvass.

Each is a violation of the law of unity, and a real monster: the one, because it contains an assemblage of naturally incoherent parts; the other, because its parts, though in themselves coherent, are misplaced, and disjointed.

34. Infelix operis summa: quia ponere totum nesciet.] This observation is more particularly applicable to dramatic poetry, than to any other, an unity and integrity of action being of its very essence.—The poet illustrates his observation very happily in the case of statuary; but it holds of every other art, that hath a whole for its object. Nicias, the painter, used to say10, “That the subject was to him, what the fable is to the poet.” Which is just the sentiment of Horace, reversed. For by the subject is meant the whole of the painter’s plan, the totum, which it will be impossible for those to express, who lay out their pains so solicitously in finishing single parts. Thus, to take an obvious example, the landskip-painter is to draw together, and form into one entire view, certain beautiful, or striking objects. This is his main care. It is not even essential to the merit of his piece, to labour, with extreme exactness, the principal constituent parts. But for the rest, a shrub or flower, a straggling goat or sheep, these may be touched very negligently. We have a great modern instance. Few painters have obliged us with finer scenes, or have possessed the art of combining woods, lakes, and rocks, into more agreeable pictures, than G. Poussin: Yet his animals are observed to be scarce worthy an ordinary artist. The use of these is simply to decorate the scene; and so their beauty depends, not on the truth and correctness of the drawing, but on the elegance of their disposition only. For, in a landskip, the eye carelessly glances over the smaller parts, and regards them only in reference to the surrounding objects. The painter’s labour therefore is lost, or rather misemployed, to the prejudice of the whole, when it strives to finish, so minutely, particular objects. If some great masters have shewn themselves ambitious of this fame, the objects, they have laboured, have been always such, as are most considerable in themselves, and have, besides, an effect in illustrating and setting off the entire scenery. It is chiefly in this view, that Ruisdale’s waters, and Claude Lorain’s skies are so admirable.

40.—CUI LECTA POTENTER ERIT RES.] Potenter i. e. κατὰ δύναμιν, Lambin: which gives a pertinent sense, but without justifying the expression. The learned editor of Statius proposes to read pudenter, a word used by Horace on other occasions, and which suits the meaning of the place, as well. A similar passage in the epistle to Augustus adds some weight to this conjecture;

45. Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor—In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis.] Dr. Bentley hath inverted the order of these two lines; not merely, as I conceive, without sufficient reason, but in prejudice also to the scope and tenor of the poet’s sense; in which case only I allow myself to depart from his text. The whole precept, on poetical distribution, is delivered, as of importance:

And such indeed it is: for, 1. It respects no less than the constitution of a whole, i. e. the reduction of a subject into one entire, consistent plan, the most momentous and difficult of all the offices of invention, and which is more immediately addressed, in the high and sublime sense of the word, to the Poet. 2. ’Tis no trivial whole, which the Precept had in view, but, as the context shews, and as is further apparent from v. 150, where this topic is resumed and treated more at large, the epos and the drama: With what propriety then is a rule of such dignity inforced by that strong emphatic conclusion,

i. e. “Be this rule held sacred and inviolate by him, who hath projected and engaged in a work, deserving the appellation of a poem.” Were the subject only the choice or invention of words, the solemnity of such an application must be ridiculous.

As for the construction, the commonest reader can find himself at no loss to defend it against the force of the Doctor’s objections.

46. In verbis etiam tenuis, &c.] I have said, that these preparatory observations concerning an unity of design, the abuse of language, and the different colourings of the several species of poetry, whilst they extend to poetic composition at large, more particularly respect the case of the drama. The first of these articles has been illustrated in note on v. 34. The last will be considered in note v. 73. I will here shew the same of the second, concerning the abuse of words. For 1. the style of the drama representing real life, and demanding, on that account, a peculiar ease and familiarity in the language, the practice of coining new words must be more insufferable in this, than in any other species of poetry. The majesty of the epic will even sometimes require to be supported by this means, when the commonest ear would resent it, as downright affectation upon the stage. Hence the peculiar propriety of this rule to the dramatic writer,

2. Next, it is necessary to keep the tragic style, though condescending, in some sort, to the familiar cast of conversation, from sinking beneath the dignity of the personages, and the solemnity of the representation. Now no expedient can more happily effect this, than what the poet prescribes concerning the position and derivation of words. For thus, the language, without incurring the odium of absolutely invented terms, sustains itself in a becoming stateliness and reserve, and, whilst it seems to stoop to the level of conversation, artfully eludes the meanness of a trite, prosaic style.—There are wonderful instances of this management in the Samson Agonistes of Milton; the most artificial and highly finished, though for that reason, perhaps, the least popular and most neglected, of all the great poet’s works.

47. Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum Reddiderit junctura novum.—] This direction, about disposing of old words in such a manner as that they shall have the grace of new ones, is among the finest in the whole poem. And because Shakespear is he, of all our poets, who has most successfully practised this secret, it may not be amiss to illustrate the precept before us by examples taken from his writings.

But first it will be proper to explain the precept itself as given by Horace.

His critics seem not at all to have apprehended the force of it. Dacier and Sanadon, the two best of them, confine it merely to the formation of compound words; which, though one way in which this callida junctura shews itself, is by no means the whole of what the poet intended by it.

Their mistake arose from interpreting the word junctura too strictly. They suppose it to mean only the putting together two words into one; this being the most obvious idea we have of the joining of words. As if the most literal construction of terms, according to their etymology, were always the most proper.

But Mr. Dacier has a reason of his own for confining the precept to this meaning. “The question, he says, is de verbis serendis; and therefore this junctura must be explained of new words, properly so called, as compound epithets are; and not of the grace of novelty which single words seem to acquire from the art of disposing of them.”

By which we understand, that the learned critic did not perceive the scope of his author; which was manifestly this. “The invention of new terms, says he, being a matter of much nicety, I had rather you would contrive to employ known words in such a way as to give them the effect of new ones. ’Tis true, new words may sometimes be necessary: And if so,” &c. Whence we see that the line,

is not given here in form as the general rule, and the following line as the example. On the other hand, the rule is just mentioned carelessly and in passing, while the poet is hastening to another consideration of more importance, and which he even opposes to the former. “Instead of making new words, you will do well to confine yourself merely to old ones.” Whatever then be the meaning of junctura, it is clear we are not to explain it of such words as exemplify the rule de verbis serendis.

But junctura will best be interpreted by the usage of Horace together with the context; 1. The word occurs only once more in this poet, and that in this very Epistle. It is where he advises a conduct with regard to the subject-matter of a poem, analogous to this concerning the language of it.

Does he mean the joining two subjects together and combining them into one, so as that the compound subject shall be a new one? No such thing; “The subject, says he, shall be a known, an old one. Yet the order, management, and contrivance shall be such as to give it the air of an original fiction.” Apply now this sense of junctura to words, and we are only told, that expression may be so ordered as to appear new, when the words, of which it is made up, are all known and common.

We have then the authority of the poet himself against the opinion of the French critic. But we have also the authority of his great imitator, or rather interpreter, Persius; who speaking of the language of his satires says, in allusion to this passage of Horace,

i. e. he took up with words of common and familiar use, but contrived to bring them into his style in such a manner as to give them the force, spirit, and energy of satiric expression.”

2. Again: the context, as I observed, leads us to this meaning. The poet in v. 42. had been giving his opinion of the nature and effect of method, or orderly disposition in the conduct of a fable. The course of his ideas carries him to apply the observation to words; which he immediately does, only interposing v. 46. by way of introduction to it.

On the whole then junctura is a word of large and general import, and the same in expression, as order or disposition, in a subject. The poet would say, “Instead of framing new words, I recommend to you any kind of artful management by which you may be able to give a new air and cast to old ones.”

Having now got at the true meaning of the precept, let us see how well it may be exemplified in the practice of Shakespear.

1. The first example of this artful management, if it were only in complaisance to former commentators, shall be that of compound epithets; of which sort are,

High-sighted Tyranny J. C. A. II. S. 2.

A barren-spirited fellow A. IV. S. 1.

An arm-gaunt steed A. C. A. I. S. 6.

Flower-soft hands A. II. S. 3.

Lazy-pacing clouds R. J. A. II. S. 2.

and a thousand instances more in this poet. But this is a small part of his craft, as may be seen by what follows. For this end is attained,

2. By another form of composition; by compound verbs as well as compound adjectives.

To candy and limn are known words. The poet would express the contrary ideas, and he does it happily, by compounding them with our English negative dis,

Though here we may observe, that for the readier acceptation of these compounds, he artfully subjoins the explanation.

3. By a liberty he takes of converting substantives into verbs;

Or verbs into substantives;

4. By using active verbs neutrally,

And neutral verbs actively,

5. By converting Adjectives into Substantives.

6. By converting Participles into Substantives.

Which last instance I the rather give for the sake of proposing an emendation, which I think restores this fine passage to its Integrity. Before the late edition of Shakespear it stood thus,

But the sagacious Editor saw that this reading was corrupt, and therefore altered the last word, growing, for unanswerable reasons, into blowing. See Mr. W’s note upon the place. This slight change gives propriety and beauty to the passage, which before had no sort of meaning. Yet still all is not quite right. For, as the great Critic himself observes, “Breathing is not a very proper word to express the rage and bluster of the north wind.” Besides, one does not see how the shaking of these Buds is properly assign’d as the cause of their not blowing. The wind might shake off the blossoms of a fruit tree, i. e. the Buds when they were full-blown; but so long as the blossom lies folded up in the Bud, it seems secure from shaking. At least the shaking is not the immediate cause of the effect, spoken of; it is simply the cold of the north-wind that closes the Bud and keeps it from blowing. I am therefore tempted to propose another alteration of the text, and to read thus,

If this correction be allowed, every thing is perfectly right. It is properly the breathing, the cold breath of the North, that shuts up the Buds when they are on the point of blowing. Whence the epithet tyrannous will be understood not as implying the idea of blust’ring (an idea indeed necessary if we retain the word shakes) but simply of cruel, the tyranny of this wind consisting in imprisoning the flower in its Bud and denying it the liberty of coming out into Blossom. The application too of this comparison, which required the change of growing into blowing, seems also to require the present alteration of shakes. For there was no manner of violence in the father’s coming in upon the lovers. All the effect was, that his presence restrained them from that interchange of tender words, which was going to take place between them.

Thus far I had written in the last edition of these notes, and I, now, see no cause to doubt the general truth and propriety of this emendation. Only it occurs to me that, instead of SHUTS, the poet’s own word might, perhaps, be CHECKS; as not only being more like in sound to the word shakes, but as coming nearer to the traces of the Letters. Besides, CHECKS gives the precise idea we should naturally look for, whether we regard the integrity of the figure—tyrannous—checks—, or the thing illustrated by it, viz. the abrupt coming in of the father, which was properly a check upon the lovers. Lastly, the expression is mended by this reading; for though we may be allowed to say shuts from blowing, yet checks from blowing, is easier and better English.

But to return to other Instances of the Poet’s artifice in the management of known words. An apparent Novelty is sometimes effected

7. By turning Participles into Adverbs—

(One remembers the fine use Mr. Pope has made of this word in,

8. By figurative terms; i. e. by such terms as though common in the plain, are unusual in the figurative application.

To this head may be referred those innumerable terms in Shakespear which surprize us by their novelty; and which surprize us generally, on account of his preferring the specific idea to the general in the subjects of his Metaphors and the circumstances of his Description; an excellence in poetical expression which cannot be sufficiently studied. The examples are too frequent, and the thing itself too well understood, to make it necessary to enlarge on this article.

9. By plain words, i. e. such as are common in the figurative, uncommon in the literal acceptation.

See the note on the place.

10. By transposition of words—unauthoriz’d use of terms—and ungrammatical construction. Instances in all his plays, passim.

11. By foreign idioms. ’Tis true these are not frequent in Shakespear. Yet some Latinisms and e’en Grecisms we have. As

And the like. But, which is more remarkable and served his purpose just as well, the writers of that time had so latiniz’d the English language; that the pure English Idiom, which Shakespear generally follows, has all the air of novelty which other writers are used to affect by a foreign phraseology.

The Reader sees, it were easy to extend this list of Shakespear’s arts in the Callida junctura much farther. But I intended only a specimen of them; so much as might serve to illustrate the rule of Horace.

It is enough, that we have now a perfect apprehension of what is meant by Callida Junctura; And that it is, in effect, but another word for Licentious Expression: The use of which is, as Quintilian well expresses it, “Ut quotidiani et semper eodem modo formati sermonis Fastidium levet, et nos à vulgari dicendi genere defendat.” In short, the articles, here enumerated, are but so many ways of departing from the usual and simpler forms of speech, without neglecting too much the grace of ease and perspicuity; In which well-tempered licence one of the greatest charms of all poetry, but especially of Shakespear’s poetry, consists. Not that He was always and every where so happy, as in the instances given above. His expression sometimes, and by the very means, here exemplified, becomes hard, obscure, and unnatural. This is the extreme on the other side. But in general, we may say, that He hath either followed the direction of Horace very ably, or hath hit upon his Rule very happily.

We are not perhaps to expect the same ability, or good fortune from others. Novelty is a charm which nothing can excuse the want of, in 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.

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,

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,

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.”

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.

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,

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:

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:

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 prose11. And this even where the height of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more state and dignity.

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,

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.

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:

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,

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

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,

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

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 Nævius12. 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:

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,

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, as13 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,

And

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

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,

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,

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.

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,

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:

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

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,

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:

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.